Vernelle’s special blend of barbecue sauce. The clientele at Vernelle’s Party Center on St. Clair Avenue is mostly black, mostly monied, mostly on the hustle in some manner or another. A beautiful young white woman, alone at the bar, usually means one of two things, both trouble. Everyone knows that.
But, this night, the woman is that fine, and Willis Walker is far too loaded to care.
Ginger lights a cigarette, moves a little to the music. She squares herself in front of Willis Walker, reels him gently in. “So . . . you gonna do a tequila kiss with me?”
“A tequila kiss?” Willis answers. “What’s that?”
“I’d prefer to show you,” Ginger says. “But it has something to do with an ounce or two of Cuervo.”
“Oh yeah?” Willis asks. “What else?”
Ginger arches her back slightly. Willis’s eyes stray to her breasts, back up to her lips. She waits. “A lemon, of course.”
“ Gotta have that lemon.” Another smile. Big, pearly shark. He moves a little closer. “Anything else?”
Ginger parts her lips slightly, her eyes roaming Willis Walker’s considerable bulk. She whispers, “My mouth .”
Willis’s eyes light up. “Your mouth?”
“Sí.”
Willis calls the bartender.
“Not here,” Ginger says.
Willis looks dismayed for a moment. Then snaps the golden hook. “Okay,” he says. “Where?”
Ginger removes what looks like eight hundred dollars in cash from the inside of Willis’s suit coat, along with his watch, his rings, the sapphire stick-pin in his tie. There is no need for photo insurance this time. Willis Walker is not exactly the kind of man you threaten with blackmail.
Willis is spread out over one of the two beds in Room 116 of the Dream-A-Dream Motel on East Seventy-ninth Street. His shirt is unbuttoned, his pants unzipped. At the moment, he is snoring loudly, spreading a small pond of drool on the stained pillowcase.
Ginger shoves the cash into her oversized purse. An extraordinary haul for twenty-five minutes’ work, she thinks. As per her routine, she will now put on the dark knit cap she carries, along with the calf-length plastic raincoat that folds into a bundle no larger than a pack of Marlboros. At night, from even ten feet away, she would look like a bag lady. She would walk the five blocks back to Vernelle’s, and her car, pepper spray at the ready.
She peeks through the curtains as she slips on her raincoat. Dark parking lot. Fewer than five cars. Safe. She opens the door.
And knows that he is behind her, seconds before his fingers dig into her neck.
“Goddamn bitch ,” Willis Walker screams, pulling her roughly back into the room. “Goddamn fuggin’ bitch !”
He bangs shut the door as Ginger crashes to the floor, rolls to her right, gets up, snaps off a heel. She stumbles into the wall, her heart racing. How had he survived that much Rohypnol? She had increased the dose because of his size, but here he was wide awake. How could he—
She does not finish the thought. Willis Walker interrupts the process with a right cross that smashes into her jaw, stunning her, showing her mind a galaxy of stars. Bile sours her throat as she hits the floor again—knees first, then hips, shoulders, head. The room tumbles like a crazy red clothes dryer.
“Fuggin’ kill you, bitch,” Willis chants, stumbling toward the nightstand between the beds, plowing into the table lamp, exploding the bulb against the wall.
Ginger finds her way to her feet, her head a shrieking carousel of noise and pain. She holds onto the wall, kicks off her shoes, finds her balance. For a moment, she thinks she is hallucinating. But there it is, rising into the shaft of moonlight streaming through the window, swinging her way.
A nickel-plated twenty-five.
Ginger dives into the bathroom, slams the door. She barely gets the knob on the lock turned before Willis pummels the door, rattling the hinges, splintering the jamb. “ Biiiiiiiitch !”
She looks around, her mind
But, this night, the woman is that fine, and Willis Walker is far too loaded to care.
Ginger lights a cigarette, moves a little to the music. She squares herself in front of Willis Walker, reels him gently in. “So . . . you gonna do a tequila kiss with me?”
“A tequila kiss?” Willis answers. “What’s that?”
“I’d prefer to show you,” Ginger says. “But it has something to do with an ounce or two of Cuervo.”
“Oh yeah?” Willis asks. “What else?”
Ginger arches her back slightly. Willis’s eyes stray to her breasts, back up to her lips. She waits. “A lemon, of course.”
“ Gotta have that lemon.” Another smile. Big, pearly shark. He moves a little closer. “Anything else?”
Ginger parts her lips slightly, her eyes roaming Willis Walker’s considerable bulk. She whispers, “My mouth .”
Willis’s eyes light up. “Your mouth?”
“Sí.”
Willis calls the bartender.
“Not here,” Ginger says.
Willis looks dismayed for a moment. Then snaps the golden hook. “Okay,” he says. “Where?”
Ginger removes what looks like eight hundred dollars in cash from the inside of Willis’s suit coat, along with his watch, his rings, the sapphire stick-pin in his tie. There is no need for photo insurance this time. Willis Walker is not exactly the kind of man you threaten with blackmail.
Willis is spread out over one of the two beds in Room 116 of the Dream-A-Dream Motel on East Seventy-ninth Street. His shirt is unbuttoned, his pants unzipped. At the moment, he is snoring loudly, spreading a small pond of drool on the stained pillowcase.
Ginger shoves the cash into her oversized purse. An extraordinary haul for twenty-five minutes’ work, she thinks. As per her routine, she will now put on the dark knit cap she carries, along with the calf-length plastic raincoat that folds into a bundle no larger than a pack of Marlboros. At night, from even ten feet away, she would look like a bag lady. She would walk the five blocks back to Vernelle’s, and her car, pepper spray at the ready.
She peeks through the curtains as she slips on her raincoat. Dark parking lot. Fewer than five cars. Safe. She opens the door.
And knows that he is behind her, seconds before his fingers dig into her neck.
“Goddamn bitch ,” Willis Walker screams, pulling her roughly back into the room. “Goddamn fuggin’ bitch !”
He bangs shut the door as Ginger crashes to the floor, rolls to her right, gets up, snaps off a heel. She stumbles into the wall, her heart racing. How had he survived that much Rohypnol? She had increased the dose because of his size, but here he was wide awake. How could he—
She does not finish the thought. Willis Walker interrupts the process with a right cross that smashes into her jaw, stunning her, showing her mind a galaxy of stars. Bile sours her throat as she hits the floor again—knees first, then hips, shoulders, head. The room tumbles like a crazy red clothes dryer.
“Fuggin’ kill you, bitch,” Willis chants, stumbling toward the nightstand between the beds, plowing into the table lamp, exploding the bulb against the wall.
Ginger finds her way to her feet, her head a shrieking carousel of noise and pain. She holds onto the wall, kicks off her shoes, finds her balance. For a moment, she thinks she is hallucinating. But there it is, rising into the shaft of moonlight streaming through the window, swinging her way.
A nickel-plated twenty-five.
Ginger dives into the bathroom, slams the door. She barely gets the knob on the lock turned before Willis pummels the door, rattling the hinges, splintering the jamb. “ Biiiiiiiitch !”
She looks around, her mind
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