Read Online Taste of Tenderloin by Gene O'Neill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gene O'Neill
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before
morning, you understand me?” Mad Marco said, pulling up his leather
coat and pointing at a wide metal-studded belt. “If you don’t, you
know what I’m gonna have to do?”
The bleeding woman nodded,
murmuring, “Don’t do that, Marco. I’m sorry.”
“ Sorry?” the scowling pimp
repeated angrily. “Sorry don’t hack it, girl. You get out there and
shake your lazy-ass booty, get them johns’ noses opened up, attract
some bidness, you hear?” He paused a moment, then ordered, “Here,
clean yourself up.”
The young woman took a
powder blue silk handkerchief from the pimp and wiped at her bloody
nose. Stoically, she sucked it up, trying to smile and put on her
game face while still shivering. She looked to be sixteen years old
at best. Most others like her would be begging for spare change
over in the Haight or maybe streetwalking on Capp Street. There
were few fresh-faced, bright-eyed hookers in the ‘loin. She should
be making a ton of money, the Ugly Man thought. Maybe that was what
pissed off Mad Marco. The girl might be too timid to really exploit
her innocent assets and hustle up customers. Could even be her
first night on the street. He didn’t recall having ever seeing her
before, but he usually paid little attention to the hookers,
regardless their ages or innocence.
It was none of his business
anyhow. Glancing away, the Ugly Man slipped past the darkened
doorway unnoticed.
Maybe sometime in the past
he would have intervened, back during the good times when he’d
practiced the Seven Virtues and still had some self-respect and his
night watchman job over at the warehouses in China Basin. But he’d
been fired nine or ten years ago, after the accident, when he’d
been discovered asleep and drunk on the job. He smiled wryly to
himself as he limped along, shaking his head. Thinking about it, he
wasn’t sure he’d have said anything, not even back then. Probably
just idle fancy.
He glanced absently up the
darkened street, reflecting back.
Even as a child in the Napa
Valley he’d been reclusive, avoiding most interpersonal conflict.
In his heart, he knew it wasn’t in his nature to have risked Mad
Marcus’s wrath any time in the distant past, much less the present.
The pimp was scary tough, always carried a straight razor, and was
known to use it with the least provocation.
No, the Ugly Man admitted to himself, slinking off into the fog
like a cowardly dog with its tail between its hind legs. Mind your own business, stay invisible, take care
of number one, stay out of harm’s way . That
was his credo now. He hadn’t even thought about the Seven Virtues
for years.
After leaving the two in
the entryway with only the briefest twinge of guilt, he turned up
O’Farrell and spotted Shaky Jake; the old man’s Parkinson’s disease
twitched his hands and head almost out of control.
“ Man, I take anything, even
a penny,” the Vietnam vet said in a slurred voice, trying to
panhandle change from a hooded, out-of-service parking meter. He
obviously hadn’t been over to the VA clinic recently to renew his
meds.
Impulsively, the Ugly Man
dug out the remaining change from his pocket—a dime, four nickels,
and seven pennies. In an uncharacteristic charitable move, perhaps
stimulated by his lingering guilt at not helping the under-age
hooker, he slipped the coins into the trembling hand of the
hallucinating old man. “There you go, Jake,” he said, before
limping off up the street.
A few moments later, he
became acutely aware of a sharp tingling and itching sensation all
over his skin. At the time, he didn’t recognize it as anything
special. He figured it was just another symptom of alcohol
withdrawal, like the shakes, or maybe it had something to do with
the drying up of his clammy skin. He told himself that the
discomfort would disappear as soon as he had a chance to drink the
remainder of the Wild Irish Rose and towel off. He hurried along,
ignoring both the funny skin sensation and
morning, you understand me?” Mad Marco said, pulling up his leather
coat and pointing at a wide metal-studded belt. “If you don’t, you
know what I’m gonna have to do?”
The bleeding woman nodded,
murmuring, “Don’t do that, Marco. I’m sorry.”
“ Sorry?” the scowling pimp
repeated angrily. “Sorry don’t hack it, girl. You get out there and
shake your lazy-ass booty, get them johns’ noses opened up, attract
some bidness, you hear?” He paused a moment, then ordered, “Here,
clean yourself up.”
The young woman took a
powder blue silk handkerchief from the pimp and wiped at her bloody
nose. Stoically, she sucked it up, trying to smile and put on her
game face while still shivering. She looked to be sixteen years old
at best. Most others like her would be begging for spare change
over in the Haight or maybe streetwalking on Capp Street. There
were few fresh-faced, bright-eyed hookers in the ‘loin. She should
be making a ton of money, the Ugly Man thought. Maybe that was what
pissed off Mad Marco. The girl might be too timid to really exploit
her innocent assets and hustle up customers. Could even be her
first night on the street. He didn’t recall having ever seeing her
before, but he usually paid little attention to the hookers,
regardless their ages or innocence.
It was none of his business
anyhow. Glancing away, the Ugly Man slipped past the darkened
doorway unnoticed.
Maybe sometime in the past
he would have intervened, back during the good times when he’d
practiced the Seven Virtues and still had some self-respect and his
night watchman job over at the warehouses in China Basin. But he’d
been fired nine or ten years ago, after the accident, when he’d
been discovered asleep and drunk on the job. He smiled wryly to
himself as he limped along, shaking his head. Thinking about it, he
wasn’t sure he’d have said anything, not even back then. Probably
just idle fancy.
He glanced absently up the
darkened street, reflecting back.
Even as a child in the Napa
Valley he’d been reclusive, avoiding most interpersonal conflict.
In his heart, he knew it wasn’t in his nature to have risked Mad
Marcus’s wrath any time in the distant past, much less the present.
The pimp was scary tough, always carried a straight razor, and was
known to use it with the least provocation.
No, the Ugly Man admitted to himself, slinking off into the fog
like a cowardly dog with its tail between its hind legs. Mind your own business, stay invisible, take care
of number one, stay out of harm’s way . That
was his credo now. He hadn’t even thought about the Seven Virtues
for years.
After leaving the two in
the entryway with only the briefest twinge of guilt, he turned up
O’Farrell and spotted Shaky Jake; the old man’s Parkinson’s disease
twitched his hands and head almost out of control.
“ Man, I take anything, even
a penny,” the Vietnam vet said in a slurred voice, trying to
panhandle change from a hooded, out-of-service parking meter. He
obviously hadn’t been over to the VA clinic recently to renew his
meds.
Impulsively, the Ugly Man
dug out the remaining change from his pocket—a dime, four nickels,
and seven pennies. In an uncharacteristic charitable move, perhaps
stimulated by his lingering guilt at not helping the under-age
hooker, he slipped the coins into the trembling hand of the
hallucinating old man. “There you go, Jake,” he said, before
limping off up the street.
A few moments later, he
became acutely aware of a sharp tingling and itching sensation all
over his skin. At the time, he didn’t recognize it as anything
special. He figured it was just another symptom of alcohol
withdrawal, like the shakes, or maybe it had something to do with
the drying up of his clammy skin. He told himself that the
discomfort would disappear as soon as he had a chance to drink the
remainder of the Wild Irish Rose and towel off. He hurried along,
ignoring both the funny skin sensation and
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