Free The Squad Room by John Cutter

for flounder in Quincy, Mass—or in a fish tank, for that matter.
    “So I get there, and everyone’s hitting on me. Soon their guy comes in, big guy named Ernest the Pimp. I’m basically his specialty: runaways who hit the big city and get scared. Word was, he had a whole fleet of kids working for him, all from similar circumstances. Guess they didn’t call 8 th Avenue the Minnesota Strip for nothing.
    “Anyway, Ernest the scumbag shows up and asks me if I want some pizza. I say yes, and we head over to Sbarro. He said he was an outreach worker, in charge of getting help to girls in the area, and asked if he could help me get home. He explained some of the dangers of being out in the big city on my own, just enough to scare a girl who was actually stuck there. He had the perfect line of bullshit; it was perfect. So I got him right where I want him—my kel’s working and my backup teams are all good guys looking out for me. I feed Ernest the typical runaway story—tell him I don’t want to go home, I got an abusive dad, all that stuff. He acts real sympathetic, and offers to take me to the Welcoming Center, whatever that was supposed to be. He said he’d helped a lot of other girls like me. He even asked if I had ID on me. I told him I didn’t—I’d said I was fifteen already—and he said that wasn’t a problem, and that the folks at the Welcoming Center could help me get an ID.
    “So he tells me we have to leave the terminal, and I’m thinking I’m good: I can see one of my backup teams out of the corner of my eye, and I’m real close to nailing this asshole. All I need is an offer of a sex act, or confer to offer as they say, and he’s mine. He has his friend pull this big-ass black Lincoln into the roadway at the terminal, and I’m looking around for the backup cars, and don’t you fucking know it, as I’m being hustled into this car I see Sergeant Veda in one of the cars, yelling at the guys in there, and none of them are paying attention to what’s going on with me.”
    “Wait, what?” Morrison stopped her. “What the hell could he have been yelling at them for, and why would he choose that moment to do it?”
    Tina smiled grimly. “I found out later that it was because he’dfound a Hustler in one of the cars. He was yelling at them for looking at a goddamn porno.”
    “Jesus,” Morrison said, closing his eyes.
    “So I try to back out, but Ernest shoves me into the car,” Tina went on. “Now I know I’m in trouble. The team didn’t see me get shoved in, and we’re moving. I’m hoping the other teams spot me, and they did, but none of them moved. That was another thing—I found out later that Veda told them to hold their positions. That pervert phony born-again motherfucker told them to sit tight, so he could yell at them some more, and now no one has my back.
    “The Lincoln pulls out, and no one follows us. My kel wasn’t working at that point either, but I didn’t know that; I’m just thinking, No way is this fucking happening to me, right? They got me in the front seat, and this sick fuck Ernest, he doesn’t waste any time. He tells me all about how he’s going to make me his fuck toy, then turn me out onto the street. So I’m like, Okay, we got the statement we need, where the fuck are you guys? But nobody comes to stop the car, and nobody’s behind us—no plainclothes car, no radio car, nothing. They lost me. Ernest starts playing with me while he’s driving, and I tell him to stop. I don’t have a gun on me, or a tin—I’m just supposed to have three backup teams and a Sergeant, and I don’t. I try to get out, and the guy in back grabs me by the hair. Nice red hair, pretty girl, he says.
    “At this point I realize I’m completely fucked. Next stop is the Martinique hotel on 32 nd —classic hideout spot, total dump. No one gives a shit what happens there, and you can’t see any police on the block. There’s a park across the street and Sanitation’s picking up