Some Degree of Murder

Saturday April 17 th Palms Motel, Early evening

VIRGIL

I lit my last Camel and inhaled deeply. I’d been watching the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross clubhouse for five hours and no one, not a member, a prospect or junkie stopped by. There were no bikes in front of the club house. Everything had come to a screeching halt.

Earlier in the day, someone found Sammy G’s body and called the cops. They closed down everything.

From my window, I could see the cops crawling all over the area. They even tried to do a dog track, but the stupid pooch ran almost around in circles trying to catch a scent. The dog handler must have finally convinced the guy in charge that it was a worthless attempt.

Everything and everyone went underground as the cops searched for evidence.

That all changed, though, when the last of the cops left the area.

First, the girls came tentatively back to the street. One by one, they seemed to appear out of nowhere, their bodies went up for sale but the market hadn’t reappeared yet.

The hookers were followed closely by the dealers and the crack heads. They clustered in the doorways of defunct or closed businesses. Guys and girls with the shakes quickly found their suppliers. One short black kid sprinted across the street for a hit of crack. He didn’t step off of the sidewalk before he fired up. The dealer who sold him the junk screamed at him to move and the kid did as he was told, awkwardly trying to hit the remaining rock in his pipe as he ran.

A short time later, the citizens who like to play in this wonderland made their separate ways down. They stopped their cars alongside the girls and the dealers, buying whatever they needed to make it through the night.

But none of the BSC ever came back. I finally had enough of watching nothing and decided to walk back downtown. I wanted a change of clothes and to sleep in a decent bed.

I slipped out of my motel room and walked down the stairs to the first level. It was dark out and the streetlights illuminated the night. Standing with her back to the railing of the stairwell was a young girl, probably seventeen. She had a pretty face with dull eyes. She had plastered gel or something into her red hair to slick it back.

She wore a black mini-skirt, pink shirt and scuffed-up black, leather jacket. Her pink shirt said Hello Kitty with a Japanese styled cat in the middle. Around her neck was a large silver cross that hung from a black choker.

“Hi,” she said after pulling the cigarette from her mouth.

“Hey,” I said and started to walk by.

“Wanna date?”

I stopped and turned back to her. “What?”

She shrugged half-heartedly. “Wanna date?”

I pulled out Fawn’s picture and showed it to her. “Ever see this girl?”

The girl shook her head.

“What’s it gonna be, pops?”

After slipping the picture in my pocket, I pulled out a couple of twenties and handed them to her.

She looked up the stairs. “Which room is yours?”

“No room. Take the money. Go watch a movie or something. Just get away from this for a little while.”

As I walked away, I heard her mutter, “Whatever.”