Merry Christmas, NYC. Adult. A chance meeting on a cold night. (standard:adventure, 3652 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1225/885	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
While walking home from a store on a cold Christmas Eve in New York City, man is stopped by a teenage hooker. He invites her in, only to feed her, leads to an odd but chaste relationship, no doubt aided by the holiday spirit.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

it doesn't become rapid -- in which case someone might be hurt. 
Glancing into a reflecting store window, I see a dim but small figure 
behind me, the lack of curvature telling me it's Olive Oyl. 

"Slow down, will ya?" she calls. 

"Nope." 

An urban survival tip. It's best to walk fast at night, down the outer
edge of a sidewalk. That way, any mugger has to run to catch up, giving 
you warning. When they wait in alleys, they can't see you well until 
you're even with them or go by. After that, it takes them a few seconds 
to decide. By that time, you're far ahead and can hear the bastards 
coming. 

I pass a brownstone where it's obvious the residents are new. One of
those save a building things. It has a full-size cardboard Santa on the 
door. The figure would have been lit, if nobody had stolen the bulbs, 
that is. And the graffiti scrawled across his tummy suggests things 
Santa is NOT known for doing to himself. Or to Mrs. Santa either, for 
that matter. 

Reaching my building, I turn around, waiting for her to come up. It also
gives me time to eyeball the street for safety reasons. 

Looking downward, I see the top of a blond head, hair blowing across a
broad Slavic face as she removes a stocking cap to give me a good shot 
of mascaraed eyes. The tyke looks to be around 4' 5'' tall. I undo four 
locks on the outside door, then let her in ahead of me. Next, I make 
certain all those locks are secured before leading her down a dreary 
hallway stinking of boiled cabbage and dried piss, then upstairs to my 
second-floor apartment. 

"Be very careful where you step," I warn while opening even more locks,
"and I hope to hell you're not afraid of rats." 

"Afraid? You must be kidding? I've been sleeping with them for the
weeks. I don't like the things much, but I'm not afraid anymore." 

"Good. You'll love these. They're my pets." 

"What kind of guy pets rats? Icky." 

"The kind that doesn't like mice getting into everything. Rats keep mice
out." 

I don't tell her, but rats also scare away simple-minded burglars. Mine
are bred as pets, very friendly and would never bite. But intruders 
don't know that. I encourage my reputation as a "Rat Lover." It's 
probably saved me from a few break-ins. Most of my neighbors aren't 
very "nice," if you get my meaning. Well, then, neither am I. 

Another survival tip, one I sorta forgot. Be careful who you let into
your pad. Especially if you own anything of value, such as a television 
set or microwave oven. Even if they don't steal it, the word will get 
around quickly and someone else might. 

Turning to work on the locks, I let her in first. The locking-rod that
goes from floor, across the door, to wall-stud is slightly bent where I 
used it on Jeff the Jerk's head one night. I'm not telling nothing, but 
Jeff sort of disappeared after that. 

By the time I turn around, she's already in the bedroom, out of her
coat, and working on the buttons of a man's plaid shirt. Her coat lies 
, discarded, on the kitchen floor. 

"Hold it right there!" I call out. "I said I'm not screwing you, and I'm
serious. If you want something to eat, I got it. But that's all." 

My two rooms and tiny bath is large for the area, meaning enough space
to walk around in. And I do have decent furniture and keep it 
reasonably clean. My ratties, six of them at the moment, aren't very 
good guards. They're curled together sleeping at the foot of the bed. 
One raises his furry head briefly before going back to sleep. 

When she sits on the edge of the mattress, it wakes them and they
scamper tentatively over to the kid. She wasn't lying, reaching down to 
pet George while the others climb her shirt. They love to nibble on and 
lick ears. 

"These are cute. Look at that stripe over his nose? The ones in the
basement where I sleep aren't so friendly or colorful." 

"You sleep in a basement?" 

"Yeah. Since I got here, to this town. When I can't get a date that
gives me a warm bed for the night." She allows me what she probably 
considers a sexy grin. “No heat, but they's a lot'a old clothes and 
rags to burrow into.” 

"Merry Christmas. Your first in the Big Apple, rotten to the core and
this street is the decayed pits." 

"Apples don't have pits. They have seeds." 

I put down the large soda jug before taking off my own coat. Mine barely
fits on the hook over hers. Since she'll be leaving soon, I switch and 
put mine on the hook first. Going over to a tiny kitchen counter, 
almost taken up by a book-sized sink and a large microwave, I get a 
couple of glasses out of a cupboard. Pouring myself a drink of vodka, I 
open the mix. 

"You wanna drink first? If not, you'll find bread and mustard on the
table. The beef is in the fridge. Help yourself to pickles and chips. 
You'll have to open the chips yourself." 

Smiling, she visibly shivers, hands crossed over tiny breast buds.
Briefly, I wonder if they'll live to ripen, then shake the thought 
away. I've done a lot of nasty things in this and prior lives, but 
never yet molested kids. 

"I sure could use that drink, mister?" 

"Jones, John Jones." I slop Coke into the other glass, walking over to
hand it to the urchin. "Here." 

"Can I have some ... some of that vodka?" 

I consider. Well, it is cold as a witch's tit outside, and she's likely
to go back to that basement. And, then, it is Christmas Eve. Why not? I 
go over and pour her a couple of fingers of booze. 

"Thanks.” She gives me a shit-eating grin. “Can I call you John? My
name's Tammy. And I really need a friend, especially tonight, God's 
birthday." I see large expressive -- even in all that cheap makeup -- 
eyes misting over before being wiped with one dingy sleeve. 

I shrug. Why did I invite the little bitch up here? I wonder. Such an
action is unsafe, unsanitary, and unlike me. Probably, I think, because 
even I don't like to drink alone on Christmas Eve.  Heaven only knows 
what diseases are incubating in that pretty package. 

God! I go over to a lone living room window, glass in hand, to look down
into a snowy windblown street. Few dare to walk down there at this time 
of night, even in good weather. God? Jeez! He sure as hell hasn't been 
around here lately. I laugh. 

"What's so funny? Am I that ridiculous?" 

"I was thinking of something else, sorry." 

"Christmas is a time to be happy, smile and laugh. Face it, Mis ...
John. You've got the Christmas spirit." 

"The hell I do, you little witch." I spin around, spilling liquid on my
wrist. "Why the frickin' hell should we, either of us, celebrate the 
birth of that fictional freak of nature?" 

She jerks her hand from Oscar, my smartest rattie, to cover her face.
Liquid-filled eyes looking at me, the bitch sobs loudly, head dropping 
to hug skinny knees. 

"Don.... Don't shout and talk like that. Please don't. You scare me."
The words come out, muffled by flesh. "God is all I got left. Please 
don't take Him from me." 

The rats, by now throughly frightened, disappear to some rat haven. I
can't help myself. In moments, I'm down on one knee in front of her, 
reaching up to gently caress dirty blond locks. 

"I'm sorry. Really I am," I whisper, misty eyes peering into other,
equally misty, orbs. "Look, honey. Why don't you stay here tonight? I 
don't bite either, I promise. And it's better than a cold basement on 
Jes ... God's birthday." Now, why the holy hell did I say that? 
Christmas spirit? Shit. I'm over that kiddie crap. 

I stare at her until she raises her head, teary eyes seeking mine.
"Okay," comes out in a faint whisper. "I don't even want any money." 
More sobbing. "I just don't want to be alone on this ... this special 
night." 

"I'm not having sex with you. Now, you get that straight." 

"Then why, mister, if you don't believe in God or Christmas?" 

"Maybe, just maybe," I have to admit, even to myself, "I don't want to
be alone either." I reach up, grab her head from behind and pull it 
down to mine. "Maybe I do believe, just a little." I kiss that nasty 
painted forehead ... and find it sweet. 

*** 

“Knock, knock, knock.” 

The couch is dirty, smelling of spilled booze and incessant farts from a
diet heavy on beans, rice, and vodka. In the spirit of Christmas, I let 
the kid have my bed -- not that it's much better. At least I washed the 
sheets a few months ago. 

“Knock, knock, knock, bang, thump.” 

Don't get the idea that I'm all that moralistic. I'm not. I was afraid
she'd jump my bones if I slept in there with her. I'm horny, but not 
that much. Fifteen-year-old hookers are in the “return them to the 
ocean” classification, ‘least until they grow a little. They always do. 
Puberty is relentless. 

“Bang, thump. Open this fucking door.” 

Uh! I wake to one hell of a racket, front door threatening to break from
its mountings. 

“Police. We know you're in there, Jones. Open the fucking door.” 

I swing bare legs to the floor. Feeling and finding I do have shorts on,
I stand and stagger toward the door. “That you, Jefferson?” 

“Open it or lose it, Jones. What do you care who it is? We're the
po-lice.” 

I see a movement at my bedroom door. It's Olive Oyl. “Don't let the
fuckers in,” she says, shaking a tousled blond head. “Tell them you're 
not home.” 

“Hold on,” I yell. “I'm not dressed.” I turn to the kid. “Get your ass
back in there. Don't fucking hide, but try to stay out of sight.” She 
disappears back into the bedroom. As I approach the door, I glance over 
at a secret panel holding a .32 semi, seeing it's closed tightly. They 
say they're cops, but how do I know that for sure? 

“I gotta get the locks,” I say, making a lot of noise as I undo the
damned things. I leave a chain on, just in case, placing my right hand 
near the hidden weapon. I try to see through a glass peephole at one 
edge, not the obvious one in the center of the door. That center one is 
a good way to get killed. It's for dummies. Any armed intruder will 
expect your eyeball to be covering it and shoot through the door-panel. 


A distorted convex bubble on the other side shows it's three men, two in
suits and one wearing a police uniform. 

As I open the door, the two suits come in, leaving the lowly patrolman
in the corridor. Yeah. I thought I recognized his voice. One is 
Jefferson -- detective third-grade Jefferson. An insufferable asshole 
for sure. 

“Where were you last night, Jones?” he asks. 

“Here alone, drinking and watching television. You know, that fucking
ball falling down in Times Square?” 

“You're thinkin' a New Yea--” 

“Shut up, Patterson. What time you get here, and did you see or hear
anything out of the ordinary?” 

“I dunno, detective. Maybe about five? Before the sun went down,
anyway.” 

“You see a small hooker, a juvie, on your way in?” 

I shake my head. “Why? What she do?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see
the other detective stick his head into my bedroom. “The bed isn't 
made,” I tell him, “and watch out for the rats.” 

“What rat-- My God.” Face suddenly white, he retreats. I see George
Rattie under one corner of the bed, seemingly growling at the 
intrusion, Jeffery fakes a rush at the doorway.  Big bad po-liceman, 
scared of tame rats in NYC. 

“Get out of there, Patterson. We ain't got no warrant. Jones doesn't
deal in dope.” He looks back at me. “But maybe does with underage 
hookers?” 

“What's with the hookers all of a sudden, Jefferson?” I ask. 

“Mrs. Pabloski was killed last night, on the third floor next door. You
know her, 87? A weak defenseless 87.” 

“Yeah, I know ... knew her.” 

“Well, one'a the bums outside saw that underage fluff coming in here,
after dark. She had a guy with her ... maybe the killer.” 

“Wasn't me,” I lie. “The guy couldn't ID him, uh?” 

Out of eighteen rent-controlled apartments in this building, there are
only two rented by men, an ex-con child molester named Peter Perkins 
and myself. The rest go to retired old ladies, the landlord's favorite 
tenants. Peter's so gentle I sometimes let him feed my rats when I'm 
gone. He's solved his problem and lives off a small family annuity. Na, 
I've never seen him with any kids. 

Jefferson sorta smirks. “Only the bum's second night around here. He
don't know the residents yet. He did talk to the kid,” he sorta grins 
and shakes his head, “or so he says, yesterday. So he recognized her 
from that but not the man.” 

“Too bad he doesn't swing both ways, Jefferson.” I laugh. “If he'd
screwed the man instead he might have been more helpful.” 

“Well,” Jefferson says, a professional smile on his puss, “if you find
out anything, let us know. You have my card. If you see the kid, let me 
know, ASAP. There's a small reward. If she isn't involved, I'd like to 
get her back home. That's another consideration.” 

On the way out, he turns. “Have a merry Christmas, Jones. I ain't gonna.
Me and Patterson got this entire street, both sides, to search. Fuck 
Christmas.” 

“I second that, Mr. Po-liceman.” ========= New Section As the door shuts
behind them, I hear a loud “screeeech” from the bedroom. Running in, I 
find Oliv ... Tammy standing on a chair by a window ledge, trying to 
pry the dirty glass open. She could have saved the effort, the dirt on 
the window's hiding a row of sturdy bars on the other side. Anyway, it 
doesn't open. I've nailed it shut. 

“I gotta get out of here,” she whimpers as I lift the girl off the chair
to drop her onto the bed, scattering rats as she hits the mattress. 
“I'm not a murderer.” Oscar and Petey recover quickly and scamper back 
to jump on her neck where she unconsciously pets them. 

I gotta pick up some lettuce today, I consider, since the ratties kept
that detective from finding the girl. How, I wonder, do people go 
through life being afraid of small creatures like mice, spiders, 
snakes, and rats? My rats scarf up lettuce and other veggies but won't 
touch meat. I can't say the same about the two-legged ones I used to 
handle. 

In any case, I gotta get rid of the girl before Jefferson charges me
with child molesting. He's not the type to believe in platonic 
relationships with child hookers. Maybe I can give her a few bucks and 
put her on a cross-town train? 

About the time I get back out to the kitchen to heat water for instant
coffee, there's another knock on the door. I sigh and go over to check. 


“John. It's Mrs. King from upstairs. Do you have a minute?” 

Recognizing the voice, I open the unlocked door. 

Mrs. King, four more old ladies and a sheepish-looking Peter the
Molester come trooping in. 

“What can I do for you ladies?” I ask, uncomfortable in their stern
presence. 

I see a strange light in Peter's eyes before they quickly swing back to
me. The ladies have no such avoidance, smiling as Olive -- I mean Tammy 
-- comes slithering through the bedroom door. 

“Uncle John,” she asks, happily, “who are your friends?” She's all
smiles. “You have to introduce us.” 

Christ! Uncle John? Now I have a hooker for a niece. The skunk has me by
the short hairs. With witnesses to her being here I can, on her whim, 
be sent to jail for years. If it ever gets back to Jefferson? Well, I 
don't want to think of that. It's what I get for sheltering the bitch 
on Christmas Eve. 

“My name's Tammy but everyone calls me Olive,” she tells the crowd. “I'm
fifteen-years-old.” 

Jeez, I think ... rub it in, will you? 

After further introductions, during which Olive is invited up to fucking
tea, the ladies get down to business. 

“We want to hire you and Peter to organize security for us,” Mrs.
Perkins says. “We'll all chip in. It won't be much money but we girls 
want some sort of protection. Maybe you can change the locks and put in 
alarms or something? We'll pay for it.” 

“Mrs. Pabloski dying has frightened us girls, a reminder of how
vulnerable we are in this stone tin can,” Mrs. King says. She looks 
over at Peter.  I can see his eyes drifting back and forth, as though 
trying not to stare at Tammy. As I well know by now, quitting old 
habits can be a bitch. 

Jesus, I think. You want a burnt-out old mobster like me and a convicted
child molester to guard you? What the hell has the world come to? And, 
I can't help sighing, it looks like I'm stuck with Tammy. If I put her 
back on the street Jefferson would snap her up in a flash. Her word and 
that of the ladies can put me back in the state Bastille pounding big 
rocks in'ta little ones. 

The girl is still smiling as she pours herself a cup of coffee. 

The end, so far.


Tweet