Chapter 13: No One Grows Up Saying

"Well, Mr. Torch, I'm going to be blunt. What I'm going to tell you won't be easy to hear. You need to understand that the only reason we're talking right now is because I feel an obligation, as a father myself, to inform you of certain... events that transpired this past Saturday."

George gripped the small coffee cup in his hand so tightly he almost cracked it. He gritted his teeth and prepared for the worst.

"There's no easy way to say this," the man sitting across from him said, "but I have reason to believe your daughter, Amy, was involved in an act of prostitution with a man I'm currently investigating."

A long, pregnant silence ensued. George felt his grip against his cup of coffee relax, tighten, then relax again. This wasn't the worst news he'd expected. When the strange man had arrived at his worksite asking to talk with him in private, George had been annoyed. But when this rough-jawed and east-coast accented asshole had described himself as private detective and that his investigation now involved Amy? Well, George had grown nervous. Incredibly nervous. Why would a detective want to talk to him, even a private-dick, about his little girl? Could it have something to do with what he'd done to her? Was he busted?

He'd said his name was English. Richard English, a licensed private investigator from New York.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" George finally simmered.

The two were sitting in a booth at a diner not far from where George was currently working demolition. The stranger had a briefcase at his side and was presently rummaging through it. Finally he dropped a thick manila folder onto the table.

"His name is Raymond A. Katterman. He's an investment broker with a large holdings firm based in Manhattan," the P.I. began. "Three months ago his wife, Mrs. Jean Katterman, retained my services. She had begun to believe her husband, of some 13-years I should say, was engaged in an affair with a third party, a college-intern whom I'll not mention here. Mrs. Katterman wanted proof of this affair before moving forward with a suit to file for divorce."

George stared at him. This "P.I." had a hum-drum look of boredom mixed with resolve in his eyes. The two rarely ever meet, but it did in his grizzled countenance. George had seen such an expression before, maybe once or twice. Maybe once in the expression of his DL just before he shipped out to 'Nam. Maybe it was a look reserved for those who knew too much but could say only little.

"What does that have to do with Amy?" George asked with every muscle in his body tensed.

English met George's stare before opening the manila folder.

Photographs were exposed within, photos George immediately glanced down at. Only after the top one was pushed over to him did he actually focus on the image it contained, though. It was an 8x10 full-colored photograph of his daughter walking out of some store in the mall with a man almost his own age. His little girl was unmistakable. It was definitely her. And she was accepting a large shopping bag from the man George assumed had to be Katterman.

"What store is this?" George asked as he stared down at the photograph.

"Hot Stuff, at the Cleveland Mall," English stated. "I took the pictures myself on Saturday."

George stared at each picture as they were pushed in front of him. His little girl, walking with this strange man. Next a picture of her going down an escalator with him; she looked like she was giggling at some joke. The next images were of her and him walking out to a car in the parking lot.

"After leaving the mall," English stated, "your daughter went with Mr. Katterman to the nearby Hilton. I followed them in, as the next pictures show."

George watched in stunned silence as more photos of his daughter showed her arrive with this strange man at the Hilton, exit the car with him, and then enter the hotel lobby.

"They came out about two hours later," the P.I. finally continued. "I staked out the lobby at first and saw them take an elevator to the top floor. After that I waited in the parking lot until they finally reappeared, then followed them back to the mall. Mr. Katterman dropped your daughter off there, at the northeast entrance, at approximately 4:10pm."

"What else?" George asked quietly.

"Nothing," English shrugged while lighting up another cigarette. "I only followed Katterman. He went to some gentleman's club downtown, someplace called 'Barely Luck'. He had a few drinks I'd wager, but he returned to his Hilton room later that evening without incident."

George tried to absorb everything. The picture English was painting suggested a dirty, obvious explanation for what his daughter had been doing with this 'Katterman' asshole.

"Did he fuck her?" George asked the P.I. pointedly.

"I don't know the answer to that, Mr. Torch," English responded coolly. "I hope not. But the truth is I have no clue what went on in that room those two hours. All I know is that Ray Katterman is a lying, adulterous scumbag. I knew that the second I started investigating him, and now I'm beginning to suspect that he's created some kind of alter ego for himself to act out some sick fantasies. Your daughter might have been the victim of one of his fantasies.

"Look," English went on, "like I said earlier, I know none of this is easy to hear. But I'm telling you. Your daughter went into that store on Saturday a normal girl, but she came out willing to prostitute her body for a stranger. That's Katterman. He's really, extremely good at manipulating people, George. It's his trade. And while I don't know what he did to her in that room I do know that he purchased $260 worth of clothing for her. His credit card receipts prove that. What he got in return for that, well... he's an excellent negotiator, his co-workers tell me."

George nodded calmly. "You're saying my daughter is a whore."

"I'm saying," the private-dick emphasized, "that she might have been exploited by a sick, demented asshole."

George stared down at the photos again. "So what do you do now?"

"Me? I'm going back to the city," English stated as he sipped his coffee.

"Amy has been through a lot. Her mother died during her birth, and her step-mom just left us," George said matter-of-factly.

The P.I. nodded. "Like I said, I only let you know because I'm a father, too. Normally I would just contact the authorities but, let's be honest, they're not going to do a whole lot unless he did in fact have sex with her, in which case she'd spend the next year of her life dealing with the courts."

"Thanks," George replied, doing his best to remain calm. "I'm going to talk to her today, right after her classes. I'm going to ask her about Saturday, about what went on in that room with Katterman, find out the truth."

"May I suggest," Detective English asked, "you consider getting her counseling, too?"

George glared at him. Finally he replied, "Yeah. Sure. Counseling, and maybe cut her allowance. Tighten the leash."

"That's a good idea," English agreed.

The two sipped their coffees. One of them was relaxed and satisfied. The other was tense, blind with rage, and waiting for his companion to depart.

"Well," English finally said, "I best be off. Here's my card. If you need me, don't hesitate to call."

"Need you?" George snapped.

The man looked surprised for the first time. "If you decide to press charges against Katterman, I mean."

"Oh," George replied. "Sure, yeah."

Motherfucker, he thought angrily a few moments later, after English had departed. Throwing down his cash he stood quickly from his seat.

"Mother... fuck!" he hissed a bit too loudly.

With that he stormed out of the diner and marched back toward the job site. On the way there he crossed a busy street with no regard for his safety: his mind was fixated on one thing. His little girl, a prostitute. A genuine fucking whore. Fucking for clothes!?! Is that why she loved going to the mall so much?!? Had she paid for her whole wardrobe with her cunt?!

When he got back to the fenced off work yard he tore off his hardhat and stormed toward his truck. He didn't even notice when his fat little supervisor saw him and began waddling in his direction.

"TORCH!" the piece of shit yelled. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YA DOING?!? BREAK TIME'S OVER!"

George ignored the round piece of shit and climbed up into his truck. After gunning the engine he saw his supervisor at his truck's window, knocking angrily at it and trying to yell over the blare of loud Country music that had started with George's vehicle.

George rolled down the window with a look of pure Devil in his eyes. "I'm taking off early!" he growled at his boss.

"Like shit you are! I got you clocked in till four, Torch, and I ain't authorizing no—,"

In a rage, George didn't think. All he did was act. His left hand suddenly flew out the window and pushed his short supervisor in the face until the tub of lard fell back violently onto the gravely ground.

With that George peeled away. He didn't even consider what the repercussions of what he'd just done might be. All he could think about was his little girl, his slut of a brat, fucking strange men for clothing. What else had she fucked for? Money? Drugs? Was she a full-blown prostitute, had her sluttiness become a lifestyle? Or was it some kinda part-time thing right now?

It was time to find out.

George practically dragged Amy out of her school until he threw the startled and confused girl into his truck.

"Did something happen?" she kept asking. She'd been asking that since he'd arrived at the school's office, where George had signed her out for the day citing a family emergency.