Officer Maria opened the gate, a petite blonde wearing Dolce&Gabbana ran forward. “Has my attorney come yet? I called half an hour ago. I know my rights. You have to let me out when I make bail.”
Officer Maria ignored the woman. “You’re only going to be here a little while, Helen. Detective Madison will be back to take your statement.” She gestured toward the bench along the far wall. “Try to get some rest.”
Bobby glared. You can’t treat us like this! Tossing us in here like a load of laundry!
Helen waved him quiet. “This will really put me behind,” she said. “I need to make my nut.”
Officer Maria shrugged and clicked the door shut.
Bobby frowned as her footsteps faded down the hall. She doesn’t care about our problems.
Helen looked around, trying to decide where to sit. The stark lighting of the cage threw hard-edged shadows beneath the steel mesh benches bolted to the floor. To the right, a chubby woman sobbed into a wad of toilet paper, shoulders quivering with every exhale. Her low-slung jeans and appliquéd T-shirt failed to cover a large expanse of white abdomen.
Bobby smiled flirtatiously at the woman. Now that’s a cheerful ensemble.
“Don’t talk to strangers,” Helen snapped, shooting him an admonishing scowl.
The Dolce&Gabbana blonde paced nervously back and forth across the front of the cage, cursing with every step and kicking the wire mesh with her purple-pedicured toes. The oversized collar and cuffs on her blouse gave her a waif-like appearance. “Who the fuck is running this place?” She stabbed a perfectly manicured finger through the chain-link as if demanding an answer from some unseen authority. “Do you have any idea how much shit you people are in?” Her voice had a percussive rhythm that elevated her rage to the level of performance art. “I’ll have your jobs, assholes.”
Bobby covered his head, feigning a look of fear. Tinker Bell is pissed.
Helen managed to turn a laugh into a cough, and took a seat next to a girl wearing a tube top and Daisy Duke shorts. The kid stared in open-mouthed fascination at the pacing woman. “Where do you think she got that top?”
“Probably a hotel shop,” Helen answered, “or Saks in the mall.”
The girl looked disappointed. “The security in those places is really tight. You’d need a team . . . never be able to boost that kind of stuff by yourself.”
Helen nodded. The silk batiste blouse probably came out of a California sweatshop and sold wholesale for no more than ten bucks, but it would go for three hundred by the time it hit the boutiques.
The cranky blonde froze, staring up at a bull’s-eye camera in the upper corner of the cage. “You think this is funny?” she screamed. “You have any idea who my husband is? Wait till I get out of here, you motherfuckers!”
Even the crier paused for a moment, staring at the blonde princess as if trying to place her, then resumed her tearful moans as Dolce&Gabbana returned to her military march along the wire. The Daisy Duke kid stuck out her tongue, gray and covered in gum. She tried to blow a bubble, but the gum split with the sound of a wet fart. “This nicotine shit isn’t any fun.”
Helen nodded, wanting to be agreeable. She had never used it herself, but could see it lacked substance.
Officer Maria rapped on the gate. “You.” She pointed to the gum chewer. “Your boyfriend just made bail.” Her tone made it clear the “boyfriend” was a pimp collecting his property.
Bobby jumped off the bench. No way this kid is eighteen. You can’t give her back! Tell them, Helen.
Helen jumped to her feet. “You can’t let him have her! No way!”
Dolce&Gabbana pointed at Helen. “She’s fucking nuts.”
The teenage prostitute sashayed to the gate, her adolescent hips swinging in a parody of sexuality. “Don’t worry about me.” She blew Helen a pouty kiss. “Been doing this for a long time.”
Dolce&Gabbana tried to follow her out the door. “You can’t leave me here.”
Officer Maria sent her stumbling back inside with a well-placed hip bump.
Bobby watched the teenager strut down the hallway. She won’t make it to twenty-one.
Officer Maria returned minutes later for Dolce&Gabbana, a Mrs. Brownswell. “It’s about time,” the woman snapped, then stumbled into the officer. “Get your hand off me, you fucking bitch!” Her shrill voice echoed down the hall, but when the door opened, her voice suddenly softened. “Carlton, darling, I only had one drink. That officer stopped me for no reason. I only flunked his stupid test because I was wearing a new pair of Pradas. There’s something wrong with the heels.” The door slammed shut, the silence deafening in its suddenness, broken only by the soft sniffing of the crier.
Helen longed for a good pair of earplugs, the kind that covered the entire ear—retailing for thirty-five dollars at a sporting goods store—but she would have settled for the cheap, fifty-cent foam style.
Having no Kleenex to soak up her snot, the crier wrapped a big wad of toilet paper around one hand before folding it into a pad and blowing her nose. Between her feet, a large mountain of discarded tissue had solidified into a crusty sculpture of soggy papier-mâché.
Officer Maria reappeared, escorting a strikingly beautiful woman dressed in a gray Armani suit that would go for at least a thousand dollars retail and cheap plastic pumps with three-inch heels that sold for twenty dollars at Payless. The suit stepped to the bars, her eyes moving back and forth between Helen and the crier. “Marjory Johnson?”
The crier sniffed and nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Urbane. I was called by Social Services. We need to talk.” She looked at Officer Maria. “Is there some place a little more private?”
“Yes, ma’am, we have an interview room, but we thought you might want to talk to this woman as well.” She hooked her chin toward Helen.
With eyes as clear and brilliant as Colombian emeralds, the doctor gave Helen a thorough scan, then turned back to the officer. “You have her jacket?”
Officer Maria handed over a folder and the doctor quickly scanned through the papers. “A doctorate in educational psychology? Now that’s interesting.” She looked at Helen. “Are you on the streets?”
Bobby peered with nearsighted intensity at the woman’s eyebrows. Check those out, they look like they’ve been painted on. Doesn’t she remind you of that thirties actress?
“No, she doesn’t,” Helen snapped, unable to suppress a bit of jealousy. She turned to the suit. “Do you do your own plucking?”
The woman paused, then framed another question. “Do you have a mailing address? Somewhere we can reach you?”
Helen had no idea what the suit was driving at, or why she wanted to send mail. “My address is 5573 Tsunami.”
“How many people live with you?”
The crier, clearly
