In Cold Blonde (7 page)

Syd put her finger on the garage door button and hesitated.  She knew
pushing it meant going through a one-way door.  She’d be a murderer. 
If caught, she could go to jail.  If God was more than a psychological
crutch, she could go to hell.  But if Doctor Jay was dead, she’d be
free. 

She pushed the button.

His asphyxiation was ruled an accidental death.  Syd had gotten away
with murder.  

But if Syd thought getting rid of Doctor Jay would fix her life, she was
wrong.  Her mother plummeted into alcohol-drenched mourning.  She
took her grief out on Syd, snapping at her, hitting her.  Then her Mom had
the audacity to throw Doctor Jay’s molestations at Syd, accusing her daughter
of trying to seduce her husband, trying to steal him away.  That did
it.  After committing cold-blooded murder, the decision to run away seemed
easy.   

Where to go?  Why Hollywood, of course.  Syd had always
daydreamed about being a famous actress.  That’s where her mind would flee
when Doctor Jay would paw her. 

Syd had some money saved, almost two thousand dollars, enough to get to
L.A.  The rest; finding a place to live, getting a car, finding an agent,
Syd figured, would take care of themselves.  The next morning, instead of
going to school, Syd boarded a Greyhound bus. 

Three days later, a stiff and bleary-eyed Syd finally pulled into Hollywood. 
 It was midnight when she stepped into a practically deserted bus station. 
She looked at a wall full of hotel advertisements, found a cheap motel about
three blocks away and started walking down Cahuenga Boulevard. 

The adrenaline that had fueled Syd’s escape had drained by now, leaving
her bedraggled, inside and out.  She had a purse, a backpack and a
suitcase which she rolled behind her. 

A van suddenly screeched to a stop next to her, the side door slid open
and three men leapt out.  They grabbed Syd, shoved her into an
alley.  One guy snatched the suitcase, another used a knife to cut the
straps of the backpack and the third ripped the purse out of her hands. 

They were Hispanic, wired on something, twitchy.  Two of the men
tossed the goods in the van as the third man pressed Syd against the alley
wall, shoved his hand under her blouse and said, “Don’t scream, don’t fight and
you might live.”  His pupils were the size of golf balls.  He pressed
himself against her as the other two returned, lust in their eyes.  Syd
realized she was going to be gang-raped.

Then a shot rang out.  All heads spun to see a man standing in the
mouth of the alley, backlit by a street light, a huge automatic in his hand,
pointed at Syd’s attackers.  He pistol whipped the man closest to him,
shoved the barrel of the gun against the forehead of another and hissed at them
in Spanish.  Clearly terrified, the men scrambled back into their van and
with a screech of rubber, fled.

“You all right?” the man asked his voice now gentle, concerned.

Syd nodded, grateful.  The man was tall, lanky and shaved bald. 
And though he seemed scary as hell with that gun in his hand, there was
something incredibly soulful about him.  His eyes were dark brown with a
few flecks of green and he had thick, sensuous lips.  Then she realized,
“Oh, my God.  They got all my stuff.  My clothes, my money…”

“Do you have any friends in L.A.?  Is someone waiting for you?”

She shook her head as tears formed.  “No.” 

“Then let me be your friend,” he said, sticking out his hand.  “My
name is Ernesto.”

Ernesto.

Her savior. 

Oh, that first night, the night he
rescued
her, Ernesto was so
charming.  So caring and gentle.  He gave her a glass of wine,
scrambled her eggs, told her he was a musician, singer-songwriter, and he was
just a couple of weeks from recording his first CD.  Then he kissed
her.  It seemed so natural, so right.  Then they were naked. 
Ernesto was the first man she’d ever made love to she’d
wanted
to make
love to. 

Afterward, he pulled a joint out of the bedside table and lit it
up.  He took a deep drag and offered it to Syd.  She’d never had
grass, though most of her friends had been smoking for years.  She didn’t
like what the booze and pills did to her mother, didn’t want to be like
her.  But now, she had a new life, maybe even her first boyfriend, and she
didn’t want to offend him, so… she took a hit.  It was an A-bomb.  A
joint laced with heroin.  The smoke filled her lungs, and as the heroin
invaded her brain, it metabolized into morphine, the sweetest of all drugs, and
she was transported to a blissful euphoria she didn’t know could exist. 

 She was hooked.  Just like Ernesto knew she would be. 
And he had another runaway for his stable of young hookers, willing to do
anything
to keep the sweet nowhere flowing through her synapses.    

Ernesto ran anywhere from three to six girls.  The number fluctuated
depending on who found God that week, OD’d or crawled home.  They lived in
a cramped two-bedroom apartment in the same building. 

He recruited his girls from the Greyhound bus stop.  It was the
loaves and fishes of desperate females, delivering a seemingly endless
bounty.  And he usually recruited them the same way he’d
rescued
Syd. 

The three guys who robbed Syd worked for Ernesto.  His miraculous
appearance in the nick of time was all part of the plan.  The grateful
teens almost always went home with Ernesto.  So not only was he able to
steal all their valuables, within a few days he’d usually absconded with their
souls.

  Syd went to Ernesto’s best customers first – the guys
willing to pay extra for a seventeen-year-old girl.  These were guys he
knew, guys he could trust.  Because even though he was willing to whore
her out, Ernesto actually kind of had a crush on the cute redhead, and didn’t want
anything too horrible to happen to her.  They lived together as boyfriend
and girlfriend, and Syd couldn’t be happier. 

Looking back, Syd realized she was living in a drug-induced haze. 
It numbed her to the strange men who violated her body two or three times a
day.  It numbed her to the life Ernesto’s other girls were leading –
sent out to the streets to give blowjobs in front seats or spread their legs in
rent-by-the-hour motels.  Or the girls sent out on
special assignments
and came back battered and bruised by Ernesto’s more violent customers.

It took almost eight months before Ernesto got tired of Syd.  And he
moved Syd out the same way he always did – he gave her something she’d
love more than him.  The needle. 

Ernesto was always very careful to make sure Syd only smoked or
occasionally snorted her heroin.  You get hooked, but it’s a manageable
situation.  Two to three times a day at the most, and you can live an
almost normal life, for a hooker.  But once you mainline, once that pretty
poison is shot directly into your veins, the jolt is all you live for. 
All
that matters.   

So when Ernesto was ready to move Syd out and another pretty young thing
in, he convinced a stoned Syd to try the needle, just once, just to see what it
feels like.  Of course it felt
wonderful
.  

And suddenly, when Ernesto said, if you move into the apartment with the
other girls, I’ll give you another fix. 
Sure
.  I’ll give you
another fix if you troll Hollywood Boulevard for blowjobs. 
Love
to. 
There’s a frat party that wants someone to strip and gang
bang. 
I’m your girl. 
I’ve got a friend who’s into a little
S&M. 
Bring him on
.

Syd did anything and everything.  She ate little, living on Chablis
and potato chips.  Soon Syd was bone thin and had the same glazed pod-person
stare as her roommates.  She was eighteen years old.  A drugged-out
sexual automaton going through the motions and her expiration date was coming
due.

Then she OD’d.  It was an accident, and if one of Syd’s roommates
hadn’t been there when it happened, she would have died.

Enter Eric, EMT. 

Eric Templeton, to be exact.  An army vet, Eric was just twenty-five
when he wheeled Syd out of the apartment.  He had served two tours in Iraq
as a medic, and then joined the fire department when he got home. 

Eric fell in love with Syd on the ride to the hospital.  Sitting in
the back with her, wiping the sweat off her face he stared, beguiled, at all
the freckles.  She looked so beautiful but so broken. 

  Eric had been to the Vine Street apartment before; another
OD.  They saved a young black girl; as soon as she was revived at the
hospital, a slick bald dude paid her bill and walked her out the door.  A
cop filled him in; the girl was a hooker, the guy her pimp.  Eric and his
partner were called back to the apartment two months later; the black girl had
OD’d again.  This time they were too late; she was dead.

Well, not again, Eric vowed to himself.  This time he was going to
save her.  Once Syd was stabilized at St. John’s, he grabbed her chart,
wheeled her to the fifth floor and hid her out on the maternity ward.

Eric watched, amused, as the blustering Ernesto freaked out when the
hospital couldn’t find her, but what was he going to do, call a cop?  The
pimp finally stormed out yelling that he’d be back and they better have his
niece.  Niece, right.

When Syd regained consciousness, Eric was at her side. 

“Where’s Ernesto?” she asked through chapped lips.

“Gone.  But I’m going to help you.”

Panic filled her eyes, sweat beaded on her body, muscle spasms rippled
her body.  She was in withdrawal.  “I need a fix…”

“You keep shooting heroin you’re going to die.  You know that,
right?” 

“I’ll do whatever you want.  Suck you, fuck you.  Anything.”

“I can get you in a program, get you drugs, methadone.  Get you
cleaned up.  Give you a fresh start.  Would you like that?”

Syd started crying.  “But it hurts so bad.”

“Let me help you, please.”

Syd looked into the face of the paramedic.  She’d stared into a lot
of men’s faces during the last eighteen months; embarrassed, lonely, desperate,
faces.  Arrogant, angry, cruel faces.  But the paramedic’s face was
different.  His face was honest, caring, genuine.  Syd realized she
could trust him. 

“What’s your name?” she asked. 

“Eric.”

“Okay, Eric.  Do what you’ve got to do.”

It took three weeks for Eric to flush the poison out of Syd.  He
moved her to his apartment.  She suffered mightily, tried to escape twice,
but Eric was resolute, firm when he had to be, always nurturing, and most of
all, loving.

  And as Syd got stronger, as the chemical haze cleared her
consciousness, she felt the first stirring of hope.  She could envision a
life beyond the next fix.  She could envision a new life, a
real
life,
all because of Eric.

And Eric had all sorts of plans for her.  He wanted her to take the
high school equivalency exam and enroll at Santa Monica College.  He
wanted her to find a career, become a nurse or a doctor or lawyer. 

And in the three weeks they had been together, he had never come on to
her, never touched her inappropriately; he’d been the perfect gentleman. 
Because if Syd was going to fall in love with him, Eric wanted the clean and
sober Syd, not the drug-addicted girl who would glom on to the closest hero
figure. 

But Eric had made a mortal enemy.  Ernesto.  He didn’t like
having his girls taken from him, especially not one of his favorites.  So
while Eric was nursing Syd back to health, Ernesto and his minions were combing
the streets, asking questions, doing whatever they could to find Syd. 

They came on a Monday night.  Syd had made dinner, macaroni and
cheese.  Syd and Eric were just sitting down when the front door burst
open. 

Rodolfo and Santiago came through first.  They were Ernesto’s
muscle, tatted out and brutal.  They were two of the men who robbed her
that first night in Hollywood.  Syd had been forced to fuck them numerous
times when she was on the needle.  They each had a .9mm pointed at Eric’s
head. 

Then Ernesto walked in.  It was more like an entrance, the
conquering hero capturing a city.  He glanced at Syd then walked right up
to Eric, leaned forward so they were just inches apart.  Ernesto said, “I
think you have something that belongs to me.”

Syd knew there was only one chance to save Eric’s life and she took
it.  “Thank God,” Syd said, rushing to Ernesto, throwing her arms around
him.  “Take me home, baby.  I’ve had enough of this goody two shoes.”

Ernesto grabbed Syd by the hair, pulled back her head and kissed
her.  He jammed his tongue into her mouth and she responded, groaning with
pleasure, pressing her body against his.  “I’ve missed you, sweetie,” Syd
whispered.

Ernesto turned back to Eric.  “You like fucking her?  You like
fucking my girl?”

“I’ve never touched her,” Eric said, surprised by his own calm.  He’d
been shot at in Iraq, but always from a distance, faceless snipers; now he was
staring directly into the face of evil.  Sure he was scared, but he was
also proud.  He knew he was probably going to die and he didn’t want Syd’s
last image of him to be that of a sniveling coward.