More Twisted

Ricky once then down at the floor.
    “No shit.” Ricky rolled his eyes at the bartender.
    “Iowa,” the man said.
    Where the fuck was Iowa? Ricky’d come close tofinishing high school and had done okay in some subjects but geography had bored him crazy and he never paid any attention in class.
    The bartender said, “He was telling me he’s in town for a conference at Javits.”
    Him and the ferret molesters . . .
    “And . . .” the bartender’s voice faded as he glanced at the tourist. “Well, why don’t you tell him?”
    The man took another gulp of his wine. Ricky looked at his hand. Not only a Rolex, but a gold pinkie ring with a big honking diamond in it.
    “Yeah, why don’t you tell me?”
    The tourist did—in a halting whisper.
    Ricky listened to his words. When the old guy was through, Ricky smiled and said, “This is your lucky day, mister.”
    Thinking: Mine too.

    A half hour later, Ricky and the tourist from Iowa were standing in the grimy lobby of the Bradford Arms, next to a warehouse at Eleventh Avenue and Fiftieth Street.
    Ricky was making introductions. “This’s Darla.”
    “Hello, Darla.”
    A gold tooth shone like a star out of Darla’s big smile. “How you doing, honey? What’s yo’ name?”
    “Uhm, Jack.”
    Ricky sensed he’d nearly made up “John” instead, which would’ve been pretty funny, under the circumstances.
    “Nice to meet you, Jack.” Darla, whose real name was Sha’quette Greeley, was six feet tall, beautiful and built likea runway model. She’d also been a man until three years ago. The tourist from Iowa didn’t catch on to this, or maybe he did and it turned him on. Anyway, his gaze was lapping her body like a tongue.
    Jack checked them in, paying for three hours in advance.
    Three hours? thought Ricky. An old fart like this? God bless him.
    “Y’all have fun now,” Ricky said, falling into a redneck accent. He’d decided that Iowa was probably somewhere in the South.

    Detective Robert Schaeffer could’ve been the host on one of those Fox or A&E cop shows. He was tall, silver-haired, good-looking, maybe a bit long in the face. He’d been an NYPD detective for nearly twenty years.
    Schaeffer and his partner were walking down a filthy hallway that stank of sweat and Lysol. The partner pointed to a door, whispering, “That’s it.” He pulled out what looked like an electronic stethoscope and played the sensor over the scabby wood.
    “Hear anything?” Schaeffer asked, also in a soft voice.
    Joey Bernbaum, the partner, nodded slowly, holding up a finger. Meaning wait.
    And then a nod. “Go.”
    Schaeffer pulled a master key out of his pocket, and drawing his gun, unlocked the door then pushed inside.
    “Police! Nobody move!”
    Bernbaum followed, his own automatic in hand.
    The faces of the two people inside registered identical expressions of shock at the abrupt entry, though itwas only in the face of the pudgy middle-aged white man, sitting shirtless on the bed, that the shock turned instantly to horror and dismay. He had a Marine Corps tattoo on his fat upper arm and had probably been pretty tough in his day but now his narrow, pale shoulders slumped and he looked like he was going to cry. “No, no, no . . .”
    “Oh, fuck,” Darla said.
    “Stay right where you are, sweetheart. Be quiet.”
    “How the fuck you find me? That little prick downstair at the desk, he dime me? I know it. I’ma pee on that boy next time I see him. I’ma—”
    “You’re not going to do anything but shut up,” Bernbaum snapped. In a ghetto accent he added a sarcastic, “Yo, got that, girlfriend?”
    “Man oh man.” Darla tried to wither him with a gaze. He just laughed and cuffed her.
    Schaeffer put his gun away and said to the man, “Let me see some ID.”
    “Oh, please, Officer, look, I didn’t—”
    “Some ID?” Schaeffer said. He was polite, like always. When you had a badge in your pocket and a big fucking pistol on your hip you could afford to be civil.
    The man dug his thick wallet out of his slacks and handed it to the officer, who read the license. “Mr. Shelby, this your current address? In Des Moines?”
    In a quivering voice, he said, “Yessir.”
    “All right, well, you’re under arrest for solicitation of prostitution.” He took his cuffs out of their holder.
    “I didn’t do anything illegal, really. It was just . . . it was only a date.”
    “Really? Then what’s this?” The detective picked up a stack of