place. “You get the victims after I do, right?”
“It’s different for me. I don’t have to look into their lives or hear their stories. I never find who they really were. That’s what you do.”
A recent memory moved me to the window, like my eyes needed real light. I let out a long breath and turned back to Clair.
“A couple weeks ago I went to a drive-by in south Mobile. The deceased was a nineteen-year-oldkid named Alphonse Terrell. When we found the body his thumb was in his mouth, his last instinct before dying.”
“I recall seeing the paperwork on the body. What about it?”
“My first case after I made detective was a woman named Twyla Terrell.”
“Oh Lord, Carson…was she the mother? Sister?”
“The mom. Mama had been shot by a boyfriend in the kitchen. I remember the kid, Alphonse, standing in the corner, a skinny twelve-year-old. Alphonse was sucking his thumb, Clair. Staring at his mother’s body, tears pouring down his face, sucking his thumb like a baby. I walked him outside, trying to say things with meaning and comfort, failing miserably.”
“That’s terrible, Carson. I’m so sorry.”
I shrugged. “Mama gets shot, sonny gets shot a few years later. It’s just the way things have become, Clair. Like leaving a legacy.”
Clair moved closer and took my hand. “It’ll get better, dear. We’ve had spikes in the homicide rate before. They always pass.”
“Of course,” I said, pressing a smile to my face. “Like bad weather.”
Harry appeared at the door and I turned to leave. As we stepped from Clair’s office she called my name. I turned to see her thumb and pinkie beside her head in that funny mimic of phoning. There was no humor in her eyes, only concern.
“Call me, Carson. Let’s get together soon, right? Talk?”
I nodded and turned away.
When we got to the car, Harry took driver’s position.
“Where to from here?” he asked.
“We find who Scaler paid to work him over. Given the money he had in his wallet, he could afford the best.”
“How come she left the money?”
“Either she freaked when her client’s heart popped, or took her money and a big tip. Scaler could have started the night with twenty grand in his pocket.”
We didn’t keep a list of dominatrix types, since they tended to avoid interaction with the legal system, particularly the high-money babes who kept a lower-than-low profile as they went about their business.
However, they generally set up shop in a part of town where clients could come and go without attracting attention from the neighbors, so we skirted the inner-city, looking for informants past and present. We passed by a half-dozen hookers lounging in the midday heat, trading tales and gossip in front of a payday loan store.
“Hey, Harry – looking goooood,” one of the hookers crowed, a tall transsexual-in-progress named Shanelle who resembled an Oriental Whitney Houston. We’d dealt with her a few timesas an informant, and Shanelle had taken an immediate shine to my partner.
Harry flicked a wave and a wink as we pulled over, causing Shanelle to shriek and fake an attack of the vapors, one hand palm-forward over her forehead, fanning with the other as she faux-fainted into the arms of her colleagues.
“Talk to you a minute, Miss Shanelle?” Harry asked.
Shanelle recovered, giggled, and strutted over like she was working a Paris runway. She was wearing a brief white top to display heavy silicone orbs, a black leather miniskirt high above the knobby knees, and plastic shoes like those Croc things, only with four-inch platforms. They were spray-painted metalflake gold.
I leaned out the window. “Hi, Shanelle. Love the shoes.”
Her false eyelashes fluttered like excited butter-flies. She tapped her toes together, looking down.
“You don’t think they’re too conservative, Carson?”
I shot a thumbs-up and a wink. “They’re sexy and sassy.”
Shanelle beamed and put a shoe on the window frame while bending
“It’s different for me. I don’t have to look into their lives or hear their stories. I never find who they really were. That’s what you do.”
A recent memory moved me to the window, like my eyes needed real light. I let out a long breath and turned back to Clair.
“A couple weeks ago I went to a drive-by in south Mobile. The deceased was a nineteen-year-oldkid named Alphonse Terrell. When we found the body his thumb was in his mouth, his last instinct before dying.”
“I recall seeing the paperwork on the body. What about it?”
“My first case after I made detective was a woman named Twyla Terrell.”
“Oh Lord, Carson…was she the mother? Sister?”
“The mom. Mama had been shot by a boyfriend in the kitchen. I remember the kid, Alphonse, standing in the corner, a skinny twelve-year-old. Alphonse was sucking his thumb, Clair. Staring at his mother’s body, tears pouring down his face, sucking his thumb like a baby. I walked him outside, trying to say things with meaning and comfort, failing miserably.”
“That’s terrible, Carson. I’m so sorry.”
I shrugged. “Mama gets shot, sonny gets shot a few years later. It’s just the way things have become, Clair. Like leaving a legacy.”
Clair moved closer and took my hand. “It’ll get better, dear. We’ve had spikes in the homicide rate before. They always pass.”
“Of course,” I said, pressing a smile to my face. “Like bad weather.”
Harry appeared at the door and I turned to leave. As we stepped from Clair’s office she called my name. I turned to see her thumb and pinkie beside her head in that funny mimic of phoning. There was no humor in her eyes, only concern.
“Call me, Carson. Let’s get together soon, right? Talk?”
I nodded and turned away.
When we got to the car, Harry took driver’s position.
“Where to from here?” he asked.
“We find who Scaler paid to work him over. Given the money he had in his wallet, he could afford the best.”
“How come she left the money?”
“Either she freaked when her client’s heart popped, or took her money and a big tip. Scaler could have started the night with twenty grand in his pocket.”
We didn’t keep a list of dominatrix types, since they tended to avoid interaction with the legal system, particularly the high-money babes who kept a lower-than-low profile as they went about their business.
However, they generally set up shop in a part of town where clients could come and go without attracting attention from the neighbors, so we skirted the inner-city, looking for informants past and present. We passed by a half-dozen hookers lounging in the midday heat, trading tales and gossip in front of a payday loan store.
“Hey, Harry – looking goooood,” one of the hookers crowed, a tall transsexual-in-progress named Shanelle who resembled an Oriental Whitney Houston. We’d dealt with her a few timesas an informant, and Shanelle had taken an immediate shine to my partner.
Harry flicked a wave and a wink as we pulled over, causing Shanelle to shriek and fake an attack of the vapors, one hand palm-forward over her forehead, fanning with the other as she faux-fainted into the arms of her colleagues.
“Talk to you a minute, Miss Shanelle?” Harry asked.
Shanelle recovered, giggled, and strutted over like she was working a Paris runway. She was wearing a brief white top to display heavy silicone orbs, a black leather miniskirt high above the knobby knees, and plastic shoes like those Croc things, only with four-inch platforms. They were spray-painted metalflake gold.
I leaned out the window. “Hi, Shanelle. Love the shoes.”
Her false eyelashes fluttered like excited butter-flies. She tapped her toes together, looking down.
“You don’t think they’re too conservative, Carson?”
I shot a thumbs-up and a wink. “They’re sexy and sassy.”
Shanelle beamed and put a shoe on the window frame while bending
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