Genesis & Exodus
The beginning, before Silky
I hate big cities. I hate them all. Of all the big cities I hate, I hate Chicago the most. Nowhere else can you freeze between the door and the cab; nowhere else does the L go on forever; nowhere else can eating a lousy meal by yourself take four hours and cost forty bucks.
Why I ever thought that moving there would lead to fame and fortune, I don't remember. I've got plenty of money. I didn't sell my home back in Alabama, I just moved there to a crappy one bedroom apartment with the train outside the window and graffiti on the walls. I rented a PO Box for "Great George Industries." Talk about grandiose!
At least I had told myself to limit the amount I would waste, so I had put a hundred thou or so in the GG account and got a Business Visa to charge to. At least I wasn't using my serious money.
I do believe that things happen for a reason. Why else did I come to this cold, lonely concrete prison? Why else did I take my rental car down the wrong street and stop at that one particular corner? Why else was it on that night?
I had been in Chicago long enough to have gone through the hundred years of winter. I had seen both days of spring and summer, and now knew that this was one of the last times I could drive with the windows down; not that anything except noise, dirt, and stink ever came in. Until that night.
I stopped at that fateful gerrymander, getting my bearings, knowing I was lost but too angry to admit it, sorry I had not opted to get a GPS, when among all the racket came an aerosol of syrup sweeter than a virgin's ass.
"Hey My es ter! Ya'll waa unt soome Soo there un Com for unt too wa um ya'll up too ny et? It was the sound of home! I translated to 'hey mister do ya'll want some Southern Comfort to warm ya'll up tonight?' in my head.
This amazing girl was sticking her head in my open window. How she could put that much breast into such a small space I didn't know. How she could consider that clothing I didn't care. Twin sapphires burned into my eyes, and her smile made the inside of the car warm all by itself. Her long blonde hair formed a diaphanous halo for her head.
"Well, mister? What do you say? For $200 I can make you forget your wife and your girlfriend."
Suddenly everything clicked and I knew what to do; I realized that all my life had been just a prelude to this moment. My years in Rotary Club, on the Chamber of Commerce Board, on the City Council, counted for nothing. Here stood a hooker, a street whore with a background somewhere in the South, who was offering herself to me for $200.
"How old are you?"
"I'm 18. Want to see my ID?"
"What do I get for $200?" I asked.
"Anything you can imagine," she replied with a little roll to her shoulders to be sure I saw her tits.
"How much for a weekend?"
She didn't bat an eye. "$3000. But I have to tell Big John where I'm going." I'd hate to play poker with her.
"No. Get in now and you'll get $3000. Walk away and I'm gone to the next girl."
She got in.
There, now, I made the decision that has colored, no, painted in brilliant hues, the important part of my life. There and then the tipping point, the moment that defined everything else. I did something I had never done before nor have I since. Screw a prostitute? Get a back alley blow-job? No! Worse! I Kidnapped her!
As we left the city, she asked where we were going.
"I'm taking you home with me. You belong to me now."
"Big John will kill you, and beat the shit out of me."
"You're never going to see Big John again. You'll never work as a 'ho again. And Big John will have to kill me to get to you, and he can't."
Those blue lanterns looked out the window for at least five minutes, calm and resolute, calculating.
"Cool," was all she said.
I turned onto the Dan Ryan and picked up I-80. The girl who had no name curled up and went to sleep. In for a penny, I guessed. I took the I-65 and didn't stop until I got to Indianapolis, and there pulled into the Hertz at the airport. They were pissed that I returned a local Chicago rental there, but if you pay enough, people put up with being pissed.
I pulled the girl with the golden hair with me to Avis, and rented a new car.
When we were ten miles down the road, she spoke for the first time in Indiana. "Covering your tracks?"
She wasn't stupid. The car was rented to GG industries, on the GG card, that only had a PO Box. They could eventually find the crappy apartment but it was an empty tomb. Somebody would know the tag number, and look for it. I rented the Avis under my name on my card, so the trail was dead. I doubted Big John would look that hard, but he might.
