Over the next six months, time had no meaning for Savannah. Lost in a yawning black maw of dope and sex, she measured its passage by how often she got her fix. She spent most of her time in a fog, but occasionally—usually when she needed another fix—a burst of clarity would puncture the numb curtain. By then, though, her awareness of how low she’d sunk was too intense, too horrifying, and she’d have to back away and allow the fog to envelop her again.
After Turdball caught her in the backyard of the fleabag hotel, he threw her in the back of a van and took her someplace new. She had no idea where it was, but it wasn’t a long drive. Turdball parked, hauled her out, and practically dragged her up a four-story walk-up. When he pushed her through the door of a dingy apartment, she was thrilled to see other girls. She counted eight. But none of them spoke English, and as she started to explore, her joy turned to despair. It was a two-bedroom apartment, and they all appeared to sleep in one room. The other room was filled with clothes on metal racks, all come-hither outfits, low-cut tank tops, short skirts, and stiletto heels. She guessed she was supposed to share them with the others.
By the next day she realized all the girls were addicted to heroin, that they were all whores, and that the ring was operated by the couple who had brought her first taste of heroin. They’d seemed so friendly. Friendly enough to fuck her blind.
Now, though, both the man and woman—she never learned their names—were all business. They no longer smiled, and they rarely spoke English. She found out later they were Ukrainian, not that it mattered. The only thing that did matter was that she was now their employee, and everything was different. She was expected to work nearly twelve hours a day on her back. Instead of getting smack from them every day, Savannah now had to pay for it. She had to pay for her food, too, although she was never hungry. And she had to fork over seventy-five percent of her earnings to the couple after the last john headed back to the suburbs or the north side or his job.
Which meant she was up shit creek. Sex was a cash business, and she made about five hundred a night. By the time she handed over nearly four hundred, she had barely a hundred left for dope, and the good stuff cost at least fifty a hit. The Ukrainians would extend credit, but even Savannah knew it was a ploy to keep her dependent on them. She’d never make or keep enough to get away from them. That was their plan. A Ponzi scheme in reverse.
Chicago was oppressively hot and dry that summer. Even air-conditioning did little to relieve it. And yet she was supposed to look good. Five, maybe six times a night, in clothes that had been worn by seven other women. The heroin helped dull her awareness, but a few impressions seeped through anyway. The smell of the men and their cum, briny and thick. Stray pubic hairs on her body, which made her skin crawl. The way most johns kept their eyes screwed shut, as though looking at her would turn them into stone. Their body odor, rancid and dirty or drenched in cologne. Either way, it was all repulsive. Yeah, sure, she’d fucked for money back in Colorado. But it was her choice. She decided who, when, and where. No more.
The other thing she found curious during her rare moments of lucidity was the medications they were given. Antibiotics but no birth control pills. When she asked the woman who had “recruited” her about it, the woman lied and said they were birth control pills. But Savannah had seen the bottles from which the pills were doled out, and the labels said amoxicillin or Cipro. She tried to ask the only other girl who spoke a smattering of English about it. But the girl, who wore a world-weary air, didn’t understand or wasn’t in any shape to give advice and shrugged.
The biggest event of the summer occurred in August, when a second American was brought in. Another blonde, the girl wore the same dazed look as the others, and Savannah wondered if she’d met up with Lazlo. She gave her a few hours to get acclimated, then approached her with a simple “Hi.”
The girl’s eyes widened; she told Vanna later she hadn’t thought anyone else spoke English. Her name was Jenny and she was from Kansas City. They could talk only in snatches—the couple had armed handlers like Turdball monitoring them—but she told Vanna a familiar story: an abusive family, druggy parents. Jenny wanted something better. She’d come to Chicago on the bus. Met a guy named Lazlo at the bus terminal.
That confirmed it. Savannah had been set up from the beginning. Lazlo was a recruiter. His assignment was to find fresh “stock,” and he was paid off with sex and money. She winced. She didn’t have the heart to tell Jenny.