Problem Child, page 12
This league had better include five-year-olds or I’ll be pissed. I definitely couldn’t have a teenage daughter. Then again . . . of course I could. Several of the girls I went to school with do, assuming everyone is still alive and kicking. Ha. I made a soccer joke.
“Actually . . .” I watch as he takes his seat and folds his hands patiently on top of his beat-up metal desk. What in the world did my hell-raising niece want with this guy? I cross my legs and lean forward a little. “I’m here about Kayla.”
“Kayla?” His tan face goes grayish white so suddenly, I almost think the bad fluorescent lighting experienced a surge, and I glance up to see if something popped. “Who?” he croaks.
“Kayla. I believe you know her . . .” He can’t possibly fake his way through ignorance when all the blood has left his head. He must be getting dizzy by now.
“Kayla?”
“Yes!” I repeat her name one more time, because each utterance lands like a bullet in his body. “Kayla. Average white girl. Really skinny. Just turned sixteen, looks much younger. Has she been by recently?”
“That was four months ago!” he says too loudly.
“Oh. Okay. What was four months ago?”
“She . . . She . . . I mean, she came here. Yes, I remember her. Kayla.” He laughs for no reason at all, the sound a high barking that floats up to the metal rafters of his office. “Yeah, she was hoping to join the league, but she . . . I guess she didn’t have much support from her family. She didn’t have the fees, so she hoped maybe she could . . .”
Sweat is gathering on his upper lip as he stammers through his explanation. This man definitely had sex with this teenage girl, or something close enough to sex that he can see his life flashing before his eyes.
He coughs hard and the blood finally rushes back to his face, turning it bright red. “She was hoping there was paid work she could do for the league, but it’s run by volunteers, you understand. Nobody gets paid or anything. Even I don’t get paid.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing! Nothing happened! I mean, we talked about her working here at the store, maybe, to try to raise funds, but it didn’t pan out. She wasn’t . . . you know.” A wave of hard swallows works along his throat as if he’s choking down a stuck chicken bone. “You have to be sixteen to work at the store, and she wasn’t . . .”
“She was only fifteen, huh?” I raise my eyebrows and meet his gaze to watch the panic swirl inside him. “So did you make some kind of deal with her so she could get those league fees waived?”
“No. No. Definitely not. She didn’t join a team.”
“And you never coached her?”
“Never. It didn’t work out. Haven’t seen her since.”
“Really? Because she’s missing.”
Oh my, there goes his color again, though now there are red spots left behind, as if his face is a huge lava lamp, big splotches of color floating in his cheeks before getting smaller and fading. “Missing?” he croaks.
“Yes. She disappeared a few weeks ago, and we suspect foul play.” The we will make me seem more official and more dangerous.
His mouth forms an O like the opening of a dry cave.
“Do you know why anyone would want to hurt this girl, Frank?”
“Uh . . .” I see his tongue working like a dying worm inside that cave. Gross.
“Listen.” I lean forward and mold my face into understanding. “We both know she’s not some average teenage girl, right? She’s got issues. Real issues. She was . . . a challenge.”
That’s the refrain. That’s the reason we give when a grown man has sex with an underage girl. She was troubled. She was fast for her age. She was the aggressor. She wanted it. She wasn’t even a virgin. She thought she was grown. She’s done this before.
We all know the reasons, because pussy is made to slide into; and if a young girl is there, tripping a man up, he can’t help but fall straight into it. What are they supposed to do? Say no? They’re just men, after all. Just men walking around like untrained puppies, semen dribbling on the floor with excitement just like a dog’s urine. We expect nothing better of them. So here I am, having a conversation with this grown man about fast young girls.
I learned to work that system. I learned to be the one fucking instead of getting fucked. If men were going to do it, I was going to get something out of it.
But Kayla may have just been another victim. You let your guard down once and it’s all over. Now you’re not clean enough to save.
I wink at Frank. “Are you gonna tell me what happened, sir, or do we have to turn this into an official interview?”
His wormy little mouth finally snaps shut. His jaw tightens. I can almost see the thoughts turning like gears in his eyes. He’s realizing now that he might be safe. If Kayla is missing, there’s no one to ever tell the truth.
Damn it.
“Nothing happened.” He takes a deep breath and nods. “We talked about her joining the league, but she didn’t have money for the fees. It sounded like her family life was pretty bad. Sorry to hear something has happened to her. Maybe they had something to do with it. She said her mom was on drugs.”
“We’ll be looking at her phone records, you know.”
“I . . .” A little croak before he composes himself. “Of course, we spoke several times about her fee options. Of course we did. But it didn’t work out.”
“You’ve said that.”
“I need to get back to work. I’ll call the sheriff’s office if I hear anything.”
“Oh, I’m not a cop, Frank.”
“What?”
I let my mask fall for a moment so he can see the icy predation in my eyes. I don’t care about him. I don’t even care about Kayla. I care about the hunt. The stalking. The triumph. I smile. “Do I look like a cop, Frank?”
Lips parted so he can fit bigger breaths into his straining lungs, he shakes his head, then he nods, then he shakes his head again. “I don’t know,” he finally whispers.
“I’m just a friend. I’m just a helper.” I put on a little singsong voice. “When you see a helper, ask for help!” When I reach to touch his hand, he jerks back, his chair screeching in protest. “I see you have a wedding ring. Do you have girls of your own, Frank?”
He blinks rapidly, over and over, as if he’s trying to clear dust and horror from his blue eyes. “No,” he bleats like a lost little lamb.
My heart beats harder, awakening every nerve in my body. I haven’t felt this good in months. I lick my lips and lean closer, like a sultry movie vixen. I wish I could see myself right now. I wish I could record this and watch it later for fun. It’s been a while.
“You just like coaching them, huh, Frank? You just like watching them run?”
“No. Yes. No! I’m just a coach! She was . . . This wasn’t my fault.” Tears fill his eyes now, despite his fluttering eyelids.
“What wasn’t your fault?” I croon.
“I just wanted to help her out. She was desperate. That was all. I gave her what she asked for! I don’t want any trouble!” He’s crying now. Big, ugly cries, wet cheeks, and sucking breaths. His sobs are muffled but violent, like they’ve been trying to escape a long time. “I don’t want any trouble!” he pleads.
“What did you do, Frank?”
“It was a moment of weakness!”
“Did you hurt her?”
He chokes on one last sob and suddenly his red, wide eyes meet mine. “No. Never. I haven’t seen her since. I paid the guy and that was the end of it.”
I cock my head in surprise. “You paid who?”
“I dunno. That scrawny boy. He had ‘Dog’ tattooed on his hand.”
“Little Dog?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Please leave. Please. Please. Please just leave!”
He’s turned into a pitiful puddle of weakness, and I don’t want to get his fluid on me, so I roll my eyes and sit straight. “Fine. But I will be in touch again.”
“Please don’t. I made a mistake. I’ll never do it again.”
“Eh. Hard to believe. But do yourself a favor and try to keep your perversion confined to the age of majority. You’re getting old, Frank. Eighteen or nineteen has got to be filthy enough for you. Come on. Use your big head.”
I leave him behind whispering “I’m sorry.” I predict he’ll stay away from needy teen girls for well over a year after this.
Look, we can’t all save the world, but I do my part.
So . . . he paid Little Dog after sleeping with Kayla.
This whole thing is confusing and muddled. Was Little Dog just pimping out my niece? There’s some undercurrent I’m not grasping, and I don’t like that. Maybe I’ll track old Frank down at his house tomorrow for follow-up questions. That will either knock loose more information or send him into the fetal position. Either reaction will make my day a little brighter.
From the grocery store, I drive straight to the equipment rental company to investigate that last business card, but the place is locked up tight. There are no trucks or strange machinery secured behind the high chain-link fence, and the office is closed, with no helpful sign on the door to indicate when they’ll be back.
Not an unusual sight in this town. Everybody wants to make a buck, and not very many people actually have a good head for business, especially the risk-taking types looking for a quick fortune. Even those who do well like to take risks in other ways that don’t make them reliable business folk.
I get it. I like taking risks too.
I stare at the logo for Morris Equipment for a few minutes, wondering about yet another missing member of this business card coven. Curious, I google the guy’s name. Roy Morris. There’s another business listing for him in Oklahoma City under Morris Industries, but the listing shows that business as closed too. The only addresses that show up are PO boxes.
When I call the number on the card, it goes to voice mail, so I hang up and head to the last stop on my tour. The Big Ol’ Truckstop.
It was a magical place when I was a kid. So many lights and colors and a million opportunities for happiness. Huge trucks, giant sodas, strangers from everywhere, and individually wrapped candies that fit easily into sneaky little hands. A dreamland.
My mom always slapped my fingers and told me to stop touching every damn thing, but any tantrum I threw was a good distraction for her own shoplifting. In fact, I later wondered if she started drama so my dad could grab a couple of forty-ounce beers and slide on out the door.
The place has gotten even bigger since I left. The KFC is gone and has been replaced by three different fast-food chains all crammed into one spot. There’s a big natural gas pump for fuel-efficient vehicles. And the giant parking area for semitrucks has been expanded to twice its original size.
Since it’s getting to be dinnertime, I park and take a quick stroll around the surrounding area, just getting the lay of the land. In the few minutes I’m walking around, at least four more trucks pull in for a break, most of them hauling oil, though there’s a big frozen-food truck too.
I spy a woman smoking a cigarette near the entrance to the shower facilities. She’s wearing skinny jeans and flip-flops and a yellow sweatshirt. Not exactly how people picture sex workers, I guess, but I’m all for comfort, and these men don’t need a pair of high heels to turn them on. Any warmish body will do.
“Hey,” I say to her.
She looks at me and flicks her cigarette, her pale cheeks tightening as she clenches her jaw.
“I’m looking for my niece. She went missing a few weeks ago. Do you think you might have seen her?” I hold out my phone to show the picture I downloaded from the website.
The woman shrugs and edges closer to squint at the phone. “That looks kind of like Kiki.”
“Kiki?”
“Yeah. She works the trucks here every once in a while. Not often, though.”
I scroll to another picture. “This is her?”
“Yeah, that’s her.” She takes a drag from her cigarette and scuffs her sandals against the cement. “She’s missing?”
“She’s been gone a few weeks. Unless you’ve seen her since then? This was the last place she was headed. About a month ago.”
“No, I ain’t seen Kiki. Have you talked to her pimp?”
“Little Dog?”
“Yeah”—she smirks—“Little Dog.” Then we laugh together at him and his rural white-boy bravado.
“Did she seem okay the last time you saw her around here?”
“I don’t know. She was so little, we used to tell her to go on home. I mean, she’s young and everything, so we worried. But mostly we didn’t want her drawing the cops here neither. No one needs that kind of attention, you know?”
“Sure, I get it. What about Little Dog? Did he seem normal to you?”
“Yeah. I saw him more recently. He was hanging out in the lot, then some big SUV pulled up, and he took off like a bat outta hell.”
“Who was in the SUV?”
“No one I’ve ever seen. Big guy with a shaved head.”
Interesting. My mom mentioned a bald man too. A bald man with a gun. I glance over the lot. “Anyone else around tonight?”
“Nah, I’m the early bird.” She grins. “Getting that worm.”
We snort-laugh together as she grinds her cigarette butt beneath her flip-flop and shakes out her hair.
“Smart lady, waiting by the showers,” I say. “That’s a good tactic.”
“Girl, you wouldn’t believe the swamp ass these guys acquire in those leather seats. No thank you, ma’am. I’ll take a clean dick any day.”
I don’t mind her ma’am at all. In fact, I hand over a ten-dollar bill. “Thanks for your help with my niece. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. I’ll ask around if you want to come back in a couple of days. I’ll have my son tomorrow night, so I won’t be here. But check in on Thursday.”
“Got it.”
“I hope Kiki is all right.”
Kiki. Just a regular, everyday underage sex worker, maybe. But something about good old Frank’s reaction is still bothering me. Time to reach out to a local pimp, it seems.
CHAPTER 13
Knowing Little Dog has been spooked by something, I decide to go with the harmless “I’m just a girl” approach to reassure him that he’s in charge here.
Hello, Brodie! I’m Kayla’s aunt from Minnesota and I’m trying to get in touch. Do you know where she is or how I can contact her??? I’m pretty worried & I just want to be sure she’s ok. Thanks so much!
I shop in the truck stop for a few minutes while I wait for a response. I grab a bag of Funyuns and eye the men around me in the store. And they’re all men, aside from the woman ringing them up. This town has always been filled with so many strangers, men coming through for work or fueling up before a long drive into the panhandle. It’s never been a safe place to be a girl.
I look at them in line, their faces unsmiling and unshaven, and I imagine any one of them might have offered Kayla cross-country passage in exchange for a daily blow job along the way. Of course, any one of them might have decided rape and murder was just as fun a pastime and dropped her body in the scrub somewhere along these two-lane highways. As a monster myself, I’m not under any delusions about the kindness of strangers.
I find it curious that men are so often the monsters, because it’s definitely not about some mythological kindness of women. We can be cruel and harsh and abusive. But we don’t lash out in the same ways.
I assume men’s anger drills down on us so specifically because women are presented at the earliest age as withholders of pleasure. Look at them over there, walking around with what we want. Toying with us. Denying happiness. Look at them, with their tits and pussies, just living their selfish lives like they’re not cruel gatekeepers. Time to teach them a lesson.
Even the most normal sexual interaction is framed as him getting some and her giving in. If you aren’t kind enough to give a man what he needs, why should he treat you kindly in return?
Women aren’t raised to be angry in response. We’re raised to appease. But I don’t care about pleasing anyone or being called nice, so these weird expectations have always been a bright glow in my peripheral vision. That works out fine for me. They never anticipate that I’m the one expecting to be appeased.
But I am.
As I slip into my car, my mind shifts to the decision of what to do next. I’m not good at waiting, but I’m at Little Dog’s mercy here.
I’m tapping a finger against my chin when my unfocused gaze sends a clue to my brain. I stop tapping and narrow my eyes on a distant line of white. It looks like . . .
When I tilt my head, I see it. A wind turbine blade. A huge, solitary blade just lounging around like a lazy queen.
It’s a quarter mile up the road, cradled on the long trailer of a truck parked alongside the highway. Another truck pulls up as I watch, slowly easing into place. The smooth white blade slides through the evening sun before it disappears behind the length of the first turbine blade. I want to touch one, so I start my car.
By the time I pull in, the driver is out of the cab and halfway across the lot, heading for a door with a sign above it that reads simply LOUNGE. The lounge is attached to a cheap motel. All these guys need on the road is a bed and a few beers, I guess.
I park my car and jump out, heart beating with excitement. The blade extends far beyond the end of the trailer, and flags are everywhere, warning of an oversize load. But there are no people. No guards. Just two Ford pickup trucks that are also decked out in traffic warnings.
I walk right up to the blade and stroke the cool whiteness. There’s no one and nothing to stop me. Thrilled, I drag my fingertips over the surface and follow the long, curved line. Not metal, I assume, but fiberglass or something more modern than that. Manufactured spider silk, impossibly light and strong. Okay, it’s probably just fiberglass. Whatever it is, I press my palm to it and slide my hand up as far as I can, then back down.
“Cool,” I murmur. “So cool.”
One more pickup pulls in, followed by a truck hauling some kind of hydraulic crane, and I immediately recognize the logo on the crane: Morris Equipment.
