“To do his errands in the gloomy deep.”
-John Milton, 1668, Book 1, Paradise Lost
…
Gina Ramona had resigned herself to a return to the life she had escaped, to be Ed Munson’s whore. That was quite bad enough. Then, the kind old man helped her out on the train and the coach attendant, who was a nice guy, actually took a liking to her and helped her out. Now, so said the big brown fiend that walked her into Private Adult Entertainment, a killer of a creep named Kingman Tweak, she was his “fresh bitch.”
‘Being pimped out by this black guy on the West Coast, I’d rather be dead—will be dead. If I steal his gun maybe I can shoot myself. But that sends you to hell, suicide. Eternity still being me—God, please, help me.’
The man had parked around the corner behind a strip club called the Devil’s Point, and walked her across the street to this private sex show place next to some other creepy place called Ishtar’s Gate. The men outside knew each other, knew what she was there for. They would help if she broke away.
A sense of helpless, hopeless defeat settled over Gina.
Some kind of foreign man, maybe Indian or Egyptian, leered at her from next door as Kingman let go of her and hugged this lighter-skinned and just as muscular man, “Brindle, ma man. Look, my fresh bitch, Gina! Gina, give ma man a hug, a good hug, go on.”
She was already numb, so she hugged the man and put her forehead into his neck so he wouldn’t see her wince. It was coming back to her, the instinct not to displease, not to offend the men who used her. The canvas cloak did help her feel a sense of insulation from them. She touched the broach at her neck.
“Good bitch, you got here, Kingman. Where’d yo find ‘er?”
Gina was aware that she was being made a show of, that she was to appear, out here, on the sidewalk, with various businessmen and even a stripper across the street taking her smoke break, and the guys walking by, as if she agreed, that she was going to forever lose her soul to these animals and who knew how many perverts, supposedly, they would all agree, of her own free will.
Three men in their thirties happened by and shook hands with the black men while Kingman declared, by way of advertisement and to answer Brindle, “This is my girlfriend, Gina, my fiance. Before we get married on New Year’s Day I promised to run a lottery train for ‘er. You men sign up with Brindle and New Year’s Eve we party.”
Brindle, who did not seem near as bad a man as Kingman, or his partner, who she had thrilled to see had been decked by the gentleman and the tweaker mechanics, looked at her with some surprise and she did not have the gumption to say, ‘No,’ and looked down ashamed.
Kingman had convinced her that he would kill her out of hand and had been intent on shooting the old gentleman. Granny Gee would not have failed this test of courage. Gina’s heart sank even deeper, realizing that she was weak like Mom, and also lacked the acidic and abrasive personality that kept Mom from the clutches of people like Ed Munson and Kingman Tweak.
Men were shaking hands and fist bumping, shoulder hugging and separating as Brindle stayed at the door and Kingman, guiding her into the interior and pointing towards the right, assured Brindle, “Straight up, yo, Gina’s goin’ ta Kingman school tonight en tomorrow. You can have the training room back Saturday.”
All the horrible stuff she had gone through over the past year because she wouldn’t have sex with black men, had put her in exactly that position. Kingman took her through a room where a man sat waiting, past some booths, “This shit’s not fo you, bitch. You got some innocence still in ya. We’ gonna cash that in.”
He turned her down another hallway, to a door, and opened that, guiding her down the stairs that yawned there.
There was another dim hall with a door on either side and another at the end, a pink door.
Through this door they went. Gina was facing a pink bed in the center of a room that was perhaps 16 feet square. The walls were decorated with pink curtains. There was a large screen TV on one wall and a large mirror on another wall. A round security mirror was also up in one corner and security cameras in the others. Also, was a shelf with some camcorders, sex toys, oils, lotions, etc.
She looked around at all of this, even a pedestal wash basin, a rack with hand towels, and swallowed hard.
The voice that came from her throat vibrated her head like it had not before, like some more convicted person had just visited her there, “So do I clean up before or after you rape me?”
His voice was calm, “Sit down, bitch.”
She turned and looked at him, realizing that her hat was in her hands.
He towered over her, full of confidence.
“Bitch, I can have any white woman I wan’ in dis cracker town. Better loogin’ bitches den yo ‘ill pay me ta suck ma black dick. This is ‘bout money, ‘bout yo okay and innocent looks makin’ up fo gettin’ my partner kilt. You go to the cops”—out came the gun and pointed at her face—“bullet in da brain bitch.”
Her shoulders sank.
“Good, good. Lucky fo you Kingman ain’ juz any dumbass nigga. You ain’ a runner o a fighta’. En if I gonna make real money on you quick, I needz ta hold out some hope en sell as much of yo ass as I can befoe’ dat little girl expression dat you wearin’ even now fades—cuz datz what sells here. If you was a nine, and ten years younga’ I’d sell ya to some rich Ko-ree-an. If yo ass was hard, drugged up, you’d be in a booth makin’ me a couple hundred a night.”
“Deese sissy white men, in dis whorl o' ball bustin’ bitches they’ll pay bank fo dat dumb country bitch loog on yo face you wearin’ right now. You fuck enough customers en dat goes away en you price drops, specially since you ain’ gettin’ any younga. Now, if you promise to not fight things, call yo customers ‘Sweety, Daddy and Handsome, whatever fits, den I’ll send you on yo way as soon as you bring in a hundred thousand, which is what I was sposed ta pick up at dat train station—cept some odda bitch fucked up en all I got was you?”
She nodded, “So what’s next?”
“Good bitch...didn’ even asked what happens if you disappoint. Dats good, en in case you was wonderin’ I’ll take ya to Tacoma and turn you out ta da crew, den down da nickle dime road from dere. Believe me bitch, you wanna be nice and sweet fo dem white money cats. Ya don’ wanna be turned out cheap ‘cause ya don’ smile—en dat little forced smile, right dere, dimple cheeks say, ‘Daddy I do care’—dat ‘ill make our nut on da fast track. En da retard cape, dat Lille Sped Riding Hood look, I like it.”
She swallowed hard and exhaled, “Okay, I’ll try.”
His big muscular face split into a greedy grin and he put his gun back in his waist band under his coat and patted her on the head in mock affection, “Bitch, I gotz da plan. Now, da upstairs gonna be locked. Dare a bathroom first door down right. I’m gonna get you food, Chinese, Mexican, whateva you wan’. Den I wan’ you comforbal here, like dis is yo apartment, den I bring da men what ‘ill pay big fo yo company. Kingman has connections. I’ll give yo space, the idea being I wan’ you relaxed here, like this is yo own place. It’s Thursday night. You en me have our time Friday night. Den Brindle starts getting his cut for the visitors Saturday night. Long as you smile with sweet words, we got a thousand a night—you’ll get regulars, we’ll make bank, bitch!”
“Okay,” she smiled, blinking her eyes at her inner traitor who was going along with this just to survive.
He patted her on the shoulder, “Later, girl,” and walked out the door. “Be back wit da food.”
‘He didn’t even ask what I wanted. He’s not keeping his promises, any of them.’
The door clicked shut and she heard him go up the stairs.
On the pink bed where she would lose the rest of her identity and all of her remaining scraps of decency, Gina cried softly, put her hands together, and keyed the higher, hidden part of her to form a plea, “Please, God, I’m a dumb dumb... don’t even go to church. But please, help me.”
The last three chapters of Seeker Cain will appear on Lynn Lockhart’s substack site.
Mirror Wrack
Cain 6-B
Shadow All
Cain 7-A
Mirror Sack
Cain 7-B
