Money Shot

33.

I suppose I could have made a run for it, but where could I go? What was I going to do once I got away? I had no money anymore. No clever plan. Everyone I cared about was dead. I was tired. Bone weary and close to total physical collapse. I had done what needed to be done and now I had absolutely nothing left.

I motioned for the girls to follow me. The door guard was gone. We were alone in the big echoing warehouse except for the rows and rows of beautiful sea creatures waiting to be sold like the girls had been.

Out back, the van full of used girls was still there. I could see red and blue lights from police prowlers swarming all around Sneaky Pete’s. I guess I was getting better at breaking glass, because it only took one try to smash the passenger side window with my leather-wrapped fist.

I brushed fragments of safety glass from the front of the trench coat, popped the locks and opened the sliding back door. The girls inside didn’t move or react at all.

They looked awful. Pale and scrawny, riddled with track marks and sores. Their lifeless eyes barely seemed to register my presence. They wore identical sweatpants, t-shirts from the 99-cent store and plastic flip flop sandals.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Some of their heads turned toward my voice. Most didn’t. None of them got up or made any move toward the door.

“Come on, hurry,” I said. I made to grab a scabby arm on the girl closest to the door and then lost my nerve.

I backed away from the van. The new girls behind me all looked at me, bewildered and unsure.

“All right then,” I said. “Anyone who’s coming...”

I left the van door open and headed back over to Sneaky Pete’s. The new girls followed me but none of the ones from the van did.

There was a group of cops standing outside Sneaky Pete’s talking to the manager.

“That’s her!” the manager said, pointing a finger at me.

“Ma’am,” a young black cop said, stepping cautiously forward while several of his pals drew down on me with guns and steely stares. “I’ll need you to come with me.”

“Sure,” I said. “Have you got room in your squad car for all my friends?”

He eyed the nervous girls as he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

“And while you’re at it,” I told him as I let him cuff my hands behind my back. “A Romanian translator would probably be a big help. A doctor, too. There’s six more in the van next door and fifteen out in the Valley.”

Now that it was finally over, I felt nothing but a numb sort of relief. I couldn’t find the energy to wonder about the future. About a trial and jail and the media circus and all the madness that I knew was waiting for me. All I knew was that in some weird way, I was glad I hadn’t run. I was glad that, after all the different people I had been forced to be, I could be myself again. I could be Angel Dare again.

I’d take the rap for Jesse and Ridgeway fair and square, but I’d fight tooth and nail against Ridgeway’s kiddie porn frame-up and I’d beat it if it killed me. I’d never be able to go back to the business, but hell, maybe I’d end up even more famous by the time this was done. I’d go from “Didn’t she used to be...?” to “That’s her, that’s Angel Dare.” Maybe it wasn’t exactly the type of fame I’d always wanted, but hey, no publicity is bad publicity, right? Isn’t that what they say?

The cop who cuffed me read me my rights and asked if I understood. I told him that I did and that I wanted to talk to Detective Erlichman.

“What do you want to talk to Erlichman for?” he asked, maneuvering me none too gently toward a waiting squad car.

“He’ll want to talk to me,” I told the cop.

“Why is that?” he asked, grasping the curve of my shorn head and pushing me down into the back seat of the cruiser.

I looked up at him, at all the cops and reporters, the bikers and gawkers gathered around to see what all the excitement was about.

“I’m Angel Dare,” I said.

I can’t say the look on the cop’s face made it all worth it, but it sure made me smile.