“Yeah, but maybe no pictures yet.”
“Don’t need pictures. Cops can stop every black guy and white guy walking together they see,” Hawk said.
“We could hold hands,” I said, “and blend into the ambience.”
Traffic was moving now in San Francisco. A lot of cabs. A lot of smaller foreign cars. There were people on the streets. A lot of young women, smelling of floral shampoos and scented soap and expensive perfume. They were wearing man-tailored suits with high slit skirts and carrying purses designed like briefcases. Many wore running shoes with their expensive dresses and carried their high-heeled shoes in shopping bags with Neiman-Marcus logos, or the name-GuMP’s. Working women, full of excitement, or vivacity, or desperation. Land of promise.
We turned the corner on Powell Street at Union Square and walked up Powell in front of the St. Francis Hotel. The cable car was not running while the system was being overhauled, and traffic moved along Powell Street better than I’d ever seen it. At the corner of Post two good-looking women stood watching people go to work. As we passed one of them said, “You gentlemen looking for adventure?”
Hawk looked at me, his face beginning to brighten.
“At seven thirty in the morning,” I said.
They were both blond. The one who spoke wore a neat red dress with big white buttons up the front and white high-heeled shoes. Her hair was cut short like Princess Di’s and her makeup was expert and unobtrusive. Her friend had on designer jeans and high heels and a beige cotton sweater with a V neck. The sweater was belted with thick blue cord.
Red Dress said, “Never too early for fun.” Hawk said, “You ladies got a place we can go?”
Red Dress said, “Sure. Nice apartment. Cost you a hundred dollars each.”
“Hundred bucks apiece off the street?” I said.
Red Dress shrugged. “Worth twice that ‘much,” she said. “I’m Fay, this is Meg.”
I looked at Hawk. He was grinning. “The Lord will provide,” he said.
“Shall we take a cab,” I said to Fay.
“Yes,” Fay said. “Best bet is in front of the hotel.”
We walked over and the doorman got us a cab. I tipped him a dollar. Hawk and I got in back with Meg. Fay sat up front with the cabbie.
“What are your names?” Meg said. “Frick,” I said.
“Frack,” Hawk said.
Meg nodded seriously. “I’ll remember by rhyming them,” she said. “Frack as in black.”
“And Frick as in prick,” Fay said from the front seat. The cabbie laughed and pulled away. We went around Union Square, down Stoekton and across Market. We ended up outside a four-story beige building with the stucco flaking off at the corner of Mission and Seventh: There was a video game arcade on the first floor. We paid the cabbie and followed the two women into a door to the left of the arcade. There was a narrow corridor and a stair leading up. We went up the stairs and into an apartment that fronted on Mission. There was a big square living room with a white porcelain sinkstove-refrigerator unit along one wall. There was a daybed covered with a green corduroy throw, an oak table, four chrome chairs with plastic mesh seats, and a pine bureau painted yellow. Across from the daybed a color television sat on an imitation-brass television stand. A short corridor ran off to the right, past the appliance unit.
“You boys want a drink or anything?” Fay said.
“A little early,” I said. “Mind if I turn on the TV?”
Fay shrugged.
Meg said, “How about coffee?”
Hawk said, “Fine.”
I turned on the TV and Diane Sawyer sprang into focus. So close and yet so far. I turned the sound low.
Meg was at the stove.
Fay said, “Business first, fellas. That’ll be two hundred up front.”
I said, “You have a pimp?”
Fay looked at me as if I were a child. “Course. Won’t let you operate without a pimp.”
“He come around and collect every day?” Meg turned from the stove and looked at me. Fay smiled and stepped toward me and put her arms around me and pressed against me. “Never mind him, honey, let’s you and me get closer,” she said.
I said, “You’ll feel it anyway. There’s a gun in my belt and I’m not a cop.”
Fay stepped away. “What the fuck is going on,” she said.
Meg was turned away from the stove, a jar of instant coffee in her hand.
“You guys are vice,” Meg said.
“Nobody not cops as much as us,” Hawk said. “When your pimp come to collect?”
“We got no pimp,” Fay said. “You guys got us wrong. We’re just looking for a little fun. You want a little fun?”
“No fun,” I said. “We want to know when your pimp comes to collect.”
“And we want to know pretty bad,” Hawk said.
