Foreword
This story is a sequel to the Want Ad/Palmistry/Therapy series. You needn’t have read the others to know what’s going on in this one and the only character common to the others is the main character, Bob. Reading the others will, however, give you some insight into who Bob is and why he’s doing what he’s doing.
There was something wrong with this picture. The woman standing on the street corner was wearing a navy blue dress which hung just below her knees, navy blue hose, and medium heels. Her blond hair was freshly permed, and just barely brushed her shoulders. She stood stiffly erect with her feet together and her eyes cast down. Her hands were clasped behind her and the handcuffs which restrained them looked huge on her slender wrists.
It wasn’t the sight of a woman standing on the corner in handcuffs that was odd. It was common to see hookers being arrested on the avenue. What was odd was that this woman didn’t look like a hooker. The hookers who worked the avenue were universally unattractive. They plied their trade on the avenue because is it was the only place they could find customers who were desperate enough to pay for their services.
The only attractive hookers on the avenue were police decoys. Everyone knew this except the Johns, who were even dumber than the hookers. When the police would run their occasional decoy operations, a guy could be getting arrested twenty feet away and another would walk right up to the decoy, make a solicitation, and be arrested himself. They didn’t want to be seen with a hooker and thought they could achieve this end by not seeing anything themselves.
I drove the avenue every day on my way to and from work and knew most of the regular hookers by sight. I would see one of the hookers being arrested every once in a while. The ladies all knew the drill and when arrested would usually lean, handcuffed, against a tree or utility pole or sometimes just sit on the curb while waiting for the paddy wagon. If they were on drugs, they would fidget continuously. One or two cops would stand nearby, bored and likewise waiting for the wagon.
That’s what was wrong with the scene on the corner. This woman was attractive--not gorgeous, just pretty much normal looking. Her clothing was conservative, not provocative, and clean. I had never seen her before. She stood erect and unmoving, looking like nothing so much as a middle class housewife. A plain clothes officer stood next to her. Such women normally wouldn’t be seen on the avenue. What was she doing there? Why had she been arrested?
I was on my way to the bank to make the day’s deposit. After I finished, I drove by the corner again. The woman was not in sight, but a paddy wagon was parked at the curb. I assumed she was locked inside.
I drove on home. The scene on the street corner was just something I had glimpsed while driving by, but I couldn’t get the woman out of my head. I wondered if she had turned to prostitution to get herself out of some financial bind, but it didn’t make sense. Why the avenue? She could make more money with less hassle from the cops by working the hotels. Not only that, the avenue was dangerous. More than one of the girls who worked there had been fished out of the river minus a limb or two. The girls on the avenue were there because they had run out of options. This woman’s dress and general demeanor indicated resources unavailable to the usual avenue hooker.
I watched the sidewalks every day for the next couple of weeks, hoping to see her again. When the avenue girls were busted, they’d be back on the street in the next day or two, so I thought there was some chance of spotting her.
Although I drove the avenue every day and was familiar with all the regulars, I had never actually talked to any of the hookers. They were not ones such as would inspire lust, and while I had sympathy for their plight, I wanted nothing to do with them. This woman was different. There was something about her. The street corner tableaux had burned itself into my brain and the unknown woman had become the main character in my erotic fantasies. I wondered what I would do if I actually saw her again. Would I stop and talk to her? Perhaps inquire as to her price?
About a month later I was buying a loaf of bread. I was in the checkout line behind a woman with a full cart who had apparently noticed my single item.
“Would you like to go in front of me?”
I pulled my head out of the clouds and looked to see who was talking to me. It was her. I stared.
“Do I know you?” she asked. It was clear that I recognized her, but she couldn’t place me.
“We’ve never met, but I’ve seen you before.”
“Oh, where?”
“On the avenue at 14th street. You were wearing handcuffs at the time.”
She turned bright red, wheeled her cart about, and got in the farthest checkout line. “Wait...,” I called. She ignored me.
“Well, you really blew that one,” I told myself. I thought about following her, but that would be stupid. I would only dig myself deeper into her bad graces by trying to force contact. I could only hope that fortune would provide me with a future occasion.
Her departure had left me next in the check out line, whereas she was now at the end of another line. It would be a while before she came out. I paid for my bread and left.
I decided to increase the odds of a future encounter by finding out where she lived. I sat in my car and waited. My back was to the store and I watched the door in the mirror. It was a full fifteen minutes before she emerged. I watched as she pushed her cart full of sacks along the front of the building toward the edge of the lot. Even though there were a lot of cars in the lot and people coming and going, I didn’t want to chance drawing her attention by starting my engine. I would wait until she was occupied starting her own.
As she neared the edge of the parking lot, rather than turning toward the last row of parked cars, she pushed her cart onto the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner of the building. For a moment I was surprised that she hadn’t parked in the lot, then I realized there was no parking on the street. She hadn’t come in a car. She was on foot. Damn. There was no inconspicuous way to follow a pedestrian in a car. I would either have to drive past her multiple times or park and watch until she turned a corner, then move to a new vantage point. I headed home.
I had learned a couple of things. She apparently didn’t have a car. Pushing a cart as full as hers over the rough sidewalks in this area is not something you would do if you had other options, although I suppose her car could have been in the shop. The other thing I learned was that she lived nearby. There had been ice cream in her cart and it was a warm day, so she wasn’t going too far. Since she had been pushing the cart north on the west side of the building, it was also reasonable to assume she lived to the north and west.
I wondered if she had a family. I hadn’t paid all that much attention to the stuff in her cart, but hadn’t seen anything that would specifically indicate children. Nevertheless, the quantity of stuff she had purchased indicated she was shopping for more than one.
As I drove home, I started thinking about the shopping cart. Although I knew almost nothing about this woman, I had a feeling she wasn’t someone who would steal a shopping cart. I drove back to the store and parked on a side street about two blocks north of the store. About ten minutes later, I saw her in my rear view mirror, pushing the empty cart back toward the store. She walked right by me and I wished I had been wearing a hat to pull down over my face. I didn’t want her to catch me spying on her. My concern was unwarranted. She passed by without a glance. I’m not even sure she knew I was there.
This was unusual behavior for someone who lived near the avenue. Most of the women I knew made sure they knew who was around them and some made a point of making eye contact with anyone they felt might be threatening. Nevertheless, it made a consistent package. Being oblivious to her surroundings and returning the shopping cart seemed to fit together. She hadn’t been here long.
After she was out of sight, I moved the car. I was on a street just east of the one running north from the store and had by chance parked on the street she lived on, but hadn’t seen what house she came out of. I parked at the other end of the block and awaited her return.
After a bit, I saw her turn onto the street where I was parked and walk toward me. About half way down the block, she entered a small bungalow.
I waited a few minutes, then drove past the house and returned home. I hadn’t seen anything in the yard or on the porch that told me anything.
When I got home, I looked up the address in the cross reference. The name attached to that address was Gregory Silva. I called the phone number listed with the address.
“May I speak to Gregory?”
“I’m sorry, he doesn’t live here.” It sounded like her voice, but I couldn’t be sure. She had only spoken a few words to me.
“Is this 1824 Spruce?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t live here.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know. He lives out of state, but I don’t have his number.”
