Undercover Girl – Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen – The Sting

The railroad tracks where Jefferson had been found were near Grove Street, an area well-known as a hangout for prostitutes waiting for their johns who were certain to come. At one time, it was an area of small industrial plants and warehouses. In recent years, it had become gradually populated with bars, restaurants and a few boutique shops. At night-time, as the shops closed, the prostitutes moved in; Marcus had learned from Heddy that transvestite or transgender prostitutes hung out at the north end of the Grove Street strip.

The fact that, on the first incident, Jefferson had been found near Grove Street indicated that he might have somehow been linked to the prostitution of the area. From what Marcus had been able to learn, most of the girls, and he supposed that included those in drag, had been either runaways or were recruited by their pimps from bus stations and other locations. Jefferson was none of these; as far as Marcus could tell he lived in a stable, well-run foster home.

He became obsessed with Jefferson’s story and had to find out what had caused the boy to be found late at night in such questionable circumstances. Since no one else seemed to care, it was up to him to act.

Perhaps, Marcus reasoned, he could in filter into the ranks of the girls and boys who worked the Grove Street circuit. Of course, he’d have to be in his Miranda mode and figured he could easily pass himself off as one of the girls. All of his friends had convinced him that he could easily be accepted as a teen girl. The thought both tickled and frightened him. Didn’t he realize that dressing as a prostitute might open him up to all sorts of compromising situations, including possible arrest, physical abuse or even rape?

That night, he went through his limited closet and realized he didn’t own anything close to a mini-skirt that would be typical of a street girl; nor did he have mesh stockings or anything that would be sexily enticing. As for heels, a three-inch pair of conservative black pumps were the most outrageous ones he had.

He thought of asking Latesha for such an outfit; surely, she might have one from her high school days. He quickly rejected that idea, knowing full well that she’d try again to talk him out of his clandestine adventure. He could imagine her saying, “Darling, you could get killed or raped out there.” Marcus had to do this on his own.

The next day, he used his lunch hour time to visit a second-hand store, hoping to find a few items of clothing that could be worked into a convincing outfit. Before he entered the store, located at the far south side of the city where he felt assured he’d meet no one who knew him, he loosened his hair from its more masculine-appearing ponytail and let it flow in a more feminine fashion. That morning, in anticipation of his noontime shopping trip, he had put on women’s slacks to help accentuate a more androgynous look. He even applied light touches of lipstick and eyeliner, adding to his girlishness.

It worked, and he left the store twenty minutes later with two miniskirts, one a lavender skater style and the other a dark denim; he also bought a peasant blouse with a scooped neck and short cup sleeves and a pair of four-inch sandals with bejeweled bands on the straps across the instep. Later, he would stop to get several pairs of hose to add to the illusion that he was a “lady of the night.”

Latesha and Mollie invited Marcus to join them for dinner that night after work, but he begged off, saying he had to do laundry and clean up his room that night. He was lying, of course. He had to prepare for his evening mission as a young girl working Grove Street.

*****
He parked his car on South Third Street, leaving him about a two-block walk to join the girls lining Grove Street. That night he chose the denim miniskirt and topped it with the peasant blouse under which he wore a size 34-A cupped light pink lace-lined bra, only a hint of which was shown over the top of the peasant blouse. To emphasize his quest to look like a teenager, he wore a pair of black ballet flats. He knew it would set him apart from the other girls on the street who would likely all be wearing unnaturally high heels.

His parking spot was in a rather fearsome area, a place dark and bereft of life in the blocks of abandoned factories and warehouses. As he walked toward Grove, Marcus began questioning his quest. He had no real experience dealing with the girls who led a life of prostitution, other than what his imagination told him. Certainly, he would be outed immediately as the naïve, innocent girl scared for her life. It was the image he wanted to portray. What he hoped wouldn’t happen was that he’d be found out as a young man dressing as a girl.

When he crossed South Fourth Street that took him to Grove (which had been renamed from its original South Fifth Street designation for some obscure reason), he almost turned back, wanting to run back to his car and return to the safety of his home. But, he didn’t; he merely quickened his pace, probably due to his own nervousness, and soon arrived on Grove Street.

The street was lined with a motley array of two-story storefront buildings. Nearly all dated from the 1880s, Marcus observed, based on the ornate, aging architecture. It was early, and he was surprised to see there already were huddles of young women on the street.

It was time, he felt, to begin to act like a prostitute, or as he thought a girl would look while awaiting to be picked up by a john. He sashayed north on Grove toward Tyler Avenue, where he had learned most of the male transvestites and she-males did their business. Maybe he’d learn something there, he felt.

Marcus had to pass two black girls, both wearing scanty outfits in spite of the gathering coolness of the approaching darkness. They were leaning against one of the buildings, smoking demonstrably, giving Marcus a fearsome look.

“Yo’ too young, kid. Go back home to yo’ crib,” sneered the taller girl.

“Yeah, the johns on this street don’t cotton to yo’ jail baiters,” echoed the other. They both laughed.

But Marcus moved on past them, ostensibly paying them no attention though his heart was beating fast. There were virtually no cars on the street and suddenly he felt vulnerable from attack; the two prostitutes looked strong and could likely beat him senseless if they wished.

Their remarks, however, also reassured Marcus. He had hoped to pass himself off as a teenage girl, presumably one about the age of Jefferson Turner, and it was obvious that he had been successful. His girlfriends from the agency all had commented on his cherubic, youthful face, soft and unblemished. He had no beard to speak of, having to shave no more than once a week. He was always “carded” as being under 21.

Yes, he felt, maybe his scheme would work and he’d learn more about Jefferson’s activities and who might have been to blame for the boy’s injuries.

He shivered as he walked along a block of darkened buildings, several of which thrived with activity during daylight hours, one as a truck repair facility, another as a warehouse of some sort and the third as a wholesaler of tavern furnishings. True it was a bit chilly, but he knew his jittering came from fear of what he was to encounter; he was beginning to wonder whether he’d survive the night and that perhaps his best option was to run like hell back to his car.

“I have to continue on to show I’m not a coward,” he told himself, not too convincingly.

The next block was brighter thanks to the lights emanating from two bars, both housed in buildings built nearly 150 years ago. “The Ball Game” and “The Golden Pheasant” were known gay bars in the community. On the block beyond the bars, Marcus could see several figures lingering near street lights, and he presumed they were transvestite or she-male prostitutes.

He pranced past the two bars. He tried not to over-exaggerate the sexual character of his gait but still he hoped it showed him to be one of the street girls.

“Fresh meat,” he heard one of the girls say as he approached them.

“Real tender,” giggled the other.

“Better run along, kid,” said the first girl, trying to look tough. She was dressed in rough clothing – torn denim shorts, mesh stockings, unusually high heels and a team jacket over some sort of a grey blouse. She was heavily made-up and her dirty blonde hair hung unkempt.

She was tall and her muscular legs gave her away; she was obviously a guy.

“Nothing here for you, girl,” said the other. She was shorter, a bit soft and chubbier and wore mini-shorts that were so brief and tight that it seemed her butt could pop out at any moment.

“Girls like you belong two blocks down,” said the first girl gruffly.

“Like me?” Marcus asked, his voice coming out tentatively in an embarrassing squeak, not sure why he didn’t belong with these would-be girls.

“Yeah, honey,” said the second girl, her clearly masculine voice inflected with the lilt of obviously phony feminism. “You pussies work down the block, you know.”

“Pussies?”

“Damn you’re a naïve one aren’t you! Yes, real girls, y’ know.”

Marcus smiled, realizing again that he was so convincingly feminine that even an experienced transvestite like this chubby girl in front of him was fooled.

Just then, an aging Ford pickup truck pulled up and the first girl yelled “See ya’ Trixie. Better send that little girl packin’.” She hopped into the passenger side of the truck and sped off.

Marcus looked puzzled as the girl called Trixie explained. “That’s Kandi’s Wednesday night john. He’s got the biggest cock Kandi ever sucked.”

Marcus wanted to stay in this block since he was convinced this was where Jefferson may have been the first night he was found beaten up.

“I’m like you girls,” he finally said to Trixie.

“You can’t be, little one.”

“I am. Wanna see?” Marcus asked, hoping he wouldn’t have to show his penis that he had tucked.

“I guess you are, honey,” Trixie said, apparently accepting Marcus’ word. “Why are you here dear? You don’t look like a girl who has to be out here to pay the rent. You best go home to your momma.”

Marcus turned to leave Trixie, when she was startled to hear a man’s voice behind him, command, “Don’t let her run, Trixie.” It was a stern voice, cold and fearsome and Marcus felt weak and defenseless.

He felt Trixie’s firm hand grab his thin forearm, restraining him from running. “I told you to go, little one,” Trixie said whispered in his ear, obviously expressing a warning that Marcus should have been able to recognize earlier.

“Don’t hurt her, Nighthawk,” Trixie said, loosening her grip on Marcus’ arm.

“What’s your name, little girl?” sounded the booming voice of a tall, muscular pale-faced man who hovered over both Marcus and the streetwalker. Behind the large white man, stood an equally large African-American man. Marcus wanted to run, but knew it was fruitless.

“Hand her over to Henry and get down the block to do your stuff Trixie,” the man called Nighthawk ordered gruffly.

Trixie let go of Marcus’ arm and he felt the large hands of the black man grab his soft upper arm and steer him into an alley where they faced him up to a wall, surrounding him with their huge bodies. Marcus was never so scared before in his life, and he began to cry.

“That’s OK, honey,” Henry said. “Just behave and you won’t be hurt.”

The black man’s voice was soft and gentle, somewhat stilling Marcus’ fear about what his fate would be.

Nighthawk’s voice was firm and cold. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Ah . . . ah . . . Mmm … ah … Mariah,” he mumbled

“Mariah,” Nighthawk scoffed. “Not the sexiest of names, eh Henry?”

“It’s all right, boss. She’s virgin and the name fits,” Henry said, smiling at Marcus. The man’s words astonished Marcus. How could the man know he’s virgin?

“How old are you?” Nighthawk pressed.

Marcus didn’t know how to answer; he was trying to pass himself off as fifteen or so, like Jefferson, but he knew that maybe he should give a legal age, eighteen or over.

“You hard of hearing, bitch?” the man repeated, giving Marcus a light slap across the face.

“Nineteen,” he finally answered.

This time the slap was harder. “Don’t lie to me, bitch. You don’t look a day over sixteen.”

“Let me go, sir,” Marcus finally squeaked.

Nighthawk disregarded Marcus’ plea and ordered Henry to take him deeper into the alley to examine him further. “She claims he’s a boy, but we need to be sure, Henry.”

“Right, boss. I suspect she’d be perfect for our client,” Henry said.

Nighthawk smiled and gave a nod of his head, as if to signal Henry to lead Marcus back into the darkened alley. Marcus grew more intensely frightened as he listened to his two captors. Henry encircled him, the large black man engulfing him with his hold, which in spite of the man’s obvious muscular strength was surprisingly gentle, though firm.

“Now, come little lady, don’t fight me and you won’t get hurt,” the man said softly, leading Marcus down the side street, appearing for any who cared to look, like a young couple, the huge black man with the tinier girl at his side.

As they parted, Marcus noticed Nighthawk bring a cell phone out and begin making a call. It was an action that bothered him. Obviously whatever call Nighthawk would be making would involve him. He was jolted out of his thoughts as Henry pulled him further into the dark side street.

“Here we are, Mariah,” he said as they approached the end of the block, where a large, black SUV was parked. Marcus tried to see the license plate number, but it was too dark.

Marcus was led to the SUV and Henry padded him down, smiling as he did. “So tender and fresh,” he said. Marcus shivered as he felt the man’s hands caress.

He removed the small purse Marcus had hooked to the belt that held his miniskirt up. Henry opened it up, finding only a lipstick, compact and several facial tissues.

“You’ll need this,” he said handing it back to Marcus. “No ID, I see. Wise girl. Now get into the car and don’t scream out or do anything to draw attention.”

“But . . .” Marcus began, only to feel Henry put a hand over his mouth.

“No trouble, or it’ll go bad for you, kid,” the large man said, using a gruff tone for the first time. “Now get in and shut up.”

Henry used a remote to unlock the car’s doors, opened a rear door and moved Marcus into the back seat, ordering him to put on his seat belt. He tried to sit down gracefully smoothing his skirt as he did so, but Henry’s action of thrusting him into the seat made it impossible. His skirt rose up exposing nearly his entire thigh and he could hear the huge man mumble, “Nice.”

He started to help Marcus buckle up his seat belt, but Marcus said, “I can do it myself.”

Henry watched closely as Marcus struggled with the belt, finally getting it hooked up.

“Let me check that,” Henry said, reaching over to double check the clip. As he finished, Henry’s hand gently caressed Marcus bare thigh, lingering on its soft flesh momentarily.

He smiled at Marcus, the man’s face being lit by a nearby street light. For a moment, Marcus thought the man was about to kiss him. The man’s face was so close Marcus could smell the spicy scent of Henry’s cologne and could see the rough pores on the man’s well-shaven face.

“You’re a lovely one, girl,” Henry said.

He closed the door and headed around to the front of the car and sat into the driver’s seat. When the car door closed, the inside overhead light went out, and the car was plunged into darkness. The other man was gone apparently headed back to oversee the action of his “girls” on the Grove Street strip. He was alone with Henry in the SUV; he wasn’t certain if that bode well for him or not.

The SUV was not ordinary on the inside, Marcus quickly discovered. There were no handles on the inside of the backdoor, making it impossible for him to open the door himself. There was a plexiglass barrier between the front and back seats, just as Marcus had seen on many taxis in the city. He had noticed as well that the windows of the SUV were blackened, making it nearly impossible to see out.

He castigated himself for this foolish adventure, for putting himself in a situation where he was a captive. My God, he finally realized: He was being kidnapped, and there was nothing he could do about it. And the sad fact was that he’d likely not be any closer to finding out what had happened to Jefferson Turner.

Henry started the SUV and then turned back and looked at Marcus, the smile on his face illuminated by the dash lights in the car. He pulled a shade down to block Marcus from looking out the front window as they drove.

*****
Marcus broke into a sweat as the car moved at a moderate speed, going where and in what direction he could not tell. Fear mounted as the drive continued and it seemed like hours. He tried to tell from the sounds as to where he was being taken, suddenly he felt the car speed up and he could hear the whoosh of other cars and the unmistakable roar of trucks and Marcus knew they were on a freeway of some sort, headed out of the city. After a while he could feel the car turning and slowing down, returning to the earlier moderate speeds; they had obviously left the freeway.

He had no idea of what Henry had in store for him, but it seemed he was involved in some sort of trafficking scheme; he remembered from an in-service training session that human traffickers preyed upon teen girls and wannabe girls as possible candidates for the sex trade. The prospect made his fate seem even more problematic: what would happen when they learned he was not a 15-year-old sissy boy, but rather an adult social worker? He’d be killed, for sure, and his body probably ground up for dog food. His imagination ran wild, his fear growing more intense.

He was torturing himself by conjuring up all sorts of bad outcomes, he finally realized.

“It’s time to get a grip on yourself, Miranda. Maybe you can figure out a way out of this predicament.”

Slowly his mind began to focus and he recalled a video he’d seen that advised how a woman – or a young girl – should act when accosted by a strong man. Slowly his mind began racing on how to escape.

*****
As Marcus was formulating his plan, the car slowed down, turned and stopped abruptly. He heard Henry shout to somebody: “It’s Henry with a package. Buzz me in.”

Marcus realized they must be at some sort of gate or door and Henry must have spoken into a speaker phone. The car moved forward slowly and seemed to be turning slightly as it rolled along. He felt they must be at his destination. If his plan was to work, it was now or never, he knew. He had one advantage: Henry’s overconfidence in that he was so strong that he’d have no trouble controlling a pathetically weak girly boy. Yet, even if everything went as he hoped, his escape would be no cinch and he wondered whether to chance it.

“Oh, well, why not? What have I got to lose?”

Marcus felt his heart racing as he heard Henry get out of the car; soon he saw the right side back door open. Henry leaned in and said, “Let’s get out of there, girl.”

“I can’t. My seatbelt is stuck or something,” Marcus said as appeared to be struggling to open the buckle, which he had already opened.

“Come on. It can’t be that difficult.”

“I need your help, Henry,” Marcus said, speaking in a whiney, girlish tone.

“All right. Let me see there.”

Henry leaned over me, his face again so close Marcus could again smell his male cologne.

“I don’t see anything wrong, honey,” he said.

“Just wanted you close to me. I love your cologne, Henry,” Marcus said flirtatiously. His plan was working. Eureka!

He paused. “You just wanted a kiss, I bet, you horny little bitch.”

He moved closer, his lips puckering and suddenly he was on Marcus, kissing hard and firm. Marcus opened his mouth to accept Henry’s tongue, taking it between his teeth, and bit down as hard as he could. Henry squealed in pain, “Yeee . . . ow. You bitch.”

Henry jerked back in pain, hitting the back of his head on the top of the car door jam. He pulled Marcus out of the car roughly, continuing to cry as the hurts from the bite and the crack from hitting his head seemed to grow. With the man momentarily distracted, Marcus knew he had to use the only weapon that a weak little girl had. Mustering all his strength, he kneed Henry in the crotch, adding more pain to the already struggling strong man.

Marcus felt the man’s grip loosen and he pulled his arm away and for a moment he was freed. He began to run, knowing he had but seconds of freedom. He had no idea where he was, where he’d go, but he knew his only choice was to vanish in the darkness now. He ran down the drive, thankful that he’d worn flats.

There was a fence and gate at the end of the lighted driveway and Marcus knew that he’d never scale the fence quickly enough to avoid recapture. Where to go?

Off to his left, there was nothing but darkness so he headed there, scared about what he’d face there. He had no choice and he ran into the darkness.

Behind him he heard Henry yell out, “Stop, you bitch.”

Then he heard other voices, several yelling over each other.

“She got away,” he heard Henry yell. “She’s headed into the woods.”

Marcus plunged into heavy brush, stumbling over roots, fallen trees and stones but somehow staying upright. And, he ran, his bare legs, arms and face were being constantly scratched. He moved ahead and heard several men in the background.

“I think she went in there,” yelled someone.

Marcus knew he had only one strategy -- run.

*****
“Fuck, I’ll never get away,” Marcus thought, cursing his own physical weakness. Already, even after a few short moments he was breathing hard, wondering if his exhaustion would stop his heart.

He could hear rustling in the woods behind him, accompanied by shouts of “I think she went this way” and “she can’t get far.” A few “son of a bitch” and “motherfucker” expletives filled the night air. Marcus slowed down; he couldn’t breathe. Also, the woods had become so thick and dark, he kept stumbling over fallen logs. His only consolation was that his pursuers were having the same challenges he was.

Marcus found what he thought might be a path, and began to run but had only gone a few steps when the woods again seemed to close in on him. It seemed hopeless. He bent down and tried to figure out what was blocking his way, finally after feeling with his hands he guessed it must be a huge tangle of broken tree branches, bushes and bramble. His only hope, he felt, was to bury himself into the mess of forest debris.

His pursuers were nearing. Getting down on his hands and knees, he crawled into the musty, damp conglomerate, burying himself deep inside. Marcus, who had a fetish to be clean, steeled himself to put his face into the damp leaves, smelling the dampness, realizing he might be exposing himself to tiny forest creatures like worms (oh, how he hated touching the slippery, squiggly things), beetles and assorted ticks. And, he knew his lovely clothes would be ruined.

*****
Marcus had no idea how long he laid in the forest dampness; he remembered shivering mightily, hoping against hope that his teeth-chattering wouldn’t betray his location to the searchers. He heard the searchers rustling through the woods for some time, occasionally getting near. Never did their flashlight beams quite reach the tangle; even if the lights hit it, Marcus had hoped that he had covered himself up enough with leaves and branches that he’d not be seen. Evidently, it had worked.

At one point, he heard one of the searchers – it sounded like Henry – yell out: “Guess she’s ditched us. Can’t stay out here all night.”

“Let’s call it quits, boss,” a whining voice said.

“OK, five more minutes,” replied Henry. “God damn her.”

Marcus felt a sudden remorse. He’d liked Henry at first. The big man had seemed kind and gentle and understanding; yet, it was obvious that he could also be cruel and brutal when provoked.

His mind wandered to the horrors that Jefferson Turner had endured, apparently having escaped by the same manner. The more foolhardy he felt this evening’s adventure had been the more Marcus felt he was right in trying it. He had learned a lot about how Jefferson must have been similarly treated and, more importantly, he had a pretty good idea about where he had been taken. The image of the mansion to which he had been spirited was etched in his mind, even though had had had only a brief glance at the place.

It seemed like far more than five minutes before Marcus heard Henry’s voice from a distance. As far as he could hear, it sounded like they were giving up the search and that Henry had said they weren’t too worried about the escapee going to the police. “Those girls hate the coppers,” he had yelled out in ending the search.

Just to make sure, Marcus remained still for a long time before finally stirring and wrangling his way out through the mess of limbs, branches and live elder bushes.

From one direction, he could hear an occasional car, and he figured there must be a street nearby. He tried to walk in that direction, even though he was often drawn off course by occasional tangles of bushes that blocked his way. Now he was shivering hard; though the night wasn’t cold, it was cool and damp deep in the woods. His fear likely added to the intensity of his shivers.

Eventually, however, he emerged from the woods and onto a grassy area that ran alongside a roadway. He wasn’t too surprised to see he was not too far away from the exact site where had had picked up Jefferson Turner several weeks earlier, convincing him that Jefferson must have followed somewhat the same route he did.

A new fright hit Marcus. He was alone in this place called Madison Heights where the police were none too friendly; he did not have his cell phone, it had been taken from him by Henry. Perhaps a friendly motorist might pick him up and let him call Amy on his cell phone.

Too late, however, he spotted a police car approach. He knew he couldn’t flee; they’d be suspicious.

The car stopped several feet from Marcus. An officer got out from the driver’s side of the car; it was the same officer who had picked up Jefferson weeks before. He was the mean officer.
(To Be Continued)
(Eric proofread and offered important improvements. Thanks to him.)