was with a boy for a little while, but he didn’t stay.“
”What happened to her when she left you, do you know?“
”No.“
”No forwarding address?“
”None. I remember she had no money and was behind in her rent, and I sent her down to the welfare people on Thirty-fourth Street. And then one day she gave me all the back room rent in cash and moved out.“
”Any idea where she got the money?“
”I think she was hustling.“
”Prostitute?“
She nodded. ”I can’t be sure, but I know she was out often and she brought men home often and she used to spend time with a pimp named Violet.“
”Is he still around?“
”Oh sure. People like Violet are around forever.“
”Where do I find him?“
”He’s usually on Third Avenue, in front of the Casa Grande near Fifteenth.“
”What’s his full name?“
She shrugged. ”Just Violet,“ she said. ”More coffee?“
”Thank you.“ I held my cup out, and she poured from the carafe. Her hands were strong and clean, the fingernails the same plum color as her toenails. No rings. Outside I could hear the portable radio playing and occasionally the voices of the men drinking beer.
”She was a very small, thin, little girl,“ Rose Estrada said. ”Very scared. She didn’t want to be here, but she didn’t want to go home. She didn’t know anything about makeup or clothes. She didn’t know what to say to people. If she was turning tricks, it must have been very hard on her.“
I finished my coffee and stood. ”Thank you for the coffee and for the information,“ I said.
”Is she in trouble?“
”No, I don’t think so,“ I said. ”Nothing I can’t get her out of.“
We shook hands and I left. The street seemed hot and noisy after Rose Estrada’s apartment. I walked the half block to Third Ave and turned uptown. At the corner of Fourteenth Street a man in a covert cloth overcoat was urinating against the brick wall of a variety store. He was having trouble standing and lurched against the wall, holding his coat around him with one hand. Modesty, I thought, if you’re going to whiz on a wall, do it with modesty. A few feet downstream another man was lying on the sidewalk, knees bent, eyes closed.
Drinking buddies. I looked at my watch, it was two thirty in the afternoon.
At the corner of Fifteenth Street was a bar with a fake fieldstone front below a plate glass window. The entry to the left of the window was imitation oak. A small neon sign said CASA GRANDE, BEER ON DRAFT. At the curb in front of the Casa Grande were a white Continental and a maroon Coupe de Ville with a white vinyl roof. Leaning against the Coupe de Ville was a man who’d seen too many Superfly movies. He was a black man probably six-three in his socks and about six-seven in the open-toed red platform shoes he was wearing.
He was also wearing red-and-black argyle socks, black knickers, and a chain mail vest. A black Three Musketeers’ hat with an enormous red plume was tipped forward over his eyes. Subtle. All he lacked was a sign saying THE PIMP IS IN.
”Excuse me,“ I said, ”I’m looking for Violet.“
The pimp looked down at me from on top of his shoes and said, ”Why?“
”I was told he could give me information about a girl.“
”Someone’s talking shit to you, man. I don’t know nothing about no girl.“
”You Violet?“
He shrugged and looked down Third Avenue.
”I’m looking for information about a girl named Donna Burlington,“ I said.
The Lincoln started up, backed away from the curb, U-turned, and drove away.
”You federal?“ Violet said. ”I ain’t seen you around.“
”I’m not anything,“ I said. ”Just a guy looking to buy some information.“
”Well, I hope you got a license for that piece on your right hip then.“
Violet paid attention to detail. ”Okay.“ I took a card from my breast pocket and gave it to him. ”I’m a private cop.
From Boston. But I’m still buying information.“
”Baaahston.“ Violet
”What happened to her when she left you, do you know?“
”No.“
”No forwarding address?“
”None. I remember she had no money and was behind in her rent, and I sent her down to the welfare people on Thirty-fourth Street. And then one day she gave me all the back room rent in cash and moved out.“
”Any idea where she got the money?“
”I think she was hustling.“
”Prostitute?“
She nodded. ”I can’t be sure, but I know she was out often and she brought men home often and she used to spend time with a pimp named Violet.“
”Is he still around?“
”Oh sure. People like Violet are around forever.“
”Where do I find him?“
”He’s usually on Third Avenue, in front of the Casa Grande near Fifteenth.“
”What’s his full name?“
She shrugged. ”Just Violet,“ she said. ”More coffee?“
”Thank you.“ I held my cup out, and she poured from the carafe. Her hands were strong and clean, the fingernails the same plum color as her toenails. No rings. Outside I could hear the portable radio playing and occasionally the voices of the men drinking beer.
”She was a very small, thin, little girl,“ Rose Estrada said. ”Very scared. She didn’t want to be here, but she didn’t want to go home. She didn’t know anything about makeup or clothes. She didn’t know what to say to people. If she was turning tricks, it must have been very hard on her.“
I finished my coffee and stood. ”Thank you for the coffee and for the information,“ I said.
”Is she in trouble?“
”No, I don’t think so,“ I said. ”Nothing I can’t get her out of.“
We shook hands and I left. The street seemed hot and noisy after Rose Estrada’s apartment. I walked the half block to Third Ave and turned uptown. At the corner of Fourteenth Street a man in a covert cloth overcoat was urinating against the brick wall of a variety store. He was having trouble standing and lurched against the wall, holding his coat around him with one hand. Modesty, I thought, if you’re going to whiz on a wall, do it with modesty. A few feet downstream another man was lying on the sidewalk, knees bent, eyes closed.
Drinking buddies. I looked at my watch, it was two thirty in the afternoon.
At the corner of Fifteenth Street was a bar with a fake fieldstone front below a plate glass window. The entry to the left of the window was imitation oak. A small neon sign said CASA GRANDE, BEER ON DRAFT. At the curb in front of the Casa Grande were a white Continental and a maroon Coupe de Ville with a white vinyl roof. Leaning against the Coupe de Ville was a man who’d seen too many Superfly movies. He was a black man probably six-three in his socks and about six-seven in the open-toed red platform shoes he was wearing.
He was also wearing red-and-black argyle socks, black knickers, and a chain mail vest. A black Three Musketeers’ hat with an enormous red plume was tipped forward over his eyes. Subtle. All he lacked was a sign saying THE PIMP IS IN.
”Excuse me,“ I said, ”I’m looking for Violet.“
The pimp looked down at me from on top of his shoes and said, ”Why?“
”I was told he could give me information about a girl.“
”Someone’s talking shit to you, man. I don’t know nothing about no girl.“
”You Violet?“
He shrugged and looked down Third Avenue.
”I’m looking for information about a girl named Donna Burlington,“ I said.
The Lincoln started up, backed away from the curb, U-turned, and drove away.
”You federal?“ Violet said. ”I ain’t seen you around.“
”I’m not anything,“ I said. ”Just a guy looking to buy some information.“
”Well, I hope you got a license for that piece on your right hip then.“
Violet paid attention to detail. ”Okay.“ I took a card from my breast pocket and gave it to him. ”I’m a private cop.
From Boston. But I’m still buying information.“
”Baaahston.“ Violet
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