Colors Ch. 03byJoe Wordsworth©
Colors (1981) - Pt. 3 - Jo(h)n
Took to the street last night. Covered up and made my way out along the places in between. Didn't feel like being seen. Not a fear night. Pure work. Night was scary enough without me helping it along. Felt like it was gonna rain, never did. Storm working up the courage to storm. Happens now and again.
Saw the whore, again. Whore didn't see me.
Told her last week, not here. Probably stopped for a few days. Look in her eye, she was scared. Money is money, though. Fear doesn't pay the pimp. Fear doesn't buy the drugs. Bruise on her chin--four or five days old. Tried to cover up the yellowing with make-up. Didn't work. Probably told pimp she wasn't going back out, after our talk. Pimp probably showed her why that was a bad idea. Looks pretty nervous--keeps looking at the dark places. Must've taken a lot to work the nerve up to come back out, tonight. Whore working up the courage to whore.
Don't see how they do it. Not like in the comics. Can't see the whole world from on top of a building. Can only see the street. Can only see where the sidewalk turns into a curb that turns behind the next building. Can't hear anything from up here, either. Acoustics on brick and asphalt aren't as good as once hoped. Got in the habit of reading people. Body language. Lips. Like watching a television news broadcast without sound. Not easy.
Whore looked nervous. Shifted her tacky pink bag from resting in front of her to pushed behind her. Chewing on plastic nail. Can tell from the way the nail has stretched edges. Tapped her foot eighty-three times in that last sixty seconds. Was either waiting for someone or scared of the boogeyman. And either scared of me-the-boogeyman or them-the-boogeyman. Don't know which is worse. She doesn't either. For the best, really.
Whore looked pretty, in a desperate way. Probably new to this. Explains reaction to me. Seasoned veterans usually run. She stood. Trembled. Figured I'd kill her, too. Doesn't work that way. Can't tell them that, though. That'd be the easy way. Everyone too fond of the easy way. Take Whore for example... Cops go easy on her, 'cause she's easy and easy on the eyes. Easier to get a blowjob and take it easy than sentence her to hard time. Figure she's a hard luck case, had a hard life--give her a warning, ease her into counseling.
Cops don't know. Whore killed Jon last week. Shoulda seen it coming, really. John Doe was a John of Whore; real name was Jon; ran heroine up and down the Stacks, whores were best customers. Gave her seven days. Same time it took God to build the world--if you count the vacation. Seven days. Clean up. End up like Jon the John. Her choice.
Would have just dropped her from the Boralis Apartment Building two blocks down. Let gravity do its thing. But Jon the John was a minor drug lord. Wanted to find out why she killed him before making rash decision. Hoped she did it because he was an evil man. Because he sold good tasting poison to illegitimate kids and the mothers with illegitimate kids. Hoped it was in self-defense.
Cornered her in the alley between Vines and the new laundry mat. Told her what I'd do to her kids if she lied. Kids were a guess. Stain on dress over right shoulder blade was either semen or vomit. Guessed right. She cried. Told me not to harm baby. Told me what I wanted to know.
Jon the John was having moral issues. Jon the John was married. Had two kids, Stacey (six, blonde, Parkings Elementary) and Trey (three, blonde, daycare at the corner of 18th St. and Wexle Ave.). Wasn't pushing anymore. Came to tell her that. Was selling off last of store. Killed him for the contents of the trunk of his car. Condom full of high class heroine. Sixteen thousand in cash. Cash in mattress at home. Heroine in baby.
Pimp doesn't know.
Dropped Whore from all seven stories of the Boralis. Head first. Had a pretty face, went easy on her. Found baby too late. Foaming at mouth. Heroine in intestinal tract. Bleeding. No chance of real survival. Kid's tongue swollen, couldn't scream. Snapped its neck. Least I could do. Left message on baby.
"Yours are next."
He'll pack and run. Tell local scum. "He kills your kids" he'll say. "Killed the Whore's kids", he'll say. Police forensics'll show the poison in baby. Fingerprints on paraphernalia, condom, show Whore did it. Only bullshit legal work done on me, as usual. I don't exist. Scum won't buy it, though. Scum'll start driving the kids to school. Send them to good family out of town. Scum will leave town with them if Scum knows well enough.
Promised self it wasn't a fear night. Habits die hard. Tomorrow, it'll be pure work. Promise.