Cameron Cole hated Detroit. It was a sick, diseased pile of shit, a depraved animal that ate itself, populated by people who were less than human. And he knew this because he was one of those people, a ruthless, violent parasite who feasted on weakness and the good intentions of normal people; then again, this was his occupation and a man had to make a living.
Cameron collected the money from the young girl. She shoved the crumpled green paper into his hands impatiently. The newer bills made that beautiful crackling noise as he grasped them. Cameron counted the money quickly then sent the girl and her date into a back room. The couple smiled behind their wet, druggie eyes and staggered off, using each other for support.
“Wait,” Cameron called to them.
The couple stopped in their tracks, almost tumbling over in the process.
“Here, use this,” said Cameron as he shoved a condom at them.
“Thanks,” said the young girl, grabbing the small package. Then she continued her staggered walk into the back room.
Cameron checked his supply of condoms. He was getting low. He’d bought an economy box of fifty just two days ago and now he was down to ten. He made a mental note to go out and get more. Cameron didn’t much care if they had safe sex, he just didn’t like cleaning up when they didn’t.
Cameron walked through his rented home. It was a large, boxy place with high ceilings and crown moldings that had terrible cracks in the corners. He rented the place from an old Jewish couple who lived in the suburbs. Cameron always paid in cash, on time, and they never bothered him.
As he moved through the house, he heard the moans and cursing attendant to people having sex. Even though he was disgusted by his street clientele, he was still turned on by the sound, and he wasn’t above peeking through a door when he needed to.
Cameron ran a sort of motel for local drug-using women. The girls traded sex for drugs, but they needed a safe place to make the exchange. For a small fee, Cameron let them use his place. Business was good. It seemed the only thing people liked more than drugs was sex. And he had witnessed every kind of deviance and depravity you could think of. He even had a trick die in bed with a girl once. It was a messy affair that had him dumping the body in an alley at three in the morning.
Cameron was a tall, thin man who had just turned fifty-three a few days ago. His hair was thinning badly and he was fond of jeans and T-shirts with logos. Today, he was wearing one that read BACK THAT ASS UP.
He was from what most people would call a good family. His father was a trucker and his mother, a postal worker. Cameron and his three siblings enjoyed a nice, peaceful, blue-collar family life. But Cameron, the eldest, was not satisfied with that life. He had shunned his parents encouragement to go to college and taken up with one street crew after another. Inevitably, he ended up in jail at fifteen. After that, he’d spent most of his life in prisons of one kind or another, his hope fading with his morality.
Cameron halted at a room just off the living room. He heard a particularly loud couple inside. He stopped to listen, and realized that it sounded like two men. He grew angry. He knew what that meant.
Cameron opened the door, which he told his girls never to lock. He looked inside and saw two men about twenty or so going at it with a girl who looked to be no more than sixteen. She was bent over by one man and had the other in her mouth. The men were loud and high-fived with each other over the girl’s back.
Cameron slammed the door shut and the threesome stopped their activity. The girl pulled the man from her mouth and turned her face away.
“What the fuck is this?” demanded Cameron. “You know this freaky shit is extra.”
“Yo, man, we fuckin’ in here,” said the man on the back end of the girl.
“I don’t give a shit if you playing poker with Jesus, muthafucka,” said Cameron. “One of y’all snuck in here and that cost extra.”
Cameron waited as one of the men gave him some money. He counted it, then walked out of the room, ignoring the faint curses he heard behind him.
Cameron smiled a little as he went into the big bedroom at the front of the house. This was his room, his sanctuary. He was going to close up for a while, take a break. Setting his own hours was one of the few things about being in this business he liked. He shoved his money into this pocket as he walked inside.
“What the fuck—” said Cameron as he entered and saw the three young men in his room.
Cameron reached for his gun, a 9 mm he kept in his waistband. But before he could get to it, Rimba Bady’s knife sailed into his shoulder.
Akema then kicked Cameron in the face and he fell to the floor. Cameron felt hands over his body, searching, hitting. Finally, a foot crashed into the side of his face. He felt a rag being stuffed into his mouth as his hands were bound in front of him and he was sat upright on the floor.
“Wha’sup?” said Muhammad. “We need to talk to you.”
Muhammad motioned Akema to get a wastebasket that was across the room. Rimba turned on a boom box and blasted out a song by the Ruff Ry-ders. Muhammad got closer to Cameron so he could hear him.
“Herman Bady is our father,” said Muhammad.
Cameron’s face contorted at the sound of the name. Whatever memories he had of Herman were not good.
“You was his cell mate in Texas,” said Muhammad. “You used to pull jobs together after you both got out, only he’d changed his name by then. You was his boy, probably had sex with him in the joint.”
Cameron shook his head vigorously at this statement.
“No?” said Muhammad. “Well, whatever. I know you keep in touch with him. Where is he?”
Cameron shook his head again. Muhammad sighed, then took off Cameron’s belt and wrapped it around his left arm. He then placed Cameron’s belted arm over the wastebasket. Cameron began to struggle and shake, acknowledging that he knew what this meant.
Muhammad took Rimba’s knife from Cameron’s shoulder and cut a deep gash in Cameron’s forearm. Cameron winced and grunted under his gag. Blood poured out of the cut, running and twisting in evil patterns through the hair on his arm. The coppery smell of it filled Muhammad’s nostrils. The blood stopped as Muhammad pulled on the belt tighter.
“You remember this from the joint, don’t you?” said Muhammad. “The red dam? Tell me where he is or I’ll let you bleed.”
Cameron’s eyes got bigger as he realized that they meant to kill him. He nodded his head vigorously as Muhammad took off the gag.
“He’s here…in Detroit,” said Cameron.
“We know that, nigga,” said Muhammad. “Where?” He loosened the belt and more blood flowed.
“I don’t know!” yelled Cameron. His eyes rolled and Muhammad stopped the flow of blood. “Herman sent me a letter when I was locked up in Kentucky,” said Cameron. “Said he had a scam running here in the city or something like that. It came from some place in Detroit….” Cameron fell silent trying to remember.
Muhammad pressed on Cameron’s wounded arm making it bleed faster and causing pain. Cameron yelled loudly and twisted his body.
“What place?” asked Muhammad through gritted teeth.
“Damn,” said Cameron. “It started with an O—Oasis! That’s it. It came from a place called Oasis.”
“Where’s the letter?” asked Muhammad.
“I didn’t keep the shit,” said Cameron. “It was just a letter from an ex-con.”
“Oasis,” Muhammad said softly. “Is that all?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Cameron. “I swear, that’s all I know, man.”
Muhammad pulled the belt tighter until all of the bleeding stopped. He then put the loose end into Cameron’s other hand. Cameron held it tightly and expelled a big breath.
Muhammad stood and held out his hand. Cameron raised his bound hands, thinking Muhammad meant to help him up from the floor. Instead, Rimba handed him Cameron’s gun. Cameron’s eyes grew wider at the sight of the weapon. Rimba turned the music up full blast as Muhammad aimed the gun at Cameron’s forehead and fired.