Motor City Shakedown Read Online Free PDF Page B

like?”
    â€œI’da know. Regular.”
    That’s not how anyone would describe Moretti. “Anyone else?”
    The only answers were a few shrugs. I stood and looked back at the madam. “These are all your girls who fit the description?”
    She nodded.
    â€œI’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be needing their services after all.” I pulled another ten from my wallet and handed it to her. “Thank you, though. They’re all quite lovely.”
    â€œThe mister wouldn’t want a taste of these?” The well-endowed prostitute grabbed her breasts and thrust them upward, licking the top of each lasciviously while staring into my eyes.
    â€œI’m sure they’re quite … delicious,” I said, feeling even more stupid. “But you’re just not exactly what I’m looking for.”
    She scrunched up her face and said, “Come on, then, girls.” The young women turned on their heels and marched out of the room.
    I turned to the madam. “Could I ask you a question?”
    She raised her eyebrows. It looked like my twenty dollars had bought me an answer.
    â€œTo be completely honest with you, I’m not looking for sex. A friend I went to school with is trying to find his sister. He thinks she’s a”—it was uncomfortable to say, even to a madam—“a prostitute. He got word she was with this Moretti character Sunday night, and I’m trying to help him track her down. There’s fifty bucks in it for anyone who locates her.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?”
    â€œHe’s sure she’s changed it.”
    With a frown, she said, “You’ve never seen her?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo all you know is she’s tall and skinny and has auburn hair.”
    I nodded.
    â€œHoney, take my advice and tell your friend not to waste your time. Most girls in the life are skinnier than normal, and if you haven’t noticed, about half the women in Detroit have auburn hair. You don’t know what house she works in?”
    â€œNo. I’m not even sure she works in one. She apparently went to Moretti’s apartment Sunday.”
    She laughed. “Oh, good luck with that. You’re lookin’ for a streetwalker. Ye’ll not find her in a house.” She began ushering me out of the room. “Now, I’ve answered your questions, and I have to get back to work.” We walked through the parlor and down the hallway to the front door. The black man took my hat from the stand and handed it to me.
    I looked at the madam again. “One more thing, a curiosity: I don’t remember so many women having auburn hair, but it seems to be all I see now.”
    â€œYe’ve not been payin’ attention for a while, eh? Henna rinse, young man. European fashion. You picked a bad time to look for a pa’ticular auburn-haired lady.”
    I thanked her and wandered down the steps to the street. At the bottom of the stairs I took a deep breath and moved along to the next brothel. I thought I’d get another opinion before giving up on the houses. I had a similar experience, though only five women who fit the description were paraded in front of me. I was again told that I would not find this woman in a house of ill fame.
    After a drink from my bottle to strengthen my resolve, I continued the search at the other businesses along the street, the saloons first and then the clubs, which had shows that turned my stomach.
    Even though my mission was a serious one, in the back of my mind I had thought this would be a titillating evening. Instead I was deeply troubled. These women were used and degraded with no more regard than throwaway dolls. They weren’t human beings; they were receptacles. The women who “performed” in the sex shows were the saddest of all. As they aged, became more desperate, their choices became more and more limited. And what became of them when they were no