Chances by Jackie Collins Page B

black girl who Carrie suspected was about the same age as herself, although they both claimed to be eighteen.
    Carrie thought Billie was real pretty, she liked her a lot. Billie had come up from Baltimore to visit with her mother and had gotten a job as a maid, hated it, and ended up selling it at Florence Williams’s place. “Beats the hell outa cleaning up after some fat lazy white bitch,” Billie drawled. She had a lovely voice, real nice and smooth, Carrie thought, especially when she would sing along with some of the jazz musicians on the Victrola. “You oughtta be a singer,” Carrie told her.
    “Yeah,” Billie agreed, “there’s a lotta things I oughtta be doin’—and one day I’m a gonna bust right out an’ surprise everyone.”
    “Sure you will,” Carrie agreed, “and so will I.” Only she didn’t quite know how. Billie had a dream. She had nothing. At least she was safe selling her body. She had no desire to go out in the world again and face people. They would all take one look at her and know immediately what she was.
    Sometimes she would wake in the middle of the night and curse grandma Ella and Leroy. Other times she would wake and force herself not to think about them.
    The days turned into nights, then back to days again, and Carrie really didn’t notice the difference. It was as if she was in a permanent daze. Even the money she was managing to salt away didn’t mean anything to her. Each john blended into the next. Black, white, old, young, it meant nothing to her.
    Florence Williams summoned her for a talk. “You’d better change your outlook, little gal. These cats comin’ here for a good time. From what I hear you ain’t givin’ it to them.”
    One night, while Carrie serviced a john, there was a big commotion outside her room. Angry raised voices. Billie and a customer. And Florence’s calm tones trying to smooth things over.
    Carrie found out later that Billie had turned a client down. A real big negro by the name of Big Blue Ranier. A man with connections. He had been with Bub Hewlett, the man who practically ran Harlem.
    Florence was furious. “These guys are in real snug ’n’ tight with the cops,” she fumed. “You gotta learn who you can say no to and who you can’t.”
    Billie was unrepentant.
    The next morning as the girls sat around the kitchen eating breakfast there was a raid. The cops broke in and arrested everyone in the place. They were hauled off to jail in a paddy wagon.
    Within hours Florence Williams and the two white girls were released. Billie and Carrie were not. They were booked, charged with prostitution, and, after a horrible night in jail, taken over to the Jefferson Market Court.
    When Billie saw who was presiding on the bench she groaned. “We have had it,” she announced to a by now petrified Carrie. “See that old bitch up there? That’s Judge Jean Norris—she’s meaner than a plateful of turds!”
    Billie got off lightly, as far as Carrie could tell. Her mother appeared in court and swore that Billie was eighteen. Then the judge squinted at a piece of paper, said it was a health report and that Billie was sick, and sent her off to a city hospital in Brooklyn.
    When Carrie’s turn came, the judge gave her a real mean stare and asked all sorts of questions which Carrie refused to answer. The only thing she volunteered was the fact that she was eighteen years old.
    Finally, exasperated, Judge Norris said, “If you don’t care to answer the court’s questions, that’s up to you, young lady. I could be lenient with you, but because of your attitude I don’t intend to be. Three months. Welfare Island. Case dismissed.”
    Judge Norris was every bit as mean as her reputation.

Wednesday, July 13, 1977
    New York
    “Christ!” Lucky exclaimed. “What the hell happened?”
    Steven, jolted against the side of the pitch-black elevator, replied, “I don’t know. Must be the generator gone out.”
    “Who are you?” she demanded, suddenly