Hi, babe.
More once-over, the false lashes opening and closing like moth wings. Then backing off, the you're-not-no- cop-are-you game.
Charming smile: Do I look like a cop, babe?
No one looks like a cop, cutie.
Hold the smile, flash the cash: If I wanted to talk all night, I'd have joined a rap group.
She hesitated, looked around, scratched a fishnet knee.
He edged the Plymouth forward an inch.
Hold on, cutie.
Now she's smiling, all cat teeth, evil-Sarah. Watching her, he got totally turned on. His hard-on like a ton of galvanized pipe.
She got in, closed the door, and stretched. Catlike. Named a price.
Fine, babe. So casual.
She studied him again. Stretched.
Go three blocks and hang a right, cutie.
What's there?
A nice comfy spot for partying.
Two minutes later, the old front-seat head-in-lap cliche, but different: He'd expected to shoot off right away, but the Sarah-resemblance created mind pictures that kept him going for a while. He made her work, pushed down on her head, wrapped her hair around his fingers, then gave it to her.
All right!
And this one didn't spit: Yum. With a smile.
Lying through her teeth, but he loved it nonetheless.
Loved her.
Because it was true love, he paid her more than they'd agreed on, looked for her the next night and the next, not knowing her name, not knowing who to ask for-Sarah who swallows? Went home hungry, cruised, stole a stray dog and feasted on science and the memories until the third night, when he spotted her on a different corner, even farther east.
Still in black, still beautiful.
No recognition, until she got close.
Well, hello, cutie.
Weird accent, but definitely not spic.
After she did him, he asked what her name was.
Nightwing.
What kind of name is that?
My street name, cutie.
What's your real name?
The street is real, cutie. You ask too many questions. Talk's a waste of time. Cat smile. Well, well, would you loo-ook at that? Hey, Youngblood-how about seconds? You're so cute, I'll give you a discount.
I'll pay you regular.
Well, aren't you sweet-ooh, so impatient. Go ahead, push my head, pull my hair-a little harder, even, if it gets my cutie off.
They dated regularly, at least once a week, sometimes twice. Driving farther and farther away from Nasty, up into the hills that overlooked the boulevard. Parking on cul-de-sacs and tree-blackened side streets, always blow- jobs-neither of them wanted anything messy.
Casual dates, no holding-hands-in-the-movie-theater bullshit. He liked the honesty, the fact that neither of them felt a need for conversation and other lies.
But learning a little about her anyway-she liked to talk when she reapplied her lipstick.
She was from out of town, had worked Nasty for six months, first with a pimp but going it alone now. The pimp, some evil nigger named BoJo, had accused her of holding out cash and cut her up. She showed him the scar under one tit, bumpy pink zipper. He licked it.
Being an independent meant she had to cover her ass at all times, stay away from the pimp-slaves, restrict herself to quiet corners. Which was getting tougher to do-the pimps were spreading out, pushing her east, away from the Nasty Strip hot spots. But the hills were okay. Everything was okay:
I got no problems, cutie. I got no problem making ends meet-if you dig what I'm saying, cutie pie.
She'd volunteer a little info, but wouldn't answer questions, not even about the accent, which he still couldn't | place-gypsy?
The secrecy didn't bother him. In fact, he liked it.
