Heroine: California Dreamin'

Elia Mirca

Heroine:

California Dreamin’

Author: Elia Mirca
                           

www.elia-mirca.com

© 2013
EDITION ESAM®

Published by EDITION ESAM

Pictures:
© olly - Fotolia.com

Translation: KD Engelbrecht

978-3-941769-51-9

All rights reserved, expressly the right for electronic, mechanical or photographic reproduction, storage and processing in electronic systems, reprint, filming or dramatization, broadcast via radio, television, Internet or video, also of individual parts of the text, of pictures, as well as the translation into other languages. Except for the quotation of small passages for the purpose of criticism or review, no part of this publication may be reproduced.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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The light in the courtyard was blinding and I had to squeeze my eyes together. Like a string puppet I walked, no I stumbled, up the ramp of the rickety film studio where Robert had forced me to act in a porno movie. For Robert being a police lieutenant, it had been easy to extort me into that side job, as he’d told me. For him, his role as a studio manager was a side job, that’s for sure.

But for me, it was the end of what I’d believed to be a safe life in my new homeland of California, where I fled to from Germany, to escape my relentless pursuers there. Just to end up in a similar threat.

Before I’d entered this studio earlier that day, I’d been full of fear. But then the other actors, Hippo, Ron, Pete and Alfonso, along with the stage director Paolo and his assistant, Judie, turned out to be friendly and considerate. They obviously hadn’t any idea of Robert’s hidden life as a pimp.

Had this brutal police lieutenant not blackmailed me, I’d surely have told my teammates what kind of partner they were dealing with, but I knew that my life was at stake if I did that, so I kept silent.

At the end, playing in this movie hadn’t been too bad. On the contrary, I had enjoyed most parts of acting with the beautiful men. They’d left soon after we’d finished shooting the film. I’d been alone in the changing room when Robert had stalked silently into the empty film studio. He raped me. When he was done, he told me to take a hike. This police man knew that I would never speak to anybody about this. I was his possession.

Robert stood in front of the metal door of the film studio, which I closed quietly. He spoke on the phone with somebody in Spanish. He ignored me and I slowly walked up the ramp to the street.

Up there, in the driveway, parked the black SUV of my torturer. The side window was open and I saw the red button to release the emergency brake. The gearshift stood at “N”. I hesitated briefly. Then I took my handkerchief from my purse and wrapped it around my index finger. I pressed the red button. It clicked audibly. I looked down the ramp. Robert was still on the phone. I felt like I was in a dream. I went to the backside of the vehicle and leaned against it. It was quite simple.

The car started moving easily. All I had to do was push it over small ripple marks in the road. Slowly, the vehicle started to move and it accelerated, almost as if in slow motion.

I followed it with my eyes and became totally relaxed. Robert just closed his cell phone and looked up. He saw the car moving towards him; his eyes were wide open and filled with panic. He lifted his hands. He managed a short scream. Then the car came to a standstill at the wall of concrete with a loud bang. Robert lay on the hood of the car with his face down and raised hands. The vehicle must have squashed his chest.

Very calmly I sorted my thoughts. Was my phone number stored on his cell phone? No, he had never asked about it. Strange, why didn’t he do so? Perhaps he didn’t want anybody to see a connection between him and me. Were there any traces of me on the car? I was never in his car.

Did I forget anything else? I looked around. The street was empty, only my little Chevy and a few abandoned trucks were parked in the hot afternoon sun.

I wondered about myself how calm I was when I got into my vehicle. A women’s prison couldn’t be worse than what Robert wanted to do to me. Perhaps I would get away with a few years. Would Daniel pay for my lawyer?  Or should I use my relations to Erich and Otto? Oh stupid me, why didn’t I think earlier of men who would come to my rescue? Daniel, Erich, Otto, Norman.

I noticed that I could think clearly again. Thank God, I didn’t have any alcohol before the shooting of the movie.

A few minutes later on my way back I stopped in downtown San Jose. There I went to a small shopping center and bought some disinfectant for the skin, dark shades with big glasses and some white underpants. The expensive one I was currently wearing I will throw away.

I saw an Internet café right beside the shopping center. I was in a kind of mood that you could call ‘euphoric’. Why didn’t I feel guilty one bit? I caused the death of a human and found myself in the best mood.

I remembered the piece of paper in my purse. The scumbag to whom my pimp had wanted to sell me should at least learn some lesson. My pimp? It dawned on me that I had truly somehow turned into a hooker.

I shrugged my shoulders and answered myself:
“So what?”
I didn’t care about it. I was in a great mood. The former policeman was none of my concerns any longer and I would even serve a sentence that was pending. In my view that was significantly less dangerous now than continue to having to deal with Robert. If it came to that at all. Then I had a crazy and wicked idea.

First I ordered some water, paid for it and then sat down at one of the many unoccupied tables. I then visited the Internet site of the San Francisco police. I looked for a way to leave an anonymous message. In Russian language. There was a contact link on their home page. I thought about it for a moment then I entered the name and room number of the person I was supposed to visit on Tuesday. So that police could utilize the information I added some additional hints whereby I used all my Russian vocabulary that I could remember.

The text was quite legible and I checked whether I had applied the correct grammar. I had stored those rules in my memory more than the actual vocabulary. Though that wouldn’t matter to an American cop at all. He would only scratch his head why he had received some information in a foreign language. Briefly I was annoyed about the stubbornness of my former teacher who had put so much emphasis on grammar rules.

Before I pressed
“Send”
it came to my mind that police probably receives such mail every day. And they were probably careful enough not to pursue any information without checking it thoroughly beforehand. Perhaps only a few officers would visit the guy in the hotel and confront him with the email, but then they wouldn’t do anything further. I thought about it for a while then I copied the text and sent it.

The next destination was a local TV station. There I tried the same thing. However, the contact page required that I entered a name and phone number for further inquiries. After giving it some thoughts I decided to be rather bold.

With a few queries I landed on the web site of the police headquarters of the city of Kiev in the Ukraine. My brain worked like clockwork. The time in Kiev was currently seven a.m. Sunday morning. I stored the phone number of the website in my cell phone and dialed. Before that I managed to suppress my own phone number on my cell phone.

A female voice at the other end asked me to wait when I asked for the vice squad. Another woman came to the phone quickly and I told her in my lousy Russian that I had seen Igor Rasputin Voronovich in San Francisco. That was the whole name of Igor that I was given by Tanja a while ago. I heard that the woman noted something down and asked me to stay on the phone.

A few seconds later a man was on the phone who asked me something that I couldn’t understand because he talked too fast in Ukrainian language, not in Russian. I asked him to repeat it slowly and talk Russian. He had given me his name which I jotted down. Then he asked me where I knew Igor from and who I was. I remained silent for a moment and tried to recollect the remainders of my available Russian. Then I gave him the information.

“Igor is here and wants to cut a deal. You know what that means.” I gave him the name, hotel address and the time at which Robert’s ‘business partner’ would expect me in the hotel. The other side obviously wrote that information down. Without saying anything else I hung up because the whole thing became a bit ‘too hot’ for me.

However, I was so into it that I wanted to finish the perfidious game. I copied the information that I had sent to the San Francisco police into the website of the TV station and I entered the Kiev phone number and the name of the person I had talked to. Just like that. The email was sent.

The guy from Lebanon had now become an Arab sex trafficker who wanted to recruit young illegally immigrated female Mexicans to smuggle them out to his homeland. He collaborated with Igor who provided him with the required emigration papers. My Lebanese wannabe lover would probably spend a few days in jail until the story was found to be a fake. Before that, TV reporters would probably put enough pressure on police to cause them to act. I was sure that they had somebody who spoke Russian to call the authorities in Kiev. The guy on the phone would probably not hesitate inquiring about the circumstances at the police headquarters in San Francisco. I giggled. I am sure I had turned crazy.

After Robert’s rape I had intended anyway to stop at a motel on the freeway on my way back, rent a room and first of all to clean myself up. Already before I drove into one of the cheap motels I had made up my mind what name I would be giving. I put on my shades and walked into the motel.

The receptionist was an old black man who looked tired. When he asked for my credit card I insisted on paying cash. He accepted without complaining. Then he turned the book for registration towards me and I entered my name in Cyrillic letters. “Voronovich Rasputin”. The receptionist didn’t even look at it.

An hour later I left the motel through a side door at the pool after I had rinsed my privates thoroughly with the disinfectant. It burnt like the dickens. But a cleansing like the one through Stanley I didn’t want and couldn’t afford any longer. My hair was about in order again and I could return to a normal life.

Soon thereafter I sat in my car driving the six lane highway back to Roquetas. Slowly the euphoria made room to the feeling of drained energy. I thought about the women who Igor and Horst used to smuggle into Germany. Without visa or papers they were completely without any rights. Now I’ve learned about their situation first hand. The feeling of helplessness crept slowly from the belly in the direction of my head.

It wasn’t completely dark yet when I arrived at home. Daniel wasn’t there. Didn’t he tell me something else yesterday? Ah yes, he and Ingvar wanted to go to a football game to San Francisco together. And after that they wanted to have a few beers. Since I had told him that I would come home late, that was fine with me. After all it gave me the chance to relax a bit and change my outfit.

But now I felt more and more angst. It dawned on me, why. I expected police arriving at the house at any moment and have me arrested. My imagination simply overwhelmed me.

Juliane in an orange-colored prison suit stating
‘Correction Department’
. Hands and feet tied in chains. In one cell with other seven women all convicted of capital crimes. How would I justify that to my dad?

I grabbed the bottle of whiskey which I had placed back into the bar and took a swig. Then I stretched out on the bed and soon I felt how lust started replacing the angst I had. One hour and three orgasms later I was soundly asleep.

Outside some car doors slammed and I heard some men’s voices. Daniel was back. It was eleven o’clock at night. I looked out of the window. Ingvar helped my husband out of the car on the passenger side and both staggered to the door. I put my bathrobe on and opened the door.

“What, you are already here, my darling?” babbled my drunk husband supported by Ingvar.

“We had a little victory celebration and since your husband didn’t have to drive he gobbled my beer also”, smirked Ingvar who also reeked mightily of alcohol. I was a bit concerned because I never had seen Daniel in such condition. Ingvar left him to me and said good bye with a handshake whereby he looked deep into my eyes. I was tempted for a moment but right now Daniel was more important to me. He had to go to bed and I had to take care of him.

Soon he was all stretched out beside me, undressed and snored. Later I lay awake snuggled sideways against my husband. I felt how much I needed him and thought about in horror what would become of us if I had to go to prison. And perhaps he too because he would probably be charged with covering up for me.

Come Sunday I was still a free person. Daniel woke up with a tremendous hangover. He couldn’t remember a thing ever since they had left the sports bar in San Francisco. I was too nervous to accept his offer to snuggle up again and I got him some aspirin.

“How was it with Bruce?” he grinned at me later. Apparently he still tried to get laid with this detour. He knew that it turned me on as much as it turned him on when I told him about my adventures.

“That was nothing. I didn’t even make it to LA when Bruce called me from his way and canceled everything. The women had disappeared suddenly. I turned around and was back at home in the early afternoon.”

Just now I remembered that Daniel would certainly be meeting up with Bruce in the course of the next few weeks. He could then ask Bruce what had happened. Oh gee, I had to let Bruce in on that secret as fast as possible and ask him for an alibi.

Nothing else exciting happened on this day. I watched TV for a while just to get some news on Robert’s death but they didn’t report on anything like that.