'The lipstick…that's what tastes good.'
'Oh. I guess you don't…I mean…'
'Only my eyes don't work.'
She flushed under the heavy makeup. 'I didn't mean…'
'It's okay. Everybody's missing something.' Her eyes flashed sad. 'I had a dog once. Back home.'
'And you miss her?'
'Yeah. I miss a lot of things.'
'Go home.'
'I can't. Not now. You don't understand…Home's far away from here. A million miles away.'
'What's your name?'
'Debbie.'
'These are bad streets, Debbie. Even if you can't go home, you can go away.'
'He'd come after me.'
I dragged on my cigarette.
'You know what I'm talking about?' she asked, her voice bitter-quiet.
'Yeah. I know.'
'No, you don't. He's watching me. Right now. Across the street. I spend much more time out here talking to you, not making any money, I'm gonna get it from him.'
Even with my eyes closed, even with her facing me, I could see the coat-hanger marks across her back. Feel them. I shifted my face slightly, let her hear the core to my voice. 'Tell him you made a date with me. For later.'
'Sure.' Melancholy sarcasm.
'Put your hand in my coat pocket. Your left hand.'
'Wow! You got some roll in there.'
'It's mostly singles, two twenties on the inside. Take one…Tell him you asked for half up front.'
She glanced over her shoulder, hip-shot, leaned close to me. 'I tell him that and he'll be waiting for you later…when you go home.'
'I know. Tell him the roll was a couple a hundred, it's okay.'
'But…'
'Just do it, Debbie. You live with him?'
'Yeah…'
'You can go home tonight. Away from here.'
'How…?'
'Take the money, go do your work. Tell him what I told you.'
'Mister…'
'Reach in, pull out the roll. Shield it with your body. Take the bill, put the rest back. Pat my dog. Then take off. Tonight, you go home, you understand? Stay out of the bus station— take a train. It'll be okay, Debbie.'
She reached in my pocket, knelt down.
'Sheba, it's okay, girl,' I said.
The dog made a sweet little noise as Debbie patted her. She straightened up, looked into the lenses of my glasses. 'You're sure?'
'Dead sure.'
I listened to her heels tap off on the sidewalk. A different rhythm now.
3
It was almost two o'clock before he showed. I recognized him easily by now. In his thirties, close-cropped brown hair, matching mustache, trimmed neat. Wearing a blue windbreaker, jeans, white basketball shoes. Youth worker from one of the Homeless Shelters. Last time he stuffed a dollar bill into my cup. I remember saying, 'God bless you.'
Watching his smile.
This time he wasn't alone. The kid with him was maybe eight years old. Skinny kid, wearing a brand-new sweatshirt with some cartoon character on the front, munching a hot dog. Having a great time. Probably spent a bunch of quarters in the video arcades first.
They turned into the electronics store a few doors in front of where I was standing— the same place he'd gone into the last time. When he'd come up behind me and put the money in my cup. The same place he always went.
He was inside almost an hour. When he came out, he was alone.
