The girl lost her innocent face, and for a moment hate flashed in her eyes. Then she lost that, too, as quickly as it had come, as if it were mandatory that she use every item in her emotional toolbox. She swung her head sloppily toward the back of the apartment. “She ain’t here. Go ahead and see, you want to.”
Ramone went to the galley-sized kitchen, and Rhonda went back to one of the bedrooms. Both stepped warily, but not from fear. The apartment stank of various kinds of smoke and spoiled food.
In the kitchen Ramone saw open boxes of sugar-rich cereal but no other edible goods. He opened the refrigerator, which held no milk or water and only one can of orange soda. Roaches stood in the sink, their antennae wiggling, and on the electric stove top, where a dirty sauce pot sat. Half-eaten fast food had been dumped in a trash can filled to the rim.
Ramone joined Rhonda in a bedroom. On the floor was a mattress topped with distressed sheets and a couple of pillows. A large-screen television sat on a stand, pornographic DVDs scattered around it. CDs were stacked near a portable stereo on the carpet. Also on the carpet were thongs, sheer tops, and other articles of cheap-looking lingerie.
Rhonda made eye contact with Ramone. They moved into the second bedroom, a mirror image of the first.
Back out in the living room, Shaylene Vaughn stood sullenly. Rhonda took out her pad and pen.
“Who pays the rent here?” said Rhonda.
“Huh?”
“Whose name is on the lease of this apartment?”
“I don’t know.”
“We can find out by calling the rental company.”
Shaylene tapped her hand against her thigh. “Dominique Lyons. He pays for it.”
“I thought you didn’t know his name,” said Rhonda.
“I just now remembered.”
“You have a job. Can’t you afford to pay it?”
“Me and Darcia give him the money we make from the club. He holds on to it for us.”
“Is he Darcia’s boyfriend?” said Rhonda. “Is he yours?”
Shaylene stared at Rhonda.
“Does Dominique have a street name, anything like that?” said Ramone.
“Not that I know.”
“Where’s he stay at?”
“Huh?”
“Does he have an address?”
“Said I didn’t know.”
“Where were you late last night… say, after midnight?”
“Dancing at the Twilight till, like, one thirty. And then I came home.”
“Alone?”
Shaylene did not answer.
“What about Darcia?” said Rhonda.
“She was working there, too.”
“Was Dominique at the Twilight as well?”
“Maybe he was. He could have been.”
“Do you know a Jamal White?” said Rhonda.
Shaylene looked down at her bare feet and shook her head.
“What’s that?” said Rhonda.
“I know some Jamals. I ain’t know their last names.”
Rhonda breathed out slowly and handed Shaylene her card. “My number’s on there. You can leave a message, day or night. I’m looking to speak to Darcia and Dominique. You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
“No.”
“Thanks for your time. We’ll be seeing you again.”
“Take care,” said Ramone.
They left the apartment, glad to breathe fresh air, and got back into the Ford.
“Trick pad,” said Rhonda, settling under the wheel. “That’s all that is.”
“And you think Dominique Lyons is their pimp.”
“Maybe. I got to run him through the system first, see what he’s about.”
“Jamal White falls in love with a dancer-slash-ho, her pimp doesn’t like him cutting into his girl’s action, and boom.”
“I like it so far.” Rhonda stared out the windshield. “At one time that girl in there was a baby that someone held and sang to at night.”
“If you say so.”
“And look where she is now. Not that I blame her for giving her love to a man. You know, devoting all my time to my sons and this job, it’s easy for people to forget that I’m still a woman. Even a Christian woman like me, well, every once in a while I have the need for some penis.”
“For real?”
“This Dominique Lyons fella, though, he must have one special penis. I’m talkin about the kind of penis that could make a girl dance naked in a bar and give up her hard-earned money to him at the end of the night. The kind of penis that could make her prostitute herself in a roach-infested crib with no furniture or food or drink, and make her feel like she’s a loyal queen. I’m sayin, that must be some extraordinary penis.”
“Okay.”
“Gus?” Rhonda Willis turned the key on the Ford. “I do not need that kind of penis.”