Boulevard (13 page)

“Your story, man—”

“I go back to this bouncer fucker and we wait for him to come out after the club closes. Me and Dream follow him to his pickup. He's about to get in when he sees us there. I say, ‘What the fuck's going on, man—you sold me shit soap and I want my fucking money back'. He just gives this shrug and says ‘That's the breaks, dude.' Oh, yeah? That's what he thinks. I'm ready with my blade, but before I can do anything, he whips open his jacket and shows me a .38 tucked into his pants. Like I'm now supposed to back the fuck off. Right. I go tackle that motherfucker and the last thing he ever saw was that little .38 going into his stomach.”

“You killed someone over some dope,” Dream said, shaking her head. “That's so lame, Dog. They'll put your ass in jail forever for that.”

“Fuck that. They got half the cops in LA looking for the guy who smoked the mayor's buddy. How many did you see for my motherfucker?—zero.”

“I still can't believe you did it.”

Neither could Casey.
Kill somebody and not feel anything?
Suddenly, they heard sirens, two or three of them. Everybody was back on their feet. They'd better make it back to the Fountain. And again they were running. Casey ran with all she had. And as she ran she was overtaken by a wave of sadness. Running. It was all she had done since she got here. Run, run, and run some more.

23

B
ack in February, it was freezing on Wonderland—back before the Chateau, before Dragon came, and back when Paul found her. It never snows in LA—that's what Paul told her, and she supposed it was true—but, man, it gets really, really close. She had only been in Hollywood a couple of weeks and as warm as it got during the day, the nights were something out of back home.

She could see her breath dart out in front of her. Casey had four layers of clothes on and she still danced her feet back and forth to keep warm. So fucking cold she couldn't stand it. She rolled up a page of a blueprint she found blown against the fence and tucked it under a piece of plywood. She put a match to it, hoping it would catch fast. Paul was stomping on some scraps of wood, breaking them so they'd fit inside their small fire pit. Casey blew on the little flame. It burned blue, but wasn't catching. She blew some more … gently, but steadily. The flame danced … and then went out. Casey lit another page of the blueprint. She never stopped blowing. She needed to get warm. She
had
to get warm.

The fire was catching and she held her hands just above the flame. She wanted to somehow sanitize them against the grubby coins that people dropped in. She hated begging. Hated the way the jerks looked at her like she was a piece of shit. And the worst part of all—they were right. She
was
a piece of shit. She was, after all, sitting on Marilyn Monroe's star begging for loose change. Most of the time it seemed like no one would ever, ever give her any money. But then someone would. And then a couple more people. After a while, she would go to the Korean market at Sycamore and buy an apple. They had the most beautiful apples. Mountains of them, all different kinds. The Fujis were her favorite. The lady always washed the apple for Casey. It was funny—she was living on the street, never taking a shower, never washing her clothes, always feeling disgusting—but the apples she ate were clean—the only thing in her life that was. There were days when Casey was striking out, no one giving anything, and she would walk by the fruit market just to look at the apples, and imagine how they would taste—the first bite, when the juices would ooze into her mouth. Crisp and sweet. How she would slowly eat the rest, going right down to the tiniest of part of the core. She could completely
taste
it—and it gave her the stuff to go back and beg some more.

When it rained, the apples seemed really far away. Tourists were in museums, or shopping, or doing whatever tourists do—they sure weren't here. As the rain would sweep the Boulevard, she would slowly walk past the Korean market looking at the fruit. The lady would be working the cash register and her husband would be in front cutting vegetables. She would see him cutting vegetables at six in the morning, cutting them at midnight, at two a.m., five a.m. She never saw anybody who worked as hard. Lots of times their kids would help, too. There was a girl who was twelve or thirteen who wore a school uniform, and a boy who had to be in high school. The boy was cute. When he worked the register, he always had a pile of books next to him which he would dive into as soon as there weren't any customers. He was super shy, and would never look directly at her. She wished he would. Yeah, right.

So many times, Casey thought how great it must be never to worry about being hungry. She'd get tired of waiting out the rain, standing under the awnings of the Roosevelt Hotel, her sneakers heavy and wet, and then she would slosh though the lake that covered the Boulevard's stars and walk to the fruit market. Her stomach was twisted in pain, her head was pounding. Sometimes the lady would call Casey over and give her an apple for free. It was heaven. For a few minutes. And then she'd go back out in the rain again.

Paul brought over the wood scraps and pushed them into the flame. Casey stared into the fire, watching as his wet boards fought it out with her little flame. She was so cold, and so down. Her eyes were locked on the fire—it was the only thing in her life that mattered.

“Hey … you alright?” Paul said.

Casey nodded. She was anything but alright.

She stared into the fire … She was beginning to feel the heat. When the board caught, she threw another one on. Now it was really going, and she felt like she was beginning to defrost. The chill was slipping away from her bones. Finally.

She picked up the rest of the wood.

“Don't,” Paul said.

“Don't what?”

“Put any more on the fire. It'll get too big and someone will see us.”

“Come on—”

“They will. Then we're really fucked.”

“I don't care,” Casey said.

“It's fine. We'll be plenty warm.”

“Then let's get warmer!” She threw a board on anyway. Who cares about getting caught?

“What are you doing?” Paul said.

“What's the matter with you?”

“Matter with
me
?” He looked at her, and Casey could tell he was pissed. But she was pissed at him … A second later, she wasn't anymore. She was only pissed at herself. Was there any other way for her to fuck up? No life. No food. No house. And now, no friend.

“Hey,” Paul said softly. He slid next to her and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. She could feel herself shaking.

“I don't know how much longer I can take this,” she said.

“Know.”

“I mean, I'm sleeping in a construction site—”

Casey felt a tear roll down her cheek. Paul took his finger and gently lifted it off.

“Look,” he said, “we'll do better. I'll pull some more dates and we can motel.”

She looked at him and felt more tears. Paul caught them all.

“Casey, we're gonna be okay.”

The flames danced higher, swallowing up the wood. She looked in Paul's eyes.

“Today's my birthday. I'm fifteen years old, and I'm living under a bush.” She put her arms around Paul and pulled him close with all she had. “Happy birthday, Casey,” she said, her face pushing into his shoulder, “Happy birthday.”

24

C
asey walked down towards Sunset moving quickly, as though to hesitate would mean to change her mind and retreat. She wasn't going to retreat. She was wearing a tight black miniskirt made out of some kind of stretchy fabric that she picked up at a thrift store on La Brea. It barely covered her ass. She had on black stockings and a tiny top she got at the same place. Casey also had the shitty heels and the makeup. She hated dressing like this and hated what she was going to do. But she knew one thing like she knew nothing else—she wasn't going to freeze anymore.

When she reached Sunset, she stood on the far side of the sidewalk, a few feet away from the curb—like a swimmer not quite ready to jump in the pool. It was less than a month since Dennis tried to make her do this, and shitty as it was, at least he was nowhere to be seen. She started counting down from ten. At
one
, that's when she would go …
One
came—and she stayed. She was scared. So scared. Okay. Try it over. She counted down again, this time from twenty. And at
one
, she lifted up her head and took the few steps to the curb.

She stood on a corner looking at the passing the cars. No takers. But no other girls either. One car after another went by without stopping. It was okay. She knew she had to do this, but the longer it took, the better. She heard a laugh—a kind of sick laugh. She followed the laugh and then saw the stare, which was worse. Across Sunset was a pimp standing next to his Vette. A black guy way over six feet tall, wearing a red Clippers jacket and talking on his cell. He gave Casey a gold-tooth grin. Casey turned away. Dennis was way-scary, but this guy was even nastier. Shit. She was doing this for two seconds and she was already max-freaked. The pimp kept staring at her—he wasn't letting it go. She didn't know what to do, when she somehow felt a second stare burning into her. She turned around and saw another pimp, just up the street behind her. This one was in a black Lexus. He was checking her out too. He scared her even more than the Clippers jacket guy—and Sunset's four lanes of traffic weren't separating them. She stared down the strip, trying to ignore them both. She wondered why there were no other girls around, and realized they must be on dates. Casey heard the Lexus pimp's door open.
Shit
. Her body stiffened. She stole a look back. He was tall like the other guy, and he was wearing a pink World Gym muscle shirt showing huge shoulders and arms. He also had the gold-capped teeth, and with diamonds imbedded in the gold. He was coming closer, and now the Clippers pimp had left his car and was also heading for her. Casey looked out into the street—hoping, praying for someone to stop. But no luck. The Lexus pimp was almost down to Sunset, when a new, silver Infiniti pulled to the curb. Inside was a guy in his fifties with a McDonald's bag on the passenger seat. He was scum. But he was here.

“How much?” the guy said.

“Forty”

“Okay.”

Casey got in and as the car pulled away and she looked back to the pimps who were watching her go. The car smelled of McDonalds and cigarettes—great combo. The john had long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was wearing faded black jeans and had a big belly which hung over a huge silver and turquoise rodeo belt buckle. He was finishing the last of a burger. A thin line of pink Russian dressing was dribbling down the side of his face and there was a greasy mustache over his lips. How was she going to do this? He was a pig. Disgusting.

“Where do you go?” he said.

“Take a left on Orange Grove.”

It was only a few blocks, but it felt like it took an hour. He made the turn off Sunset and went down a narrow street, lined with nice houses.

“Right here is good,” Casey said. The guy parked the car by a chain-link fence which surrounded an elementary school yard. The street was dark, and when the guy turned off the engine, it was quiet.

He pushed the automatic seat button and with a low whir, his seat moved backwards, sliding his fat belly away from the steering wheel. He pulled his dick out. Casey could hardly look at it. It was the most foul thing she ever saw. This jerk leaning back with his dick that she was expected to suck. She'd rather die. She thought about blasting out of there—it worked once. And then she thought about freezing and starving last night. And the night before. And the night before that. She went right for it.

“Careful,” he said.

She let up. But the faster she could get him to come, the better. When he finally did, she cracked open the car door and spit the cum out on the street.

As she lifted her head, she looked over at the school yard and thought, what would she give to start all over again?

When he dropped her off, Casey stood by the corner and gazed at her reflection in the glass of a parked Explorer. She thought, kids shouldn't have to do this.
Nobody
should have to do this.

She didn't look for the pimps. Fuck them. This wasn't their street.
Fuck them
. A minute later, a jeep pulled right up to her. Another customer. Bring it on. She leaned in the window—and saw Dennis.

She pulled away.

“Nice,” Dennis said.

Casey took a couple of steps back and started moving up the street. She was shaking with fear, but she wasn't going to let him see it. She hated him. She hated everything about him. As she walked, he drove alongside her. She heard the awful voice.

“This is how you treat me?”

“You should be in jail. Or killed.”

“I ain't either, am I now?”

Casey walked faster. There had to be a way out. Dennis stayed right beside her. Traffic was moving at a crawl behind him. Cars were honking. He didn't care. She kept her eyes straight ahead, but she could feel him alongside her.

“How long you think you gonna last out here on your own?”

Just ignore him
, she thought. Fairfax was up ahead. There was a Blockbuster there. Safety.
Keep walking … don't look over.

“Bitch, on my street, you do what I tell you to do,” he yelled over. “You hear me?”

The jeep raced forward and shot into a bus zone. Dennis jumped out. She started to run. But he was much faster. He grabbed her arm so tight it hurt. He jerked her out into the street in front of his jeep. They were bathed in the headlights, like a spotlight was on them—but if was a spotlight, why wasn't anyone stopping? Feeling his hand grabbing her tight around her thin arm, brought back everything he did to her, and how much she hated him.