Poisoned Pearls (4 page)

“Yeah, it’s me,” I told her.

“You okay?” Natasha asked. “I heard about Kyle.”

I shrugged, knowing she couldn’t see the gesture, knowing
she’d know I made it anyway. “I’m all right,” I said.

“I’m so sorry,” Natasha said.

I couldn’t hold back the bitterness in my laugh. “For what?”
I asked.

“For your loss.”

Ah, there was the chill back in her voice, the coldness I’d
come to expect.

“Thank you,” I said. I wasn’t about to engage with her. That
way just lay more heartache.

“Look, I heard you were warning people about walking the
streets this week,” Natasha said. “And I know you think you’re indestructible.”

I snorted. Bitch had no idea how close she’d come to
destroying me.

“But you be careful, too,” she warned. “If there’s someone
out killing sex workers, they could be taking other people, too. Anyone who
keeps the kind of hours you do.”

I shook my head. She was wrong. No one would take me for a
street girl. Or even a street boy. I didn’t look the part. And I did take care
of myself.

“All right,” I grudgingly replied. “You take care of
yourself, too.”

Her merry laugh came back. It made me nostalgic, suddenly.
Remembering a time that was more warm and full of light. “I always do. Ciao.”

“Bye.”

I stood in the middle of the dark shop for another moment.
Natasha had accused me of being too closed off. She’d gone and found someone
more open. She took no blame for her defection.

I knew she was full of shit.

I was still glad she’d called, that somewhere in that
calculating, gold-
diggeresque
heart of hers, she had
some level of human kindness.

But that didn’t warm me any as I wrapped my scarf tighter
around my neck, put on my hat and gloves and zipped my jacket closed, preparing
to face the cold, feeling like a gladiator stepping into the ring.

***

I headed up toward the corner where Angela and the other
girls I knew had been working previously, at an intersection of old converted
warehouses closer to the Mississippi, but no one was there. The wind whipped
down the empty street, scattering the remains of the prior dusting of snow. Ice
crackled hollowly under my boots. The dark brick sucked up all the light
between the streetlamps. A few cars passed, slowing as they went, but I didn’t
look up.

I knew they were looking for the girls. I didn’t fit the bill.

I turned west, going toward the overpass, where Interstate
94 headed north. I knew Angela sometimes worked there, the cars thundering
overhead. It was out of the snow and sometimes the wind, though the corners
were darker, and frequently she had to chase off the homeless bums who camped
there.

Two girls I didn’t know stood shivering on the corner. They
were both more dressed for the weather than Angela had been, the blonde in a
long, black duster-style jacket that went down to mid-calf, met by her sleek
black boots. The brunette wore some kind of faux fur, just as long, but her
feet must have been freezing in her flimsy gold shoes.

They both were wearing wigs with curls, like Angela’s,
though in different colors. Must be the new thing. Plus that all-night makeup
that hid the worst ravages of their profession.

I approached them slowly, with a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey, girly, how you doing?” the taller one, the blonde
asked.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out a pack of smokes,
offering them to the girls.

The blonde took one, while the short brunette shook her
head.

“You two know Kyle Magnusson? Stripper, over at Richard’s?”
I asked them after a moment.

“Nope,” they both said shortly.

“You don’t really look like the boy type,” the brunette
added flirtatiously.

“He was a friend of mine. Killed tonight,” I told them. It
had gotten easier saying those words, particularly since I’d had all those
phone calls.

Still, it hurt. And the reality was finally settling
in—Kyle was dead.

“Looking for some grievance counseling, girly?” the blonde
asked.

“Now, not really. Looking for Helen, though. Helen of Troy?”
I asked, trying to seem casual.

The blonde looked askance at me. “She’s gone, too. I know
Patrice said she’d caught a ride out of town, but I heard she’d been found in
an alley. Dumped. Some kind of crazy grin on her face.”

That detail sent a shiver through me to match the worst the
winds could do.

“That wasn’t her,” the brunette said. “That was Lizzie.
Across the river.”

“You know a working girl who died over in St. Paul?” I
asked.
Shit
. There could have been a
bunch of deaths over there and the cops would never connect the dots. We were
called the twin cities, but St. Paul was a foreign country as far as the people
who lived in Minneapolis were concerned.

“Girly,
we’s
dying all the time,”
the blonde said. “
Ain’t
nothing to it.”

“It might be worse right now,” I cautioned them. “You need
to be careful.”

The blonde stubbed out her cigarette. “If you’re finished
with your warnings, Mother Theresa, you’re holding up traffic. We got work to
do.”

I looked pointedly up and down the empty street. There
weren’t any cars to be seen. But I knew when I wasn’t wanted. “Ladies,” I said
with a nod of my head as I walked off.

How the hell was I going to find out what had happened to
Helen? I didn’t want to go asking that cop, Ferguson, about it. And I sure as
fuck wasn’t about to text Sam, no matter what she’d said.

Who could I ask about Helen? Who would know whether she’d
just left town or been killed?

I didn’t like the answer when it came to me.

The only other person who’d probably know about Helen was
one of the local drug dealers, this Hungarian guy named
Csaba
—rhymed
with
Jabba
, like
Jabba
the
Hutt.

I really didn’t want to go see him. Not because I owed him money
or something stupid. However, I may have accused him of shoplifting and chased
him out of the store, along with his dealers, once or twice. Guy liked his
kink, his floggers and handcuffs.

I didn’t really have a choice, though. He was my only lead.
I would have to go see him if I wanted to learn more.

Carletta
looked the client in
front of her up and down. Tall, blond, skinny as metal pole, that Nordic kind
that was typical for up here. Obviously a tourist, given the fancy camera slung
around his neck. Though arctic winds were blowing down the nearly empty street,
he wore his black parka open, showing off the red lining and his tight red
shirt. His hair fell into his large blue eyes. He had a large honking nose and
mouth, and horse-like teeth, big and white.

 
“Fuck costs
more,”
Carletta
warned as she took the john’s gloved
hand. It was strong and surprisingly large, though
Carletta
wasn’t a small girl. She caught Angela’s eye and nodded once before focusing
back on the john.

Angela would come and check on her in a while, though this
guy seemed like a lamb.

“I know,” the john said, nodding. The light from the
streetlamp caught his chin funny when he moved his head, the flesh there a bit
whiter, like healed scars. He handed her a clip of folded twenties that
Carletta
passed without looking to Angela.

She wasn’t about to get rolled tonight, and Angela wouldn’t
cheat her.

“
Carletta
will take care of you,”
she promised, leading him down the alley from the street where they’d been
standing. Not like she cared if they did it in the middle of the goddamned
Aquatennial
Parade—but she didn’t need another
indecent exposure charge on her record.

Plus, hopefully back down the alley they’d be out of the
worst of the freezing winds.

The alley looked like the dozens of others
Carletta
had been in around the neighborhood, narrow and
cold, with snow just along the sides of the bins. At least the cold kept down
the smell. Not too many taggers had decorated the walls recently, though the
mismatched paint showed where they’d been.

A large recycling bin on the left just held paper from the
office in the building behind them.
Carletta
led the
john that way, then turned her back to the wall, leaned against it, and pulled
the john to lean against her.

Hell, at least it was warmer with another body there.

“You sure you don’t want to rent a hotel room?” she murmured
as she puffed hot air along his neck. The skin prickled up and he sighed.

Good. He was ready. This wouldn’t take too long.

“Here is good,” he said. He had some kind of accent, German
or something, pronouncing the “d” as a “t”.

“Come here, tiger,”
Carletta
murmured as she pulled him closer.
Damn,
I hope he just blows.
She kissed him, open-mouthed and passionate.

He didn’t taste like anything nasty, like either the
too-sweet drinks the college boys had to boost their courage or the cheap
whisky the tough guys drank. Instead, he tasted of mint and honey, like summer
sunshine and cool, fresh breezes. He reminded her of the incredible blue of
sunny skies, instead of the darkness of the Minnesota winter.

When the guy pulled back,
Carletta
reached automatically for his pants. He’d paid only for a fuck, not by the
hour, so it could all be over in the next two minutes as far as she was
concerned.

The john gave a big laugh, full of life, like her Uncle
Ramos. “Eager, aren’t you?” he said, though he didn’t stop her from undoing his
zipper, reaching in, and pulling out his cock.

It was a bit bigger than the average size, even when soft.
Carletta
was sure to act as though it was the best dick
she’d ever seen. “All that?” she murmured, stroking the john to fullness
quickly, despite the cold. “Just for me?”

The john chuckled, looking down, his shaggy blond hair
covering his eyes, seeming shy. “Yeah,” he said. One hand reached up and
fingered the camera he still wore around his neck.

“No pictures,”
Carletta
told him,
reaching for it with one hand while the other kept working his dick.

The john leaned back while keeping his hips forward,
thrusting into her palm. “I won’t take your picture,” he said. “I promise.”

Carletta
knew he was lying. When
he broke his promise, she’d either charge him extra for it or maybe break his
camera.

Or both.

“Okay, sugar, I believe you,”
Carletta
said, twisting and squeezing his dick, getting a small moan for her efforts.

Fuck. He hadn’t taken something, had he?
Carletta
hated the stupid shits who were on Viagra. They’d get off but still be hard and
would demand something more.

Carletta
started to turn around, bending
over to offer her ass to him. But the john stopped her.

“Want to see you,” he murmured, leaning over her back and
covering her with his warmth for a moment.

“All right, honey, we can make it work,”
Carletta
said, turning to face him again. She was taller than most of her johns, so it
wasn’t that hard to get into the right position. “Got someplace warm for this
to go,” she said, reaching for the guy’s dick.

He just laughed again, letting himself be pulled along.
“Yes,
elskan
,”
he said with a smile.

That sounded like Swedish or something.
Carletta
decided not to take offense. Even if he was calling her something bad, as long
as he got off on it, and paid her for it, it was all good.

Normally,
Carletta
didn’t have any
trouble accommodating any guy. She was a pro. And though this guy hadn’t seemed
that big when she’d been holding him in her hand, his dick had grown fatter. It
filled her more than she was used to. Stretching her out.

It almost felt good.

Carletta
gave an extra
oomph
to her moan. “Oh, honey, yeah,
like that,” she said.

He adjusted his hips and
pushed.
He didn’t use all his strength, she could tell—he was still being gentle
with her.

What an ass.

Carletta
rested much of her weight
against the brick wall behind her and pushed back. She worked every muscle she
knew, drawing his cock deeper inside her, milking and squeezing it, trying to
give him the ride of his life.

The john leaned closer to her, panting on her neck as he
pumped his hips. He didn’t smell like Old Spice or Ax or any of the usual
aftershaves, no, he still smelled like a summer hill, grass baking in the
friendly sun.

Carletta
felt her breath catch.

Goddamn
it. Why
the fuck was he affecting her? It wasn’t right.

A chill—not from the wind—flowed up her chest.
Her nipples hardened. She felt her cunt spasm on its own. For a moment, she
lost the rhythm she’d set up, just moving instinctually instead of to that
four-by-four count running through her head.

No. She needed him to come, then go. He was a john. She
hadn’t had an orgasm with a john—not ever.

Closing her eyes didn’t help. The feeling just grew more
intense. Her clit was dying to be touched, for her to rub herself against him
like some fucking cat in heat.

Carletta
opened her eyes to find
the john looking at her, his blue eyes shining bright. “Eager, aren’t you?” he
repeated as he wrapped his hands around her hips and started bouncing her off
his cock.

“Damn it!”
Carletta
said, pushing
against his chest, trying to get away, but there was nowhere to go—she
was impaled on his cock and the hard wall was at her back.

How was he doing this? Making her
feel
? It just wasn’t right. She didn’t come. Not ever. Not with a
client.

“Ah, but you must,” the john insisted.

Carletta
opened her mouth to
scream. Angela would come. She wasn’t that tall, but she had a knife.

Before
Carletta
could draw a deep
breath, the intense feeling in her cunt shot out and up her belly.

Without meaning to,
Carletta
started to come.

Not just a tiny orgasm, no. A big rocking festival, her
stomach convulsing, tears streaming from her eyes and freezing on her chin, her
mouth ratcheting up into a huge smile.

The john removed his dick, almost politely, wiping her
juices off with one hand. With the other, he started taking
Carletta’s
photograph with that fancy camera of his, which shone with its own dark glow
now.

Click. Click.

With each photo,
Carletta
felt
herself grow weaker, even as her orgasm went on. “No. Stop,” she said, her
voice no stronger than the swirls of snow at her feet.

Click.

Carletta
had heard stories about
how the old-timey Indians had thought that cameras stole their soul.

She’d laughed, of course. A regular camera couldn’t do that.

But this one—this did.

Carletta’s
soul dribbled away,
sucked out of her eyes by the strange device while her orgasm went on and on.
She couldn’t even be thankful about going out with a bang.

She didn’t want to go out at all.

***

Odin strode across the open field, singing his victory song
lustily at the top of his lungs. Yellow daffodil heads bobbed in time,
supported by a field of deep green stems. The blue sky above Odin shone with
the clearness of a new day. White clouds lazed near the horizon, showcasing the
mountains in the distance.

As Odin walked, he swung his mighty spear. Warriors who had
fallen in the battle leapt up, joining him in his victory song. Even the
Valkyrie joined in from the edges of the field, adding powerful harmonies.

The song swelled as another troop of warriors sprang up in
the distance, forming a line, facing Odin and his followers.

Odin’s heart pounded harder in his chest as he watched the
swelling of the two groups. The men and women at his side cheered and bared
their teeth, showing their fierceness. When they came to a stop, they clanged
their swords on their shields, making a fearsome racket.

The other troop did the same, hooting and hollering, calling
insults on the anointed host, questioning their parentage, the sex appeal and
endurance of their mothers, the quality of their swords, the soundness of their
shields, the intelligence of their leaders.

Odin laughed through it all, the insults and the
flyting
, the building up of courage and
nerve, until the two troops couldn’t stand it any longer. They
had
to race across the open field, to
strike with spear and ax, fist and foot. Shields cloven and skulls split. Limbs
hacked and lives taken.

Like the tide, they fell back, only to surge at each other
again.

The Valkyrie carried what fallen they could reach to the
edge of the field, where the fallen came back to life and urged their fellows
on.

Again the clash. Again the killing went on. Until only one
man was left standing, on half a leg with his head caved in.

Odin declared the man
Vigfus
the
victorious, and invited him to drink at Odin’s table that evening.

Then he told all the troops, “Again.”

The fallen came back onto the field or raised themselves up,
like flowers after a spring rain.

There was nothing like the glory of battle, nothing like
leadership of true warriors. Odin found it all magnificent.

Whatever Loki was doing to train his troops, he couldn’t
have raised as successful an army as Odin.

Odin’s troops lived for the battle; their lust never
stopped. They would fight and tear at each other until the long day ended, then
spend the night recounting their great victories, taking apart every detail and
defeat, determined to do better the next day.

Yes, whatever soldiers Loki managed to raise, they couldn’t
possibly match Odin Val-Father’s slain warriors.

***

The front door of the house opened.

Hunter cast back his layers of blankets and flew up from his
mattress on the floor, his body moving automatically even as his mind dragged
itself away from sleep. It took merely a step and a jump to reach the shelf
he’d built high on the adjoining wall, then a quick tug to pull himself up onto
it.

Someone was here. In his house. The most recent one he’d
been squatting in, since he didn’t trust the government enough to stay in any
of their programs. Particularly since they didn’t trust him and had kicked him
out of the Army.

He hadn’t seen anything. He hadn’t had any warning. None of
his senses or interior warning bells had gone off. His pre-cog abilities hadn’t
shown anything happening in his room, not that night.

Were the drugs wearing off already?
Csaba
had sworn the newest batch of
Ghost
Tripper
was stronger. Military grade.

No one should be in Hunter’s house. No one should be coming
to see him. It was early morning, and the long shadows of the Minnesota winter
night still hung thick in the air.

Who was it? Were they here to kill him?

Hunter pressed his back hard against the wall into the long
blue shadows. No one could see him there. He’d checked every angle. He knew all
the dimensions of his room, how many steps it took for him to bound across the
newspaper-strewn floor, to crawl around the edges where he could be silent, to
leap from one wall to the next, flying through the air like the ghosts had
taught him.

He wasn’t safe here, up on this shelf, or even in this
abandoned house, but it was saf
er
here, somewhere to breathe between battles. The building was condemned,
however; it wouldn’t be torn down until spring.

Hunter hadn’t seen that—it was just common sense. No
one did construction in Minnesota during the winter.

The door creaked open exactly when Hunter thought it would,
after the right amount of time for a normal person to walk through the
trash-strewn hallways downstairs, to negotiate the broken steps, to slide past
the icy patches.