He’d been past a Denny’s, two local diners, even the shabby McDonald’s, but the closest vehicle to a Hummer he saw was a black Expedition. Jacksonville wasn’t like Miami, no matter how hard it tried. High-end vehicles weren’t as common unless you were talking about old people in Lincolns or Cadillacs. A Hummer would be easy to spot if it was out on the road. Then, as he turned onto 103rd Street he saw the unique shape of an International House of Pancakes with the shiny blue roof marking the spot where even cops hesitated to stop.
He spotted the obnoxious-looking vehicle that, to him, was the epitome of conspicuous consumption, taking up two spaces on the side of the building. This was the second break he’d had in the last hour. Now the question entered his mind of whether he should call backup. But who? Patty? Mazzetti? It was late, and this could be a dead end or he may not want a witness to know how he went about getting information. He hated wasting a detective’s time as much as he hated getting his ass kicked by overgrown pimps. Then he noticed someone leaving the restaurant and by his size realized it must be the pimp known as Franklin Hall.
Fate had made the decision for him
William Dremmel had concluded that even though she was pretty, topless, and apparently willing, this girl Trina was the most obnoxious person he had ever met.
She had stomped around the house, poking her nose into rooms and saying things like, “What’s the little ramp for in the kitchen?” or “Is that the same room you used since you were eight?” The one that cut into him the most was, “Why don’t you have your own house by now?”
Trina showed no self-consciousness about her semi-nakedness and didn’t appear to be cold either. He was fascinated that her left breast looked a full cup size larger than her right. His experience with naked women, at least conscious naked women, was limited, but she looked good. Too bad she wasn’t a mute. That would make her perfect.
As the time wore on, her voice had a scratchier quality to it and the effects of the Oxycontin seemed to fade in and out as she would become manic and abrasive, then sweet and listless. She finally flopped back onto the leather couch, her breasts bouncing as she did, and he hoped this might be Trina’s final display of energy and she would soon start to drift off. Dremmel had slipped out to the garage to grab some of the things he needed, then set the mattress on the floor of the darkroom. When she asked him about it, he said he was getting her bed ready. She smiled at the thoughtfulness of her host, but still did annoying things like chase Mr. Whiskers IV around the house, complaining about how cats don’t respect human authority. He had no idea what that meant but was ready to move on to the next phase of his plan.
He’d brought in a plate with cheese, a few strips of leftover steak, and a knife and fork, then set it on the coffee table in front of her. She had to be hungry with all the talking she’d done, plus he had mashed 100 milligrams of Seconal into one of the patties of fancy aged cheese. He knew the strong sedative could overwhelm her in combination with the Oxy, but at this point it was a risk he’d take. The pills were also the handiest in the kitchen, and he was starting to rush things to get her secured before something bad happened like his mom waking up. The kitchen counter was a mess, and the bright red capsule halves were still by the sink. He had other reasons to use the Seconal. Mostly he was amazed that this chick was still up and functioning, so he didn’t want to risk that she had built up a tolerance to something common like Ambien or Lunesta. The Seconal was harder to come by, but packed a wallop, so he was ready to carry her into the darkroom/lab whenever she nodded off.
Trina had been topless so long that it held less fascination for him. He wondered what she’d be like when he hooked her up in the lab, secured and on a steady diet of sedatives. She was a little heavy for his average subject and that accounted for her exceptional curves. She was also a few years younger than the others, but he was certain he could extrapolate any data he got from the drug trial.
He sat across from her in a heavy bamboo chair his uncle had bought in Korea, trying not to show his concern, but one leg bobbed up and down in rhythm to an unknown song. Finally he said, “Why don’t you eat something?”
“Why? You get off seeing chicks eat?” Her speech was slightly slurred, and she had a woozy quality to her movements. Her childlike hand snatched up a strip of the skirt steak he had grilled the day before, then she bit off a chunk, her lips smacking loudly as she chewed.
She picked up the fork and prodded the small cheese wedge designed to knock her unconscious. She looked up at Dremmel. “Got any beer, Billy?”
He hesitated, calculating the effect of alcohol in combination with everything else she’d ingested. He needed her alive to gain any benefit. “Yeah, I think I have some Bud out in the garage refrigerator.” What would it take to get her to eat the damn cheese?
She cocked her head, dipping her multicolored mane onto her pale, bare shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Go get it.”
Dremmel remained motionless in the chair wondering what to do.
Trina said, “You might get my pants off if I get a beer in the next thirty seconds.” She hiccupped the last part of the sentence.
“Just get a little more food in your stomach so you don’t get sick.”
“What’re you, my dad?” She snorted and giggled, then added, “You could be if you fuck me. That’s why I’m down in this shitty city anyway.” Then she started to sob.
Dremmel had no experience with comforting distraught women. His instinct was to ignore the whole unpleasantness, but he knew she expected some reaction from him-even if he just faked it. He eased onto the couch next to her and placed his arm around her shoulder, not knowing what else to do. It took several minutes for her to regain any composure until she took a napkin and blew her nose like a goose honking.
Without speaking, she reached down and picked up the spiked cheese, then stopped in front of her mouth like she was inspecting it. He waited patiently. At least while she cried over her father’s shameful behavior she wasn’t asking annoying questions in too loud of a tone. The sobs seemed to subside, but she still had the cheese in her hand. Then he heard something much worse than this girl’s voice.
From the intercom in the kitchen his mother’s voice screeched, “William, are you home? William, I need you.”
His stomach tightened as Trina’s head snapped up and she sniffled to end her crying jag, held on to the cheese wedge, and said, “Wow, who is that? She sounds like something out of a horror movie.”
Dremmel thought, you have no idea.
This was not working out the way he wanted it to.
Twelve
John Stallings parked his Impala behind the Hummer, blocking it in place. There was no way he wanted to be in any kind of car chase. He’d leave that to the show-offs and actors on TV. He lost sight of the pimp but knew he’d run into him shortly.
Before he even saw Franklin Hall come around the building, he heard the pimp shout, “Who parked that piece of shit behind my Hummer?”
A smile creased Stallings’s face at the thought of his coming confrontation. He hated psychobabble, but had put up with it for the last few years in counseling with the kids and Maria. All the issues the family had revolved around Jeanie, but he had attended a lot of AA and NA meetings with Maria too. The one term he had picked up that he felt was accurate was “anger issues.” He was about to explore some of those issues and possibly find an outlet for his pent-up frustration. The best part about it was that he knew, no matter what, this asshole pimp deserved whatever was about to happen to him. That made him keep smiling as he stepped out of his car and stood to face the taller, muscular man. Traffic was light, and the IHOP staff couldn’t see them from inside. This was perfect except he needed to get the big man’s attention quickly.