Loren settled in as well, his arms and ankles crossed.
“All right, listen, mah-fuckers,” Borges growled. “Go into that Jack in the Crack over there,” nodding toward a fast-food restaurant on the corner. “I’ll send Ginny over when she comes back out, tell her some dudes wanna buy her a fuckin’ taco or somethin’.”
“If you fuck with us, Borges,” Jackson started, and Borges gave a wild shake of his head, interrupting.
“I got a ten-year-old baby girl,” he said fiercely, “and any goddamn baby raper or cho-mo put his hands on her, I’d cut his mah-fuckin’ dick off.”
After a moment’s consideration, Jackson nodded in agreement.
“Send Ginny over,” he ordered, “but we’ll be watching you, and we have another team in the area that’ll be watching. Fuck us over, I promise you, you’ll be playing the bitch to every tattooed homo daddy in Florence before the weekend is out,” he said, referring to the large state prison.
“I swear to fuckin’ Jesus on the cross, I’ll do my best to send the bitch over,” Borges said in impatient tones. “Now get away from me!” He spat on the ground at their feet and strutted off, yelling belligerently about “fuckin’ pigs” and illegal searches.
Loren and Jackson rolled their eyes at each other and made their way to the seedy Jack in the Box on the corner, not bothering to go inside but leaning against the outside wall. The smell of rancid grease and meat made Loren’s stomach flip over, and he kept an eye on Borges as Jackson texted their team members and apprised them of the situation.
Before long Borges’s business was moving along briskly again, and Loren had to marvel at the man’s hand-to-hand skills, trying to count how many handoffs he made in a minute to the junkies who wandered up and past.
“Damn, it sucks, letting him do that under our fucking noses,” Loren growled, and Jackson shrugged.
“We’ve passed his name along to the narcs many times, believe me,” he said. “He’s well-known to them but pretty much low-level, and he’ll be swept up in a buy-and-bust one of these days.” His thumbs continued to fly over his phone. “Asking Dispatch to run the ‘Cholito’ alias for us, see what they got on any asshole by that name.”
Loren nodded, and after what seemed an interminable wait, he saw Borges walk over and grab a female by the arm as she emerged from the courtyard of the motel. They argued for a minute, and then Borges gave her a shove in their direction along with a threatening shout that Loren couldn’t quite make out, but he could see Ginny throw him the bird and then scurry off toward them with a squeal when Borges took a large step toward her.
Loren watched her as she crossed the street, trying to strut in heels that threatened to make her ankles roll, dressed in a tube top and tight spandex miniskirt despite the chilly desert night air. Her hair was dyed a bright cherry-red hue that highlighted her drug pallor, and as she approached them, Loren could see sores around her mouth—the sign of a serious tweaker.
“Whatchu want?” she hissed as she tottered toward them. “Borges said he fuck my shit up if I don’t come talk to you.”
Jackson gave Loren a look, and Loren nodded, keeping an eye on things as Jackson took Ginny aside and spoke to her, not wanting her to feel ganged-up on with two large men looming over her. Loren could see her shake her head emphatically a couple of times, her greasy hair falling into her face, but at last she appeared to burst into tears, waving her hands in wild motions as she talked.
Finally Jackson discreetly slipped her a few bills, which she stuck down the front of her tube top and then she staggered away without a backward glance.
“She knows something,” Loren murmured as Jackson walked up to him. Levi nodded.
“She saw the girls being brought in the other night, but she’s scared shitless of Cholito and the other men. They’re pretty brutal, and the girls’ crying and fear got to her,” Jackson said, his fists clenched at his side. “The young ones are hard to take, even for soulless bastards like Ginny and Borges.”
Jackson slipped off into the shadows to make a phone call, and Loren kept watch until he suddenly heard a husky voice at his shoulder, “Suck your dick, Daddy?”
He whipped his head around in shock to see a lithe young boy, couldn’t have been more than seventeen, standing a few feet away. His denim shirt hung open, showing a smooth brown chest, and his jeans were tight, the top few buttons open and making it obvious he wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“I’ll get down on my knees for you, Daddy,” the boy purred, sliding his hand into the opened jeans, stroking the slice of pubic hair visible there. “I’ll swallow every drop.”
Loren felt disgust and pity roll through him, and he walked over to the boy and looked at him under the weak streetlights. His pupils were constricted down to tiny dots, and Loren’s pity turned to rage toward the pimps who had hooked the boy on God knew what and then sent him out into the streets to sell himself for their profit.
Loren followed Jackson’s lead and pulled a couple of twenties out of his pocket and handed them to the kid, exclaiming in horror as the boy started to drop to his knees.
“No, no, no. Just take the money,” he said, “and take this.” He pulled out one of his cards he carried at all times and handed it to the young man. “Social Services’ number is on the back. Call them. They can help you with someplace to stay, help you get clean.”
The kid looked at the card and money in his hand and slurred, “You don’t wanna fuck me, Daddy?” Loren shook his head, watching helplessly as the boy shrugged and wandered off, stuffing the money in his front jeans pocket, the card falling unnoticed to the ground.
Loren turned around and saw Jackson standing just behind him, a faint look of distaste on his face.
“Why you give him money, Smitty?” he asked, and Loren gave him an incredulous stare.
“He’s just a kid, Levi,” he replied evenly, “and I was just trying to help him. He didn’t have to do anything for the money, and you saw me give him the Social Services card.”
Jackson shuddered. “You did the right thing, I guess, but those rent boys give me the creeps.”
“He’s just a kid,” Loren repeated. “And he’s hyped up on some shit, probably heroin, out here sucking dicks for money, money that he won’t get a penny of.”
“I know how prostitution works, Smith,” Jackson retorted, “seen it my entire career. But—” He broke off and shrugged, the topic closed.
Loren clenched his jaw, saddened yet unsurprised at the pervasive and unspoken belief that a boy who sucked dicks for money was to be held in more contempt than a girl who did the exact same thing.
It didn’t help that when they met up with their team members an hour or so later at a small diner, Jackson related the story of Loren getting propositioned by a “cocksmoker,” the other two men laughing and jeering.
“I bet ol’ Smitty here can get all the pussy he wants. He don’t need no fag to suck his dick,” one of them cackled. “My old lady even said she’d tap that if you’re ever interested.”
Loren knew his face was beet red—he could feel the burning—which just egged them on even more.
“Bet you’re beating the women off with a stick, you stud, you,” Jackson chortled. “Send a few of ’em my way when you’re done.”
“Oooh, telling your wife you said that, Levi,” the first man said, and Loren clenched his fists at his sides at the juvenile, offensive banter. This was why he hadn’t come out at work, and he was a fool to think he could and still be taken seriously as a detective, as a cop, or even as a “real” man.
“Arrested this gaysian last week in a sting,” a man named Marshall continued. “Little Korean dude so fucking flaming and light in his loafers that I expected to see rainbows shoot out his ass when he was searched in Central Booking.”
“Hope whoever searched him double-gloved, man,” Jackson said, and Marshall snorted.
Loren couldn’t take any more and excused himself on the pretext of making a phone call, and he went outside and took deep breaths of the crisp night air, feeling the rage-flush in his cheeks subside. When he felt more in control, he scrubbed his hands roughly over his face and went back inside.
“Can we talk about the case now?” he asked evenly, and he was more than relieved when the other men settled down to business.
“LOREN, BABY,
how’s it hangin’?”
Loren grinned at Traci Hayes, one half of the husband-and-wife facilitating team for this support group. She and her husband Donovan had been married for seventeen years, and Traci was bipolar, Donovan not.
The first day he and Eliot arrived for the group, they hovered just inside the doorway until Traci made her way over to them with her hand outstretched.
“I’m Traci Hayes, and you must be Eliot,” she said in a loud but friendly voice. “Erin told me you’d be joining us today along with your oh-so-hot—what, boyfriend? Husband?” Loren had been amused to see Eliot blush.
“Boyfriend,” he mumbled, casting a shy look at Loren.
Loren shook her hand, and said with a grin, “I’m the lucky boyfriend,” he confirmed, and Traci winked at him.
“Welcome. Like I said, I’m Traci, and that’s my husband Donovan over there.” She waved her hand at a man with long brown hair that touched his shoulders, and he was wearing a band T-shirt and cargo shorts with flip-flops. He lifted his hand at them and grinned. Traci was just as casual, a short, plump woman with a colorful print maxidress on, her flip-flops blinged out with beads. Loren liked them both immediately.
“I’m the mentally interesting one,” she continued. “We don’t say ‘ill’ or ‘disease’ or any of that other bullshit in this group.”
Loren and Eliot sat down at the table, and Traci introduced them. There were four other couples present, and they all went around and told Loren and Eliot a little bit about themselves.
“Okay, Eliot,” Traci said at last, “first of all, before we get into discussion, what crazy meds are you taking? Dosages and frequency, tell us everything.”
Eliot rattled off his meds, and Loren was amazed when Traci and the rest of the group launched into a detailed dissection worthy of any pharmacists’ conference. He was impressed at their in-depth knowledge of seemingly every psychotropic med out there, and all he could do was sit and listen in bemusement.
Traci and the other “mentally interesting” attendees at last seemed satisfied with Eliot’s regimen, and the discussion turned to other things. In the weeks that followed, Loren learned so much about what Eliot was dealing with, and how he, as his partner, would best be able to support him when he came home. Loren also came to care very much for these people, and he truly looked forward to their Sundays together.
Today Traci was dressed in a tight “Medicated for Your Protection” T-shirt and an elastic-waist denim skirt, her ever-present flip-flops on.
“Have a seat, guys,” she hollered. “We have a special agenda today, since this is Eliot’s last group before being released later this week. Yay!”
Several of the other members came over and clapped Eliot on the back or hugged him, and Loren could see he was reveling in the attention, his green eyes glowing with a quiet happiness.
Just then Loren became aware of a young teenage girl hovering in the doorway with an older woman who appeared to be her mother, and he caught Traci’s eye and lifted his chin toward them. She walked over to the newcomers, her loud voice surprisingly gentle as she welcomed them.
“Everybody, this is Brooke and her mom Denise. Brooke was just admitted two days ago, and is very newly diagnosed. The first half of the meeting will be to introduce ourselves and welcome them, and then we’re going to split off into two groups, which I will explain about more when the time comes.”
Everybody took their seats around the conference table, and Traci asked her usual newcomers’ question—“What crazy meds are you taking, Brooke?”
Brooke shrugged and Denise answered for her, listing a powerful antipsychotic and antidepressant.
“Okay, that’s some heavy shit, Brooke,” Traci said. “How are you feeling?”
Brooke gave a sullen shrug and muttered, “Okay, I guess.” She reached up to push some of her thick black hair off her forehead, and Loren flinched when he saw the scars running up and down her forearm, neat rows of cuts that looked like tiger stripes.
Traci saw them too because she said matter-of-factly, “I see you’ve been self-harming. The meds can help you, Brooke.”
“What they’ll do is make me fat,” the girl burst out. “I read the fucking PI on them!”
“Brooke,” her mother admonished, and Traci raised her hand and interrupted.
“It’s okay, Denise. She can talk however she pleases in here. I’m not one to mince words myself,” she said, which she proved when she continued, “and what does being fat matter if you kill yourself next week?”
Brooke shrugged, and Traci pushed her chair back and stood up, waving her hand down her body to indicate her ample form. “My meds did this to me too. I used to be thin, hot, whatever. But let me tell you something: I’d rather be fat and stable than skinny and insane, darlin’.”
“I don’t want to take anything that’ll make me fat,” the girl insisted. “It’s not fair.”
Traci leaned her hands on the table and looked Brooke straight in the eyes. “Yes, being medicated may sometimes suck green donkey dick, but being unmedicated is like sucking that dick and having a cactus shoved up your twat at the same time.”
Denise gasped and Loren had to fight not to, but he noticed Brooke looked at Traci for the first time with a glimmer of interest in her eyes.
“Take it from me, baby girl. I’ve been there.” Traci’s voice gentled. “I can see you’ve been through hell.” She reached out and stroked her fingertips over the girl’s ravaged forearm. “It can get better from here, I promise you that. Not perfect, and it’ll always be a struggle, I’m sorry to say, but you
can
have a decent life.”
Denise broke down crying, and Brooke looked away, biting her lip. Traci didn’t say anything more to her, just sat down and said in brisk tones, “Okay, peeps, time for introductions.”
They went around the table, and Loren noticed Brooke looked at Eliot with interest, her face falling almost comically when Loren then introduced himself next as Eliot’s boyfriend.