Chapter 16: Lady Savior

Marta planned to take the week off from exotic dancing, but Wednesday felt like such a relief, she decided to quit. She worked steadily five nights a week for years, even working six or seven nights in a row several times. She made money easily, her best friend worked with her and she had nothing else going. Joe changed the latter overwhelmingly.

"I can't even imagine me without you, though it's been less than two weeks," realized Marta after hanging up the call quitting Choice.

"Same here," smiled Joe, stirring the spaghetti sauce, wearing an apron, being domestic. He gazed at Marta and her happiness, rocking on the bed with her hands clutching her calves still wearing the work out clothes she wore attending boxing class. She looked gloriously childlike.

"We need some Chianti and some booze for the house," Marta decided. "What should I get?"

"I like bourbon in the winter," suggested Joe.

"Bourbon and coke's alright," shrugged Marta.

"You can get what you prefer."

"I know, silly, but it's like what they say: don't mix the grape with the grain. Do you like cognac?"

"Definitely."

"What brand?"

"I'm not much of a connoisseur."

"Ever tried Armagnac?"

"No."

"Alright, some fancy brandy and I'll get some Amaretto for myself. I know: too sweet."

"I like Kahlua."

"Cool. I'll be back in a few minutes. Do you recommend a liquor store?"

"There's a nice one about five blocks East, but the neighborhood between isn't the best."

"I'll be alright."

"You better be."

She jumped off the bed and gave him a kiss on the cheek, grabbed her purse and coat and headed out.

Marta saw what Joe meant. Hookers danced against the cold wind in short jackets and not much else. Pimps attended to them out the corner of their eyes while jousting in manly battles tongue in cheek with street vendors; speed, cocaine and loose joints their wares.

Mostly African American women bred tough, the shivering Caucasian on one corner caught her eye. The girl couldn't have been more than sixteen. Mary flashed through her mind. Marta sighed and moved on. But the skinny redhead with big green eyes seeming to pop a bit from her emaciated round face, lack of food or an appetite for speed perhaps, which defeated baby fat haunted Marta. At the liquor store she called Mary.

"Can you drive out here?"

"You know I can't drive."

"Is Marianne there?"

"Of course. We just finished our last date."

"I need you here as soon as possible."

"What's going on?"

"I'll explain when you get here."

"Alright."

The hotel where Mary and Marianne tricked wasn't far. Marta dawdled at the quaint but surprisingly well stocked store until Mary danced in. The three male customers and the male behind the counter noticed Marta enter and studied her discretely. Mary had them staring. Mary kissed Marta's cheek. Five bottles of alcohol tugged their weight in the basket Marta carried.

"What? You needed a ride home?" asked Mary. "After you buy out the store?"

"I know it's crazy, but I just saw you out there."

"What are you talking about?" asked Mary, following her best friend to the counter.

"There's a bunch of prostitutes along the way and..."

The gangly young man ringing up the booze seemed too interested.

"Let me finish up here."

"Right," said Mary smiling teasingly at the counterman.

After dropping the box of booze in the trunk, ("Maybe I did need you for transportation," giggled Marta) planting a kiss on Marianne's lips and sliding behind her into the small backseat, she directed her new friend and replacement a couple blocks to the waif.

"She doesn't look anything like me!" complained Mary kiddingly.

"Which one's her pimp?"

"The stud on the left," mocked Mary gesturing towards a stoop with three African Americans jawing.

"He looks like a peacock version of Nate, a skinny, leathery, scarred, meaner version," commented Marianne.

"Stay in the car," Marta commanded Marianne. The ladies got out and approached the pimp.

"How much for Red?" asked Mary acting tough.

"Looking fine ladies. Maybe we could negotiate a trade."

"Give me a break," scoffed Mary.

"I was asking nice, and you get all feisty on me."

The other two men stood and surrounded the women.

"How much?" asked Mary again.

"You're supposed to talk to her."

"I'm talking to you, asshole."

"Enough negotiating," said the skinny foppish pimp reaching into his fake ermine pocket. Three swift knees to the groins, pokes into necks by fists and hands pressing knives against two of the necks and the three men lost their weapons: a knife and two guns.

"You could have been a couple hundred richer, but you had to be an asshole," grumbled Mary, her heart fluttering from adrenaline. She checked the load of one of the pistols and saw it had bullets. She cocked it, putting away the knife.

"Get in!" shouted Marta pulling the shivering and confused and resistant waif to the car. "Get the fuck in!"

Finally obeying, the youngster climbed into the backseat, staring behind her at her former pimp.

"No love lost there," grumbled Marianne, shaking her head. "Relax girl. No one's going to hurt you anymore."

Marta joined the girl in the backseat. Mary walked backwards to the car and darted inside.

"Take a right," ordered Marta as soon as the car accelerated.

"I guess you won't be strolling alone through here again," Mary commented.

"Probably not," Marta agreed. The two friends laughed uproariously, letting stress explode out of them.

"The girl's going to think you two are insane," commented Marianne, shaking her head. "She's already scared out of her wits. By the way, where are we going?"

"Sorry. Take the next right."

"Aren't we headed the wrong way?" asked Mary.

"I don't want those assholes to have any inkling where I live."

The car took a wide spiral to Joe's apartment.

"You sure you won't come up for spaghetti? You know Joe's a good cook."

"Thanks Marta, but we have to get going. We'll only have time for a burger on the way. And thanks for saving me."

"What do you mean?"

"She's me, right? I could have used some saving back then."

"You turned out alright," Marta shrugged.

"Maybe."

With a strong grip on the waif outside the car, Marta leaned into the open door and gave Mary a soul kiss. Tongues teased briefly.

"Mmm," sighed Mary.

"Come over after," suggested Marta.

"There won't be room."

"There's always room for you and Sweetness."

"Maybe. Don't expect us. Actually probably not. I need to take care of Roger. He called today and sounded freaked out on the message. He could use some love."

"We're just a bunch of Good Samaritan whores," proclaimed Marta, producing giggles and head shakes from all but the waif. "See you."

"We'll come by Friday morning."

"Good. Come on you idiot. Joe's making spaghetti!" Marta tugged the girl inside once she'd unlocked the door and pushed her up two flights of stairs. When they arrived in front of the apartment, Marta heard a loud knock on the outside door and realized she'd forgotten her alcohol. "Wait here!" she grumbled and hurried down the stairs. Mary carried the box, following behind Marta.

"I can't believe I forgot that!" Marta commented.

"I can," said Mary.

"Smells wonderful," chirped Marta once the door opened.

"Thanks. Hi Mary. Give me a kiss? Uh, who's this?"

Mary dropped the box on the kitchen table and planted a kiss full force on Joe's lips. "Gotta go," she said tapping his genitals gently and winking.

"Love you," said Joe.

"You too you big lug."

Once Mary left, Joe reiterated his question. "Who's this?"

"I don't know. I forgot to ask."

"Margie," the waif answered quietly, still wide eyed and confused and suddenly very hungry.

"Sit Margie. Welcome to Chez Jose. I'm the proprietor of this humble establishment. You may address me as Joe. The proprietress I presume you've met. I'll toss in the pasta and we'll be eating in about ten minutes."

"I'll put together a quick salad," Marta said, kissing Joe on the lips, lingering a moment before opening the fridge. "Sorry I took so long."

"Tell you the truth, I was worried."

"Yeah, bad neighborhood. I can take care of myself,"

"Fuck yeah!" chuckled Margie. "You should have seen them Joe, her and Mary. Fuck man, Slick never saw that coming! Him and his friends down for the count, their guns in the ladies pockets, holding their groins and moaning. Shit it went so fast I barely saw it happen! Problem is, now that you alienated my main squeeze, what the fuck happens to me? I mean Slick took me in when I was abandoned, gave me shelter and got me stoned and gave me a taste of good loving. 'When you try black, you never go back, ' he told me and made me a believer. Okay, so he backhanded me a couple times when I deserved it and the other girls gave me shit, but ... Are you going to be my pimp because I can see you got three fine honeys and at least two look at you with rapt love and well I don't see myself measuring up except Slick taught me good head so if you want I could demonstrate and you won't feel like Marta here might have overstepped."

Joe and Marta froze wide eyed throughout the relentless monologue. The girl spoke with a familiar suburban Upper Midwestern twang, familiar at least to Joe who had friends with similar accents. Despite the slang and expletives, she sounded like a bright high school student.

"What?" wondered Margie noticing the gaping stares.

"Joe's not a pimp, Margie."

"Oh. Then maybe I should get back to Slick. A girl's got to make a living."

"For Slick? Give me a fucking break!" grumbled Marta.

"He takes care of me."

"I'm sure. The lap of luxury with all the comforts of home."

"Fuck home, and this place ain't all that high fallutin."

"Maybe not, but I never felt more comfortable," said Marta.

"Where are you from?" asked Joe.

"Golden Valley. It's a suburb..."

"I'm from St Cloud," interrupted Joe.

"No shit?"

"So what brought you here?"

"She did."

"Just tell us, Margie," sighed Marta.

"Could I eat first?"

"Good idea," said Joe.

"Open the Chianti, lover," suggested Marta, placing a lettuce salad and a couple of dressings in front of Margie. The timer chimed. "I'll take care of the pasta."

"Put a dollop of olive oil over them after they drain."

"Yes chef," said Marta with a quick kiss. Joe retrieved table settings and three wine glasses, extracted the cork and poured out the dark red wine. He dropped the garlic bread on the table. Margie, halfway finished with her salad ripped off a couple slices and nearly ate one whole.

"Slick took care of you, hunh?" commented Marta. Margie gave her the evil eye, shrugged, and stuffed her face.

After polishing off the spaghetti, Margie excused herself politely and occupied the bathroom for nearly an hour. Joe shouted her name to make sure she still lived and Margie responded, "I'm fine." Evacuation noises, as if she hadn't had a decent shit in days told of her existence. Later she showered long enough to use up the hot water.

"I guess I didn't plan well," said Marta when the shower began. "I saw her shivering and frightened hooking on a corner and I saw Mary nearly ten years before. I had to do something. But what are we going to do with her?"

"The bed's big enough." Aside from the top of the line laptop he acquired a month into his employment, his only other extravagance had been the oversized king sized bed. He had lived in narrow bunk beds as a child, sharing the room with his brother, and graduated to a double sized bed later, but wanted something he could spread out on and never find an edge bearing down on his ankles or nudging at his side threatening a fall.

"I wanted to be naked with you, feel your skin against mine all night."

"I have to sleep early."

"Of course, but nestling against you..."

"And those big eyes watching us."

"She's a sex worker. She's seen it all. Besides, she claims to give good head."

"She's a kid, Marta."

"Yeah, there's that. Except she's had to grow up pretty drastically."

"I hope she tells us something. We should send her back home, at least let her family know she's alive."

"What if she comes from the same kind of mess as Mary?"

"She seems pretty smart."

"Mary's brilliant."

"Yeah."

Margie finally emerged wearing a towel. "I need clothes," she muttered.

"Just a second," said Joe, opening a drawer and tossing her an old white button down shirt. Being on the cusp of five feet with more legs than torso, the shirt hung near her knees. However before slipping it on and buttoning it, she dropped her towel and stood naked. Pert little breasts matched a pert round ass. The curves between had a graceful young woman's subtlety and attracted Joe. He didn't look away mostly to study her showing rib cage and some yellowing bruises.

"See anything you like?" smiled the naked waif slowly covering, taking her time buttoning.

"You have a lovely body," said Marta, shaking off the attempted stab at Joe's interest. "It could use some flesh and less bruising."

"He said he cared," spoke Margie softly.

"For his own interests, not yours. He knows how to seduce the young and vulnerable."

"I know. I'm not stupid."

"And yet I found you standing on a corner working for a slimeball, starving and shivering and strung out."

"I'm not a junkie."

"What about the tracks?" Margie kept her inner arm concealed most of the time, but before hiding beneath the long sleeves dangling past her hands which she rolled up just above her wrists, her small line of bruises on her left arm told of injections.

"Speedballs. My reward for an occasional profitable evening. They didn't happen enough."

"You mean speed?" asked Joe.

"That too. He shot me up when he wanted me working longer. But..."

"Heroin and cocaine cocktail," explained Marta, "a deadly combination."

"Who says?" asked Margie petulantly.

"Ask Mary," suggested Marta. "She lost two friends. And then there's John Belushi."

"Who's that?"

"Never mind. You really are a child."

"Old enough," pronounced Margie with childish pride.

"To get yourself killed," said Marta.

"Are you going to tell us what brought you to the street?" asked Joe.

"I ran away."

"Obviously," said Marta. "Why?"

"My mother had enough of my lip as she calls it. I hate my step father, a prim and proper hypocrite, sanctimonious and sterile. I swear my mom's going nuts because for years and years she's gone without. I used to wake up when I was a kid to my dad and her fucking, her groaning and shouting her love for him as they rocked the bed. I guess it wasn't enough for him and he found some chick and took off for Chicago.

"I ran away to visit him and found him and his soon to be third wife, she couldn't be quite drinking age and blonde and uppity with her rich sugar daddy, not altogether happy about my visit. He seemed more concerned about the goldigger's ambivalence towards me than my need for him to be a daddy. He took me into his study and gave me time to plead my case. Except he kept looking at his computer and typing briefly, instant messaging. He nods and pretends sympathy while reading and typing. So I finally take a look. It's the goldigger suggesting he take his Viagra and send her to heaven or some shit. I storm out, stopping in the bedroom where the royal bitch smiles her evil smile sitting at her computer. I yell at her, call her a royal bitch goldigger whore, grab my suitcase and split."