Leaning as close as the hat would allow, Stetson spoke into Forex’s ear. She ran a long red nail up his forearm. Both laughed.
We crossed the room, senses alert to danger.
The bartender watched, eyes bouncing from us to the door, to the waitress, to the tables, to his charges at the bar. A few other eyes rolled our way. Most didn’t.
“Hello, Susan.”
Forex swiveled at the sound of her name. When she saw Ollie, her smile collapsed.
“Friends of yours?” Stetson peered around Forex toward us, a drunken grin splitting his doughy face.
“Beat it.” Forex flicked a dismissive wrist at her would-be john.
“Darlin’, you and me are gonna—”
Forex rounded on him. “Get the hell out of here.”
Stetson’s face crumpled in confusion, tensed when he grasped that she was blowing him off. “Pay for your own drink, bitch.”
With that witty retort, Stetson shoved from the bar stool. Standing straight, including the hat, he was maybe my height.
Ollie waited until Stetson was out of earshot. Which wasn’t long. Stompin’ Tom Connors was now singing about a Sudbury Saturday night.
“We’re not here to hassle you, Foxy.”
Forex rolled her eyes and crossed her legs. Which were spectacular.
The bartender closed some distance but kept his gaze on everything but us.
Ollie got right to it. “You filed a missing persons report on Annaliese Ruben.”
Forex went totally still. Bracing for bad news? Preparing a lie to protect her friend?
“You OK, Foxy?” The bartender spoke just loud enough to be heard above the music.
“I’m good, Toffer.”
“You sure?”
“She’s sure.” Ollie badged him.
Toffer backed off and became very busy wiping the bar.
Up close I could see that Forex’s hair was dark down close to her scalp. Though yellowed, her teeth were even and perfectly straight, suggesting a childhood affluent enough to include braces. Her skin was smooth, her makeup skillfully applied. In that light, she could have been thirty or fifty.
“We think Ruben was living in Quebec the past three years,” Ollie continued. “Word is she’s back in Edmonton.”
“Good. The little punk stiffed me on her share of the last month’s rent.”
As Ollie questioned Forex, I checked out two men sitting a few stools over. Their body language told me both were listening. One guy was large, with wild black hair and dark little eyes that looked like raisins. The other was smaller, with leather wristbands on arms inked with jailhouse tattoos.
“Come on, Foxy. You know where she is.” Ollie seemed unaware of the interest our conversation was drawing. “She dimed you, right? Asked for a place to crash?”
“I love a good spring rain, don’t you, Sergeant?”
“Or did she call Scar?”
“Who?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
Forex picked up her drink and swirled the ice. I noticed that her fingers were well manicured and free of nicotine stains.
“Help me here, Foxy.”
“Ruben was too young to be living on the streets. I took her in. Doesn’t mean I bought the rights to her life story.”
That didn’t tally with the statement of the ER doctor in Saint-Hyacinthe.
“I thought she was older,” I said.
Forex’s eyes crawled to me. For a moment she said nothing. Then, “Nice jacket.”
“Ruben self-reported her age as twenty-seven,” I pressed.
“The kid was barely old enough to shave her legs. Should have been in school. But I get why that wasn’t her thing.”
“Why’s that?”
Forex snorted. “You’ve seen her?”
“A picture.”
“So we both know she won’t be America’s next top model.” The naked shoulder rose, dropped. “Kids can be vicious.”
In the corner of my eye, I saw Raisin Eyes elbow his buddy. His face looked icy green in the glow of a neon frog shouting, Let’s party!
“Where was Ruben living before she moved in with you?” Ollie still seemed unaware of the pair down the bar. Not so for Ryan. Ever so subtly, he tipped his head left. I nodded.
“What am I, her Facebook pal?” Forex said.
“Why would Ruben lie about her age?” I asked.
“Gee.” Forex widened her eyes at me. “Why would a kid on the run do that?”
Good point. Stupid question.
“On the run from what?” Ollie jumped on Forex’s phrase.
“Hell if I know.” Forex’s tone said she’d be making no further slips.
“We’d like to get to Ruben first,” Ollie said. “Stop her from reaching out to Scar.”
“Are you listening to me? The kid was only at my place a few months. I hardly knew her.”
“You cared enough to report her missing.”
“I didn’t want trouble.”
“I know your pattern, Foxy. Ruben isn’t the only kid you’ve taken in.”
“Yeah. I’m Mother frickin’ Teresa.”
“Monique Santofer.” Ollie’s voice sounded gentler. “How old was she?”
Another shrug.
“What happened with Santofer?”
“I found her wired to the eyes and threw her ass out.”
“That your policy? No drugs?”
“My pad. My rules.”
“Let’s try again. Where’d Ruben live before she moved in with you?”
“Buckingham Palace.”
“She leave anything behind?”
“A pile of junk.”
“You still got it?”
Forex nodded.
“Might be we’ll need to take a turn through your place.” Ollie’s tone was again cop-hard. “I know you won’t mind.”
“Damn right I’ll mind.”
Ollie smiled. “Life’s a cesspool of disappointment.”
“You got a warrant?”
“You know I can get one.”
“You do that.”
“Take that to the bank.”
Forex’s eyes narrowed. “There’s more to this than you’re letting on.”
“Sounds like you’ve got some trust issues.”
“Said the cat to the mouse.”
“Squeak, squeak.” Ollie winked.
I felt my face make the same grimace as Forex’s.
Ollie pulled a card from his wallet. “Call if you hear from Ruben.”
Forex drained her glass and smacked it down on the bar. “Shit.”
“You’re a star, Foxy.”
“What I am is too old for this crap.”
With that, Forex grabbed her purse and walked out in her treacherous high heels.
Turning one shoulder, I whispered to Ollie, “Did you bring Ruben’s mug shot?”
Face neutral, he pulled the printout from a pocket and handed it to me. As Ryan and Ollie watched, I moved down the bar to Raisin Eyes and his buddy.
“I couldn’t help noticing your interest in our conversation.” I held up the mug shot. “Either of you know this girl?”
Both faces stayed pointed at their beers.
“See that gentleman over there? He’s a cop. An overachiever. Gets off on busting people. You know, just in case they might have done something wrong. Believes in preventive policing.”
Raisin Eyes swiveled on his stool, sending a tidal wave of body odor rolling my way. I waggled the printout. He made a show of studying the image.
“Word on the street is she might have worked out of here,” I said.
“Doing what, selling Popsicles? Chick looks like a fucking ice-cream truck.” Raisin Eyes laughed at his own joke. “What do you think, Harp?”
Harp sniggered. “Eskimo Pie all the way.”
“Do either of you recognize her?”
“I don’t recognize Popsicles. I suck ’em.” Oily grin. “How about you? You got a stick up your cheeks so
’s I can get a good hold?”
Raisin Eyes never knew what hit him. Shooting past me, Ryan arm-wrapped the guy’s throat and hyper-rotated his elbow up and back in one lightning move. The more Raisin Eyes twisted, the more Ryan tightened the armlock.
Harp bolted for the door. Toffer started in our direction.
“Let’s not make any bad decisions here,” Ollie warned.
Toffer held position, fingers curled into fists at his sides. A few patrons headed for the exit. Others watched, pretending not to. Ollie joined us but did not intervene.
“You’re breaking my arm.” Raisin Eyes’s face was the color of claret.
“Apologize to the lady.”
“She’s the one—”
Ryan increased the pressure.
“Sonofabitch. Whatever.”
“I’m running out of patience.” Ryan’s tone was dangerous.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.”
Ryan released his hold. Raisin Eyes flopped forward, left hand rubbing circles on his right shoulder.
“Name?” Ryan demanded.
“Who the fuck’s ask—”
“I am.” Forged steel.
“Shelby Hoch.”
“That’s a good start, Shelby.”
Ryan gestured for me to hold up the printout. I did. Ollie continued to watch in silence.
“Let’s start over,” Ryan said. “You know this lady?”
“I seen her around.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Where?”
Hoch hooked a thumb at the red-bustier waitress.
“Leaving a motel with shit-for-brains.”
WE TURNED AS ONE.
The waitress was staring at us from among the tables, face white, lips geranium-red. Like many large animals, she could move fast when frightened. Slamming down her tray, she bolted for a door to the right of the bar.
Ollie, Ryan, and I shot after her.
The door opened onto an alley. When I came through it, the woman was doubled over and gasping from her short sprint, and bad cop/good cop roles had already been chosen. Ollie held one plump arm. Ryan had a reassuring palm on her back.
Rain was falling in earnest now, drumming the Dumpsters and the cases of empty beer bottles stacked beside them. A soggy plastic bag was moving with the wind against the back of the building, puffing up then flattening against the wet brick.
We waited for the woman to catch her breath. In the salmon glow of a streetlight, her flesh looked pale and soft with fast-food fat. Black underwear bunched out from the waistband of her overstuffed jeans.
Finally, the woman straightened. Still breathing hard, she dug Marlboros from a back pocket, shook the pack, and pulled a cigarette free with her lips.
Ryan withdrew his hand. “You all right?”
Slipping matches from the cellophane, the woman cupped her fingers, lit up, and drew smoke into her lungs, all the while keeping her eyes down.
“Why the rabbit act, sunshine?” Bad-cop Ollie. “You got something to hide? Something we should know about?”
The woman exhaled, creating a silvery cone beneath each nostril.
“I’m talking to you.”
The cigarette tip flared again, bathing the clown face in a soft orange glow.
“You got a hearing disorder?”
The woman exhaled as before, then, eyes still averted, tossed the match.
“That’s it.” Ollie yanked cuffs from his belt.
Good cop raised a “hold it” palm toward bad cop.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Phoenix.” Barely audible.
“May I ask your first name?”
“Phoenix Miller. Everyone just knows me by Phoenix.”
“One of my favorite towns.”
“Yeah. I heard Arizona’s pretty.”
“I’m Detective Ryan. My gruff friend here is Sergeant Hasty.”
Phoenix flicked her Marlboro with a ragged thumbnail. The ash dropped and dissolved in the oil-iridescent puddle at our feet.
“We’d like to ask you a couple of questions, Phoenix.”
“About what?”
“A gentleman at the bar says he saw Annaliese Ruben with you last night.”
“Shelby Hoch ain’t no gentleman. He’s a foulmouthed slug.”
“Thanks for the insightful character analysis.” Ollie, Prince of Sarcasm. “Annaliese Ruben?”
“Why do you want her?”
“I’m her dentist, and I’m worried she’s not flossing her teeth.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Hoch says he saw the two of you at a motel. What hot-sheet palace would that be, sweetheart?”
Phoenix studied the Marlboro as if it might provide guidance. It trembled in her fingers.
“Your girlfriend still there?”
“How would I know?”
“Birds of a feather.”
“I’m out of the life.”
“Right.” Ollie snorted. “You quit rolling down your panties for twenty bucks and some flake.”
The lipsticked mouth opened, but nothing came out. In the surreal light, it looked like a round dark hole.
“We’re not interested in your personal life,” Ryan said. “We want to find Ruben.”
“She in trouble?” For the first time, Phoenix allowed her eyes to make contact with those of another.
“We want to help her.” Ryan held her gaze as he sidestepped the question.
“She’s just a dumb kid.”
“Selling poontang out of Motel Sleaze.” Ollie.
“I’m telling you. It’s not like that.”
“What’s it like?”
“I clean. They comp me a room.” As she spoke, Phoenix kept looking to Ryan for reassurance.
“You live at the motel?”
She nodded.
“Which one?”
“The Paradise Resort.”
“Hundred and Eleventh Street?” Ollie asked.
“You won’t mess me up, will you? I need that room.” Phoenix’s eyes bounced from Ryan to Ollie and back. “It’s a good gig.”
“Is Ruben still there?” Ryan asked.
“Better not be. I told her she could only stay one night.”
“Because of the dog?” The question was out before I knew it was forming. Was I obsessed?
The mascara-laden eyes shifted to me. “Mr. Kalasnik don’t allow no pets. He’s the owner. Who are you?”
“How did Ruben find you?” Ryan asked.
“Everyone’s hip that I work at the Cowboy.”
“Why you?”
“The kid don’t have a whole lot of options.”
“Is there anyone else Annaliese might contact?” Ryan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Does she have family in Edmonton?”
“I’m pretty sure she’s not from here.”
“From where?” Ollie.
“I don’t know.”
“When did she first come to Edmonton?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m hearing that a lot.”
“We didn’t talk about her past.”
“But you were going to turn her life around.”
“I never said that.”
“You and Foxy make quite a tag team.” Bad cop was doing his best to provoke, hoping for an outburst that might be revealing. “Saint Susan and Saint Phoenix.”
“God knows I ain’t no saint. But I’ve been around a long time. Seen it again and again.” Phoenix wagged her head slowly. “I’ve had a belly full of little girls should be worrying about algebra and zits; instead, they’re off the bus and straight into the life.”
I knew exactly what she meant. Every day teens from Spartanburg, St-Jovite, or Sacramento head to Charlotte, Montreal, or L.A. to be models or rock stars or to escape abuse or boredom or poverty back home. Every day pimps cruise the bus and train stations, watching for backpacks and hopeful faces. Like the predators they are, these animals swoop in
, offering a photo shoot, a party, a meal at Taco Bell.
Most of these kids end up junkies and whores, their Hollywood dreams becoming hellish realities of dealers and daily fixes and paddy wagons and pimps. The unluckiest arrive toes-up at the morgue.
Every time I see one of these children, I go numb with anger. But I have come to understand. Though I despise the human destruction, the carnage, I am powerless to stop it. Nevertheless, I care. I feel grief and always will.
I refocused on Phoenix.
“—three years go by. I figure Annaliese either got herself killed by one of these women-hating sickos, or else she got out.” Phoenix picked tobacco from her tongue and flicked it. “Two days ago she shows up looking like a train wreck, asking for a place to crash. Leaving her on the street was like throwing raw meat to wolves. If taking her in’s a crime, arrest me.”
“Is she still at the Paradise Resort?”
Phoenix shrugged.
“Annaliese needs more help than you can provide.” Ryan brought sincere to a whole new level.
“My shift don’t end until two. I gotta have those tips.”
Ryan looked at Ollie, who dipped his chin.
“We only need permission to enter your room,” Ryan said.
“You won’t take nothing?”
“Of course not.”
“Mr. Kalasnik don’t like no kind of fuss.”
“He’ll never know we were there.”
A car horn sounded. Another honked back. Down the alley, the plastic bag broke free and spiraled upward with a soft snap.
Phoenix made her decision. Unhooking a chain from her belt loop, she detached one key and held it out to Ryan.
“Number fourteen. All the way down on the end. Leave it in the room. I got another.”
“Thank you.” Ryan’s smile was damn near priestly.
“Don’t hurt her.”
The Marlboro hit the wet pavement in a shower of sparks. Phoenix crushed it with the heel of one boot.
* * *
For several years Edmonton enjoyed the dubious distinction of having the highest homicide rate of any major Canadian city. In 2010 she slid to number three. Winding through the dim post-midnight streets, I wondered if E-town’s ratings slump had caused her citizenry to question the burg’s official nickname: City of Champions.
En route to the Paradise Resort, we discussed Susan Forex. Or tried to. Mostly the men sniped at each other.
“She’s holding back,” Ryan said.
“Gee. Why would that be?”
“Probably writing her memoirs. Thinks a spoiler might lower the value of the property.”