Day-Glo–orange sleeveless shirt and a gray porkpie hat with a bright-red feather sticking jauntily from the band. They were at the mouth of an alley; a chopped and channeled ’51 Mercury coupe gleamed in forty coats of dark-purple lacquer to their right.
A white ’ Buick Roadmaster lowrider pulled into the alley. Two Latinos got out of the front seat, one carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder.
The four men stood close together, talking. Cash flashed in the dim light. One of the Latinos held out the duffel bag. Chandler took it.
As Chandler was opening the trunk to the Mercury, the first shots took him in the back and he crumpled. Pablo turned, frozen. The two Latinos cut him down like wheat. One of them got out and ran toward the Mercury’s open trunk. The red Camaro charged into the alley, engine roaring. A gun flamed through its driver’s-side window. The Latino next to the trunk dropped. The other ran toward the Buick.
Sirens cracked the night open. The Buick fishtailed out of the alley. Vangie dropped her pistol and knelt beside Chandler on the blood-smeared pavement, begging him to come home with her one last time.
for Kelly
THE REAL THING
T he middle-aged, middle-sized man sat behind a steel-gray metal desk. Venom-yellow glare from the naked fluorescent tubes over his head turned his complexion a sickly shade of ugly. The top of the desk was cluttered with paper: tear sheets from the personals column of a local tabloid, phone bills, a porno magazine with the cover ripped halfway off, the local Yellow Pages.
The man took a hard puff on the remaining stub of his cigar. He made a sour face, as though the taste had betrayed him. Then he started rooting through the paper clutter for an ashtray. After a few seconds, he made a grunt of disgust and dropped the burning stub on the nicotine-colored linoleum floor. He was grinding it out with his heel when the blonde walked through the office door.
“You’re a genius, Lester,” the blonde said, throwing an extra touch of throatiness into her husky whiskey-and-cigarettes voice as she crossed the room and parked one silk-sheathed hip on the edge of the desk. The man she called Lester opened his mouth to respond, but the blonde took a deep breath first, pulling his flesh-pouched eyes to her chest. The blonde listened to the silence, as if assuring herself it would hold. Then she crossed her muscular legs slowly and smoothly—the rasp of nylon was the loudest thing in the room.
The sex-sound made the man gulp, clearing his throat. “Uh . . . thanks, Delva. But I don’t know what—”
“Oh yes, you do,” the blonde interrupted. “I mean, you’re the
boss
around here, right? Who else?”
“I don’t exactly get your—”
The blonde twisted her torso. Her cantilevered breasts jutted at an impossible angle as her head swiveled to face the man.
“The kiddie stuff, Lester. That was real genius.”
“Oh.
That
. It wasn’t no big thing. To figure it out, I mean. There’s a big market there. Different strokes, right?”
“You mean me?” the blonde purred, licking her lips.
“Cut it out, Delva,” the man said. “You wanna be a lez, that’s your business, okay?”
“So it’s the same?” the blonde asked softly.
“Huh?”
“Some people are gay, some people like to meet-and-beat, some people love shoes, some people like to fuck little kids . . . ?”
“What’s the damn difference?” the man replied, more life in his voice now. “I mean, it ain’t
real
anyway, okay? It’s a fake. A hustle, that’s all. We don’t do no out-call stuff here, not like some of those joints where you can just order pussy delivered like a goddamned pizza.”
“Yes,” the blonde said, a quick smile slashing across her full lips. “But the genius part was getting a real live little girl for the phones. I mean, it’s just
amazing
that those child-molester freaks can tell the difference.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, come
on,
Lester. You know as well as me that
A white ’ Buick Roadmaster lowrider pulled into the alley. Two Latinos got out of the front seat, one carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder.
The four men stood close together, talking. Cash flashed in the dim light. One of the Latinos held out the duffel bag. Chandler took it.
As Chandler was opening the trunk to the Mercury, the first shots took him in the back and he crumpled. Pablo turned, frozen. The two Latinos cut him down like wheat. One of them got out and ran toward the Mercury’s open trunk. The red Camaro charged into the alley, engine roaring. A gun flamed through its driver’s-side window. The Latino next to the trunk dropped. The other ran toward the Buick.
Sirens cracked the night open. The Buick fishtailed out of the alley. Vangie dropped her pistol and knelt beside Chandler on the blood-smeared pavement, begging him to come home with her one last time.
for Kelly
THE REAL THING
T he middle-aged, middle-sized man sat behind a steel-gray metal desk. Venom-yellow glare from the naked fluorescent tubes over his head turned his complexion a sickly shade of ugly. The top of the desk was cluttered with paper: tear sheets from the personals column of a local tabloid, phone bills, a porno magazine with the cover ripped halfway off, the local Yellow Pages.
The man took a hard puff on the remaining stub of his cigar. He made a sour face, as though the taste had betrayed him. Then he started rooting through the paper clutter for an ashtray. After a few seconds, he made a grunt of disgust and dropped the burning stub on the nicotine-colored linoleum floor. He was grinding it out with his heel when the blonde walked through the office door.
“You’re a genius, Lester,” the blonde said, throwing an extra touch of throatiness into her husky whiskey-and-cigarettes voice as she crossed the room and parked one silk-sheathed hip on the edge of the desk. The man she called Lester opened his mouth to respond, but the blonde took a deep breath first, pulling his flesh-pouched eyes to her chest. The blonde listened to the silence, as if assuring herself it would hold. Then she crossed her muscular legs slowly and smoothly—the rasp of nylon was the loudest thing in the room.
The sex-sound made the man gulp, clearing his throat. “Uh . . . thanks, Delva. But I don’t know what—”
“Oh yes, you do,” the blonde interrupted. “I mean, you’re the
boss
around here, right? Who else?”
“I don’t exactly get your—”
The blonde twisted her torso. Her cantilevered breasts jutted at an impossible angle as her head swiveled to face the man.
“The kiddie stuff, Lester. That was real genius.”
“Oh.
That
. It wasn’t no big thing. To figure it out, I mean. There’s a big market there. Different strokes, right?”
“You mean me?” the blonde purred, licking her lips.
“Cut it out, Delva,” the man said. “You wanna be a lez, that’s your business, okay?”
“So it’s the same?” the blonde asked softly.
“Huh?”
“Some people are gay, some people like to meet-and-beat, some people love shoes, some people like to fuck little kids . . . ?”
“What’s the damn difference?” the man replied, more life in his voice now. “I mean, it ain’t
real
anyway, okay? It’s a fake. A hustle, that’s all. We don’t do no out-call stuff here, not like some of those joints where you can just order pussy delivered like a goddamned pizza.”
“Yes,” the blonde said, a quick smile slashing across her full lips. “But the genius part was getting a real live little girl for the phones. I mean, it’s just
amazing
that those child-molester freaks can tell the difference.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, come
on,
Lester. You know as well as me that
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