“What’s going on?” I said as I walked past a mantle with framed family photos on it - husband, wife, three kids all under ten.
“Hi Denny.” he said as he wiped down the kitchen sink and the taps, obviously thinking about fingerprints.
“Whose house is this?” I asked.
“A very interesting guy.” Frankie said and threw the tea towel in the sink, now that I was in the kitchen I could see Frank’s shirt and pants had blood droplets all over them.
“What did you do, Frank? Where is this guy?”
“Tied up in the basement. You can meet him in a couple minutes.”
“How about his family?” I motioned to the photos.
“Nah-nah, they left him months ago once they found out what a scumbag he is.”
“I’m losing my patience.” I said.
“Alright, I’ll fill you in.” said Frankie, all smiles; “So, there’s this funny little chick that works the stroll with Carrie. Cute as fuck and a real oddball. If she was older I’d introduce her to Gordon.
“Anyway, she writes down plate numbers of all the johns who pick up the girls. Kind of an insurance policy I guess. Turns out, she wrote down the plate number of the stronzo who hurt Carrie, and I got a friend at motor vehicles who ran his plate for me.”
“Didn’t I tell you Carrie wanted us to leave it alone?” I asked him, “She’s pissed at me because you were interrogating the girls - her words. She says we’re through.”
“Carrie said she didn’t want you to do anything. That doesn’t include me.” Frankie said, “She’s one of us, Denny. We protect our own.”
“Fuck. What did you do?”
“Come on, you can meet him.” Frankie said, leading the way to the basement stairs, “Don’t touch anything. We already wiped the house for prints.”
Frankie had the guy tied to an old kitchen chair - one of those bent steel-tube chairs that everyone had in their kitchens in the fifties. The guy looked like a horror show; his arms were tied to the back of the chair, each shin bound tight to the legs. His face was bloody and swollen, his eyes so puffy that he couldn’t see out of them. I could see the stubs of broken teeth through his fat lips.
“This is Mister Schröder.” Frankie said, “He likes to hurt little girls.”
“You know it’s him?” I asked Frankie.
“He admitted it.” then to Schröder, “Didn’t you, Mister Schröder?”
Schröder lifted his head, moving it around like a bat trying to echolocate in the dark.
“I pay them.” he lisped through his swollen lips, “They let me if I pay them. I pay them well. Please? I don’t force them.”
I thought I would be angry. I thought I would be filled with a righteous, murderous rage and that I would pick up something heavy and beat this guy to death right there in his basement. But all I felt was sick. I believed Schröder. He had no reason to lie - I’m sure he thought we were going to kill him anyway, so he had nothing to lose.
I believed that Carrie allowed herself to be hurt for money. The memory of her limping home that night in the pouring rain flashed before my eyes and broke my heart anew. This explained her unwillingness to tell me what happened; her tears when I told her I cared about her; and her admission of feeling ashamed.
I didn’t understand the depths of her addiction until that moment, and it crushed my heart until it felt like it would burst open and stop beating.
I walked to the corner of the basement to get myself under control, because I felt like I was on the verge of crying myself. Frankie and Rocco had the decency to remain quiet while I did. I let the coldness creep in on me a bit, and when I felt more in control, I walked to Schröder and bent down so he could hear me.
“The blond girl. The little, pale one.” I said, describing Carrie in a way he’d understand who I was talking about, “How many times?”
“Just once ...” he shuddered, “Just the once.”
I stood up.
“I’ll never touch her again, I swear.” Schröder sobbed, I guess thinking he was about to die and trying to bargain, “I’ll leave her alone. I didn’t know she was your friend. Please don’t kill me.”
I stared down at this ruined man, feeling only a cold contempt. His wounds would heal just like Carrie’s, but his fear would remain - Frankie and Rocco made sure of that. No matter how much money you paid, you couldn’t escape the consequences of your actions. He learned that lesson - all night by the looks of it - from Frankie and Rocco.
“We’re not going to kill you.” I said to him, “Not this time.”
I bent over again.
“But if you go back there. If you hurt another girl - I will kill you myself, mister Schröder.”
"Bigger Gangsters"
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