building, and frisked her.
“What you fuckers won’t do for a free feel,” she said.
“Save it,” he said, cuffing her.
“Asshole,” she said evenly. “Now, Sugar, just what do you think this is gonna do? You know I’ll be back here tomorrow night. Why do you waste everyone’s time?”
He propelled her into a dark, secluded alley.
“What are you doing, Sugar?” she said, suddenly concerned.
He pinned her against a wall, boring his eyes into her face. Her lids widened with fear and her mouth dropped open.
“What do you want?” she asked nervously.
“Help.”
“Say what?”
“You’ve got a choice. You give me a little help and your ass is back on the streets in a few minutes. You jive me, you spend the night in the slammer.”
“What do you want?” she repeated.
“I’m trying to locate a runaway.” He pulled out Lindsey’s picture and showed it to her.
She stared at it, then shook her head.
“What makes you think she’s here?” she asked.
“She’s not here. She’s six feet under now. But she may have stopped off here before she ended up in the morgue.”
“You ain’t from Vice?”
“Uh uh. Homicide.”
The whore looked at the picture again.
“Don’t know her.”
He uncuffed her, but blocked her escape.
“Where do the kids hang out?”
“Same place we do.”
“C’mon.”
“It’s true. They’re still hookers, Honey, even if the pussy’s a little newer.”
Decker grimaced. “Think about this—you’re a new runaway without a pimp yet. Where do you go?”
“Put it that way, only one place to go.”
“Where?”
“Hotel Hell.”
The five-story structure was set back from Hollywood Boulevard, burnt out and condemned, peeling paint on pocked concrete, stucco shedding in clumps. The building still retained some broken windows, but most of the sashes were nothing but open holes punched into the rotting plaster. The property was surrounded by a chain-link rent-a-fence with a missing section where a gate should have been. Some of the links had been clipped, leaving the metal spurs sharp and threatening.
He entered the grounds—a jungle of tall, tangled weeds—and went inside the doorless building. The lobby flooring was cracked linoleum and dirt, and as he walked, the soles of his feet stuck to the grimy surface. It was dark and dank, reeking of urine, feces, and vomit. He waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust. The moonlight shone through the empty sashes, checkerboarding the floor. Looking down the long corridor, Decker began to make out figures and shadows scurrying and darting—live pawns on a chessboard. The hallway flickered with trash-can bonfires.
A rat danced at his feet. Decker sidestepped and immediately tripped over a soft lump on the floor. He took out his penlight and shone it on a girl balled in a fetal position. A mutt was curled at her feet, whimpering. He gave her ribs a gentle prod, but she didn’t move. Bending down, he turned her over and she sprawled out, arms flopping randomly. Her skin was ashen and cold to the touch. She had no pulse.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
There was nothing he could do for her now. He’d take care of the body later. Standing up, he walked down the hall.
Empty eyes, vacant stares, shreds of cloth that shrouded living cadavers, muted rodent sounds. Most of the zombies were trying to get warm, rubbing together hands encased in fingerless mittens: some were crouched in corners, rocking back and forth, humming dirges. Others were sleeping fitfully. As he passed the kids, the background noises hushed. A stranger. He had to be up to something—some kind of hustle.
On the second floor he found a group huddled around a pile of burning newspaper and came toward them slowly, as one approaches a wounded animal. When he was next to them, he shone his penlight on the picture of Lindsey Bates.
They took turns looking at the snapshot, but the results were the same: dull stares and wordless shakes of the head. He
“What you fuckers won’t do for a free feel,” she said.
“Save it,” he said, cuffing her.
“Asshole,” she said evenly. “Now, Sugar, just what do you think this is gonna do? You know I’ll be back here tomorrow night. Why do you waste everyone’s time?”
He propelled her into a dark, secluded alley.
“What are you doing, Sugar?” she said, suddenly concerned.
He pinned her against a wall, boring his eyes into her face. Her lids widened with fear and her mouth dropped open.
“What do you want?” she asked nervously.
“Help.”
“Say what?”
“You’ve got a choice. You give me a little help and your ass is back on the streets in a few minutes. You jive me, you spend the night in the slammer.”
“What do you want?” she repeated.
“I’m trying to locate a runaway.” He pulled out Lindsey’s picture and showed it to her.
She stared at it, then shook her head.
“What makes you think she’s here?” she asked.
“She’s not here. She’s six feet under now. But she may have stopped off here before she ended up in the morgue.”
“You ain’t from Vice?”
“Uh uh. Homicide.”
The whore looked at the picture again.
“Don’t know her.”
He uncuffed her, but blocked her escape.
“Where do the kids hang out?”
“Same place we do.”
“C’mon.”
“It’s true. They’re still hookers, Honey, even if the pussy’s a little newer.”
Decker grimaced. “Think about this—you’re a new runaway without a pimp yet. Where do you go?”
“Put it that way, only one place to go.”
“Where?”
“Hotel Hell.”
The five-story structure was set back from Hollywood Boulevard, burnt out and condemned, peeling paint on pocked concrete, stucco shedding in clumps. The building still retained some broken windows, but most of the sashes were nothing but open holes punched into the rotting plaster. The property was surrounded by a chain-link rent-a-fence with a missing section where a gate should have been. Some of the links had been clipped, leaving the metal spurs sharp and threatening.
He entered the grounds—a jungle of tall, tangled weeds—and went inside the doorless building. The lobby flooring was cracked linoleum and dirt, and as he walked, the soles of his feet stuck to the grimy surface. It was dark and dank, reeking of urine, feces, and vomit. He waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust. The moonlight shone through the empty sashes, checkerboarding the floor. Looking down the long corridor, Decker began to make out figures and shadows scurrying and darting—live pawns on a chessboard. The hallway flickered with trash-can bonfires.
A rat danced at his feet. Decker sidestepped and immediately tripped over a soft lump on the floor. He took out his penlight and shone it on a girl balled in a fetal position. A mutt was curled at her feet, whimpering. He gave her ribs a gentle prod, but she didn’t move. Bending down, he turned her over and she sprawled out, arms flopping randomly. Her skin was ashen and cold to the touch. She had no pulse.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
There was nothing he could do for her now. He’d take care of the body later. Standing up, he walked down the hall.
Empty eyes, vacant stares, shreds of cloth that shrouded living cadavers, muted rodent sounds. Most of the zombies were trying to get warm, rubbing together hands encased in fingerless mittens: some were crouched in corners, rocking back and forth, humming dirges. Others were sleeping fitfully. As he passed the kids, the background noises hushed. A stranger. He had to be up to something—some kind of hustle.
On the second floor he found a group huddled around a pile of burning newspaper and came toward them slowly, as one approaches a wounded animal. When he was next to them, he shone his penlight on the picture of Lindsey Bates.
They took turns looking at the snapshot, but the results were the same: dull stares and wordless shakes of the head. He
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