ran out of the store, but I freeze framed them and realized I'd never seen shoes like them before. There were four jagged lines attached to the Nike Swoosh. When we zoomed in, we could see that the lines were actually the letter W inked twice into the shoes. It didn't take long to find out that W.W. was the personal logo of Willie Washburn, who apparently had been dumb enough to rob a store wearing his signature shoes. Today he's doing a solid twenty in San Quentin. As for Tyrell, he's in his second year at a different state institution. UCLA. I On the day that Tyrell and Washburn traded places in the lockup, Coral C. came to thank me. "Without you," she said without a trace of tough street girl in her voice, "I'd be just another black hooker screaming for justice, and nobody would listen to me, and my baby brother would be rotting in prison."
Then she said those three little words. "I owe you."
There is a tradition of reciprocity between cops and hookers. Sometimes a girl gets in a jam and needs a favor. And sometimes a guy needs his pipes cleaned. It's a time-honored tradition that works out well for both parties.
I told Coral C, Thanks, but no thanks. I was happily married.
She put her hand on one hip and went into her Black Ho act. "Shit, White Boy, I don't wanna marry you. I jes' wanna
1
thank you. I was gonna be sending you a Hallmark card, but I thought, Hell no, he'll trash that and forget all about it in two minutes. But if I suck his cock, he'll 'member that fo-ever."
"Ms. Jones," I said. "I'll remember this forever. It's not every day a grateful citizen stops by to express such deep appreciation. As for keeping your brother out of prison, I was as wrong as everyone else when I first saw that security tape. You're the one who saved his life. I'm just glad I could help."
Coral C.'s face softened. Her "you-can-fuck-me-anytime" body language morphed into the filled-with-gratitude loving sister. Her eyes welled up. She dropped the Ebonics. "Tell your wife I said she's a lucky woman. God bless you, Mike." She took my hand, leaned in, and kissed me gently on the cheek. And then she left the squad room. A lady.
And that was the last time I saw her. Until the night Joanie died. I was drunk. I dug out Coral C.'s number and called her. I told her I was ready to accept her offer. I wanted to spend the night with her. But first she had to agree to the ground rules.
I had never cheated on my wife, even in the last year of her illness, when our sex life was nothing more than a bittersweet memory. And now that she was dead I wanted to physically lose myself inside a woman. I wanted sex, but I didn't want charity. I didn't want payback for doing my job two years ago. I wanted a business arrangement. I wanted Coral C. to fuck my brains out and charge me for the privilege. Full retail price. No policeman's discount.
She argued briefly, but she could tell I meant it. "I'm a fucking cop, and I'm laying down the law," I said, drunk, belligerent, and hopelessly despondent. "Take it or leave it."
She took it. A month later, when I read Joanie's first letter
from the grave, I gave Coral C. another call. Same deal. Since then we've spent the night together on the 18th of every month. Nobody knows about the arrangement. Not Terry, not even my father. It's not that they're judgmental. It's just that I've got enough guilt about paying a hooker every month on the anniversary of my wife's death. I don't want to think about what anyone else would be thinking. I had planned to meet Coral C. at midnight, but my longwinded father and my bubble-headed brother had screwed up my plans. I dialed her cell phone to tell her I'd be late. She answered on the first ring. "Hello." "Hello," I said. We never used names on the cell phone.
"You're late. Should I start without you?" she said, laughing sexily.
"I have to cancel." It was the voice inside my head talking, but the words came out of my mouth, and, through the magic of wireless technology,
Then she said those three little words. "I owe you."
There is a tradition of reciprocity between cops and hookers. Sometimes a girl gets in a jam and needs a favor. And sometimes a guy needs his pipes cleaned. It's a time-honored tradition that works out well for both parties.
I told Coral C, Thanks, but no thanks. I was happily married.
She put her hand on one hip and went into her Black Ho act. "Shit, White Boy, I don't wanna marry you. I jes' wanna
1
thank you. I was gonna be sending you a Hallmark card, but I thought, Hell no, he'll trash that and forget all about it in two minutes. But if I suck his cock, he'll 'member that fo-ever."
"Ms. Jones," I said. "I'll remember this forever. It's not every day a grateful citizen stops by to express such deep appreciation. As for keeping your brother out of prison, I was as wrong as everyone else when I first saw that security tape. You're the one who saved his life. I'm just glad I could help."
Coral C.'s face softened. Her "you-can-fuck-me-anytime" body language morphed into the filled-with-gratitude loving sister. Her eyes welled up. She dropped the Ebonics. "Tell your wife I said she's a lucky woman. God bless you, Mike." She took my hand, leaned in, and kissed me gently on the cheek. And then she left the squad room. A lady.
And that was the last time I saw her. Until the night Joanie died. I was drunk. I dug out Coral C.'s number and called her. I told her I was ready to accept her offer. I wanted to spend the night with her. But first she had to agree to the ground rules.
I had never cheated on my wife, even in the last year of her illness, when our sex life was nothing more than a bittersweet memory. And now that she was dead I wanted to physically lose myself inside a woman. I wanted sex, but I didn't want charity. I didn't want payback for doing my job two years ago. I wanted a business arrangement. I wanted Coral C. to fuck my brains out and charge me for the privilege. Full retail price. No policeman's discount.
She argued briefly, but she could tell I meant it. "I'm a fucking cop, and I'm laying down the law," I said, drunk, belligerent, and hopelessly despondent. "Take it or leave it."
She took it. A month later, when I read Joanie's first letter
from the grave, I gave Coral C. another call. Same deal. Since then we've spent the night together on the 18th of every month. Nobody knows about the arrangement. Not Terry, not even my father. It's not that they're judgmental. It's just that I've got enough guilt about paying a hooker every month on the anniversary of my wife's death. I don't want to think about what anyone else would be thinking. I had planned to meet Coral C. at midnight, but my longwinded father and my bubble-headed brother had screwed up my plans. I dialed her cell phone to tell her I'd be late. She answered on the first ring. "Hello." "Hello," I said. We never used names on the cell phone.
"You're late. Should I start without you?" she said, laughing sexily.
"I have to cancel." It was the voice inside my head talking, but the words came out of my mouth, and, through the magic of wireless technology,
Similar Books
