Night Work

CHAPTER 3

Vincent Santangelo rocketed through the streets of Providence in a Ford Escort like a man who had just held up a liquor store. The fact that the car was in no way designed for the demands he placed upon it did little to discourage him as he somehow managed to consistently get from one point to the next both alive and uninterrupted by police.

"I admit you know a lot more about cars than I do," Frank said, gripping the armrest on the door in an attempt to avoid attaining permanent union with the windshield, "but I'd be willing to bet this doesn't have the same handling package your Corvette's equipped with."

"Fuck it, that's the car's problem." Vincent laughed, changed radio stations, enthusiastically increased the volume once he found a heavy metal tune then bolted down a side street. "Besides, it's a company ride. It'll end up scrap soon anyway."

They screeched to a stop in front of a small saloon. Two tiny windows faced the street, both dressed in blinking neon beer signs. The front door was open. Vincent double-parked, shut off the car and after a quick inspection of himself in the rearview mirror said, "Come with me on this one, will ya?"

Frank had done so before but always knew about it in advance. Sudden requests made him uneasy. "Why?"

"Stand by the door but don't actually go inside. Just make sure the guys at the bar know you're there."

"Expecting trouble?"

Vincent smiled that crooked grin of his. "Let's find out."

They crossed the street and Frank stayed near the door as instructed. Had he known this was going to happen he'd have dressed differently. In a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers, he looked more like a pizza delivery boy than someone supposedly on Michael Santangelo's payroll did.

Vincent slipped off his sunglasses and continued on into the dark room with an arrogant strut. Five men sat at various points along the bar, and a chubby bartender stood behind the counter with a cloth draped over his shoulder. He recognized Vincent immediately. "Vincent, hi – how – how are you?"

"How you been, Mick?"

"Can't complain," the bartender smiled. "Can I get you something?"

"Privacy."

"You got it."

A man in his early fifties sat huddled over a bottle of cheap beer. Vincent took the stool next to him. "Aren't you gonna say, hello?"

"Hello, Vincent."

"Where the hell are your manners, Jerry?"

The man fidgeted in his seat. "I didn't recognize you."

"Here's the thing. Michael says he wants you to give him a call. You remember my brother, Michael, right?"

"Of course."

"He expects a call before the end of the day."

The man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed an envelope. "I've got five hundred here. Tell Mike I can have the other fifteen hundred by tomorrow noon."

Vincent took a wooden toothpick from a bowl on the counter and rolled it into the corner of his mouth. He looked at the envelope Jerry was offering and shrugged. "What's that?"

"I told you. It's five hundred of what I owe him."

"What'd I just say?"

"Huh?"

"You fucking retarded?"

"I don't get what you mean."

"Did I ask you for money?" Vincent asked in a quiet voice. "What the fuck is that, a loan? Did I ask you for a loan?"

"I was just trying to – "

Vincent leaned against the bar. "If you and Michael have some sort of business going, that's between the two of you. I'm just here to tell you to give him a call before the end of the day. Any of this getting through?"

"Yeah," he said, stuffing the envelope back into his jacket. "Tell him I'll call before – "

"I look like an errand boy, is that it?"

Jerry nervously twisted a napkin between his fingers. "I'll call him today. Is that good enough for you?"

Vincent slid off his stool, the heels of his boots hitting the floor with a distinctive thud. Although he was an inch or two under six feet, Vincent was a muscular two hundred and five pounds. His outfit of black jeans and a lightweight black leather jacket combined with his swarthy looks to form an extremely intimidating presence. "Don't give me attitude, you cocksucker."

"Please don't bust the place up," the bartender pleaded. "Please, Vincent, with all respect, take it outside if you have to talk to Jerry harshly."

Frank lit a cigarette, stepped a bit further into the bar. Several faces turned and noticed him but no one said a word. He and Vincent couldn't get the hell out of there soon enough as far as he was concerned, but he held his ground in silence nonetheless.

"I apologize," Jerry said. "I been under a lot of stress lately. I'm sorry. Let me buy you a drink. No hard feelings, right?"

"Yeah," the bartender said cheerfully. "What can I get you?"

Vincent's eyes never left Jerry's. "I dunno, Mick. You got any fucking brains back there? Gimme a large order of brains for this mindless fuck."

Everyone in the bar laughed too loud and too hard, and that was exactly how Vincent wanted it. Even Jerry cracked a smile and extended his hand. "You're right, I'm dumb as a brick sometimes. I apologize."

Vincent kicked the stool out from under him so quickly that by the time his actions had registered Jerry had already crashed to the floor.

From the doorway, Frank flicked his cigarette away and checked over his shoulder to make certain the street was still clear. One man started toward the door but saw Frank and hesitated. He shook his head, and the man returned to his seat without protest.

"Have another drink, ya clumsy prick."

Again, the bar exploded into nervous laughter. Jerry, more embarrassed than hurt, could have gotten up but knew better. Standing would be interpreted as a challenge, and that was the last thing he needed. Vincent turned to Mick. "You see that?"

"He fell," Mick answered staunchly.

"You're cut off," Vincent cracked. "That'll give you plenty of time to call my brother."

"No problem," Jerry mumbled.

Vincent picked up the stool and slid it back against the bar. "I'm outta here. Take it easy, Mick."

The bartender nodded. "You take care, Vincent, and tell Michael I said hello."

By the time he and Frank reached the car Vincent had already begun to laugh. They tore out of there without another word, putting quite a distance between themselves and the bar before Frank was able to relax.

Throughout the morning and early afternoon, in between stops, Frank had done his best to explain all that had happened with Charlie Rain as well as the plans he and Gus had already formed to that point. Vincent listened intently and occasionally asked a question or two, purposely refraining from offering any definite opinions of his own.

"Can you believe Jerry?" Vincent shook his head wearily. "Dumb bastard's been borrowing money from shylocks since I was a kid, for Christ's sake. Like I'm gonna take an envelope full of cash in a public place and discuss my brother's personal business."

The neighborhoods improved somewhat once they ventured beyond that section of the city, and Frank was reminded of why he'd traded city life for Angel Bay and why he had promised himself that he'd never live in any city again.

"The stupid shit spends too much time at bars and betting horses – not that I blame him. He's got a wife so ugly I'd sooner kill myself than fuck, and a kid about our age who's an even bigger loser than he is."

"How does a guy like that ever pay back big money?"

"He's not in for big money, Frank. Shit, he probably only borrowed about a thousand bucks. Figure he's done business with Michael for years so I'll bet compared to a guy right off the street he hardly pays much juice. Still, you think a guy like Jerry can walk into a bank and get a legitimate loan?"

No, Frank thought. But then again, neither could he. At least not the kind he'd need to start the business. "You think he'll come up with the money by tomorrow?"

Vincent shrugged. "Who gives a shit?"

"Wouldn't want to be him if he can't."

"They might slap him around a little – maybe even break something – but it's not like in the movies where loan sharks whack people out because they owe them a few bucks."

Frank nodded. "Can't get money from a corpse."

"Fuckin' A."

They came to a red light, and surprisingly, Vincent actually stopped for it. "I've got to swing by Michael's office," he announced, glancing both ways for cops. "After that we can hang out at my place and talk."

"Just wait for the light, will ya?"

Vincent grinned like a shark just before he ran the light. They bolted through the intersection, leaving blaring car horns, screeching tires and, Frank was certain, his lower intestines in their wake.

They pulled onto one of the busier and more congested streets in the city, where one could find just about anything: Food, entertainment, independently owned shops, larger outlets, bars, cultural and learning centers, office spaces, and a highly diverse mixture of people.

Vincent parked in front of Dino's, a small clothing store where suits and slacks made from the finest Italian fabrics were sold. A factory in the city imported the fabric, handled the design and production of the clothing, and then shipped product not only to Dino's but also to various outlets across the country.

Michael Santangelo owned the entire operation.

Frank decided to wait in the car while Vincent ran in. He returned in less than five minutes, hopped behind the wheel and pulled out into traffic without comment. Once they had traveled a few blocks, he handed Frank five twenty-dollar bills. "What's this for?"

"Helping me out."

Frank had gone on the route with Vincent many times and he'd always been paid. But after only helping at one stop he hadn't expected compensation. "You don't have to – "

"Hey, you don't want it? Give it back."

"Did I say I didn't want it?" Frank smiled and buried the money in his wallet. "I just said you didn't have to pay me."

"Don't worry about it. He gave me five hundred for the day."

When he wasn't running errands or visiting people who owed his brother money (known by the family as the "juice route"), Vincent sold used cars at a lot owned by his cousin, Jimmy. Although the opportunity to work with Michael on a full-time basis had always been an option, Vincent had never wanted a life of crime, preferring instead to move along the outskirts of the world his brother inhabited.

At the city limits they stopped at the lot, switched the Escort for Vincent's Corvette, and drove back over the border into Massachusetts. A few minutes later they reached Vincent's apartment in New Bedford.

Vincent lived on the second floor of a two-family house on a quiet side street in a working-class neighborhood. There was a small fenced-in yard, a gated driveway where he could park his car without fear of theft or damage, and a private side entrance.

The front door opened directly into a large kitchen. Vincent went to the refrigerator. "You want something to drink?"

"What have you got?"

"Couple cans of soda."

"What else?"

"Some soda."

"I guess I'll have a soda."

Vincent tossed a can of Pepsi at him and took one for himself. "Come on, I gotta work out."

"Can't you take a day off, for Christ's sake?"

One bedroom was set up as a gym. A large weight bench sat in the center of the room, flanked by a stationary bike, and a freestanding, combination heavy and speed bag station. Several weapons were scattered across a low table along the back wall, including two ninja swords and an assortment of mostly illegal pieces generally associated with the martial arts. Steel plates were stacked neatly on the floor, and three of the four walls were covered with posters of bathing beauties and centerfold models. The fourth wall had been decorated with women's underwear tacked up into uniform rows.

When Vincent returned from the bathroom he was dressed in a pair of shorts, sneakers and a tight fitting t-back tank top. He stretched while Frank admired what they commonly referred to as the "wall of shame".

"Couple new entries here."

Vincent grinned. "The blue lace and the white crotchless."

"Anybody I know?"

"The spic with the big tits I was telling you about. Rosa something. I chased her around for a month before she finally gave in. Threw that whore a good one. Eyes all rolled up in her head, calling out shit in Spanish. What an idiot."

Frank fingered the white pair. "And these?"

"Margot."

"I didn't know you were seeing her again."

"Only from behind."

"I always liked her. Nice looking girl."

"They all look the same with their feet in the air, Frank. If it weren't for the pussies I'd have nothing to do with any of them. I mean, Christ, it's not like you can talk to them or anything. I'd rather just fuck them and boot their asses out the door, you know?"

"You're such a romantic, Vin."

"That's me. I'll take a nice sloppy blow job over a candlelight dinner any day of the week, goombah."

"How poetic."

"No, just true."

"Don't you want to find somebody to settle down with?"

"I won't live that long."

"But what if you do?"

"Then I'll end up being one of those dirty old men jacking off in the park. How's that for a retirement plan?"

Frank shook his head. "You're fucking deranged."

"True enough. C'mon, gimme a hand."

They slid two hundred pound steel plates onto the bar perched across the weight bench. As Vincent lay down Frank moved to the back to offer a spot. "How many?"

"Three sets of ten, like always."

Once he'd finished pushing the weight with amazing ease, Vincent sat up on the edge of the bench and wiped himself off with a towel. "Too hot for this shit today. I'm gonna hit the bag for a few minutes and call it."

Frank leaned against the weapons table, watched Vincent pull on a pair of low ounce gloves. "Plan on telling me what you think about the deal any time soon?"

"We'll head downtown and talk over a couple beers."

"Can't. Promised Sandy we'd have a quiet dinner tonight."

"I'll have you home in plenty of time."

"Uh-huh. Coming home drunk would be a hell of an idea about now," Frank mused. "She's not nearly pissed off at me enough."

Vincent bounced on the balls of his feet, circling the heavy bag while snapping off quick, stiff jabs. "You should've never got married, goombah. I tried to tell you this would happen. Didn't I try to tell you this would happen?"

"It's not so bad."

"Don't get me wrong." Vincent planted himself and launched a straight right into the center of the bag. It swung back, causing the chain to nearly dislodge from the hook supporting it. "Sandy's a nice kid – I always liked her. If I suddenly went brain dead and decided to get married, I'd want a girl just like her."

"I'll be sure to tell her," Frank said in an attempt to mask his concern. He knew Vincent well enough to realize that he was purposely delaying their discussions regarding the deal. There had to be a problem.

Vincent changed his stance and threw a series of thrusts, and then roundhouse kicks. He finished with a spinning back-fist, the blow hitting the bag with a dull but resounding thud.

"So talk to me," Frank said.

Vincent peeled off the gloves and tossed them onto the table. "I like the deal," he said carefully. "And Michael is willing to help us out by making the necessary financial arrangements."

"Then what's the problem?"

Vincent gulped some soda and belched loudly. "You want me to be completely honest with you, Frank?"

"I was hoping you'd lie."

"It's your buddy."

Frank grabbed the towel from the bench and handed it to Vincent. "You mean Gus?"

"Yeah, the fashion plate with the dead squirrel on his head and the coffee stains all down the front of him."

"Jesus H.," Frank sighed. "I spend my life defending this fucking guy."

Vincent wiped sweat from his eyes. "That ought to tell you something, no?"

"There's no problem with Gus, man."

"Frank, he's a fucking idiot. I don't mean to disrespect your friendship – I know you guys are tight and all – but you've got to look at this from my end. This isn't like the scams we bought into in the past. This deal could put us in the big time. It's going to take a lot of work, a lot of risk, and I don't want it blown because some circus freak I don't even know fucks everything up."

"I'm telling you he's all right."

"I only met the guy a few times and already I know he's not the type you go into business with. Christ, if the way the motherfucker looks isn't bad enough – and in most cases, it is – he talks like a goof, Frank. The first time I meet the guy he starts with this bullshit about being a Ninjitsu master and how he kicks ass all the time. He hits me with so many lies in the first few minutes I start thinking maybe this guy's a retard or something. I figure there's no way a normal man is gonna say such stupid fucking things to me, you see what I'm saying? And this is the first time I met him, Frank. The first time."

"You let me worry about Gus," Frank told him.

Vincent draped the towel over his shoulder. "You know me better than that."

"Vin, what the hell you expect me to do? He's a loyal friend and he's a great salesman, too. He could help us out."

"Do you honestly expect me to put my ass on the line for a guy like that? Do you think for one minute that we could sit down for a meeting with my brother and have Gus with us? Come on, for Christ's sake, you're acting like a fucking jerk about this. I understand he's your friend, I got plenty of crazy friends too, but you don't see me making them my fucking business partners, do you?"

"I can't cut him loose."

"This has nothing to do with anything but business."

Frank followed Vincent back into the kitchen. He knew deep down that Vincent was right, but the thought of betraying Gus riddled him with guilt. "I can't fuck the guy over on this, Vin. I can't. He doesn't deserve that. I'm the only friend he's got."

"Tragic, but not my problem or yours. Let him join a fucking dating service."

Frank stared into Vincent's dark eyes for several seconds without speaking. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm not asking you to cut him out completely," Vincent explained. "If you want to hire him because you think he could help us out in the long run, then I got no problem having him around. But he can't be a partner, Frank. Period."

"Don't seem right," Frank said softly.

Vincent shrugged. "That's the way it's got to be or I'm out. Come on, Frank, use your head. You know I'm right about this."

The humidity in the room seemed to increase, and Frank felt sweat beading along his forehead. He went to the window, opened it, and watched a small group of children playing in the street below. "I'll take care of it."

"Good." Vincent smiled. "Now let's talk for real."

"I'm listening."

"I gave Michael a figure. How does twenty-five large sound? Think we can pull things together with that kind of coin?"

Frank turned from the window. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Twenty-five grand?"

"With ease."

An uncontrollable urge to laugh overtook him. Twenty-five thousand dollars far exceeded what he'd hoped Michael might be willing to front them. "What's the juice?"

"Nada."

"Michael's going to loan us that amount of cash without any points?"

"What am I, some dickhead off the street?" Vincent laughed. "I'm familia, remember?"

Frank lit a cigarette and forced himself to look at the situation objectively. "What's the catch, Vin? There has to be a catch."

"Very minor. Michael will front us the money, but he has to arrange it by going through Fratenzza."

Frank felt his heart drop to his feet. Michael Santangelo worked directly under Gino "The Ear" Fratenzza. He controlled the entire area, all the way to Providence, and was a man who demanded both respect and outright fear. Although Frank had seen him in the neighborhood countless times while growing up, he'd never actually met him. "Fratenzza, huh?"

"Don't worry about it. I known him since I was a kid."

"This is a heavy hitter you're talking about."

"You know how he got the name 'The Ear', right?"

"Yeah," Frank said, "in the old days when he was making his bones with the Biacchi Family he used to rip the hit's ears off with his bare hands."

"Neighborhood gossip," Vincent told him. "A couple of months after Fratenzza took over the area he was playing a round of golf with Fat Vic DeNicco and Tommy Calhoun, that big barrel-chested mick who used to run the street booze and dope for him, remember?"

Frank thought for a moment. "The one who got shot down by the docks when we were in high school?"

"Yeah."

"I remember him."

"Michael was still working muscle for Fratenzza at the time so he was driving the golf cart. Anyway, they're playing and Fratenzza's bullshit because he's losing. Fat Vic has the good sense to let the bastard stay a few strokes out in front but Calhoun's actually trying to win. By the time they get to the fourteenth hole, Fratenzza is out of his mind pissed-off. This dumb potato-picker still hasn't figured out that he's not supposed to be trying so hard. And then, if things aren't bad enough, out of nowhere Michael sees Fratenzza's wife barreling toward them in a golf cart. You remember seeing his wife Louise around, right?"

"Kind of a cheap-looking bleached blonde with a big gut?"

"That's her," Vincent said with a grin. "Only back then she'd just retired from one of those topless Vegas shows. She had tits out to here and an ass that'd make you come in your pants just looking at it, but she had a big mouth on her, too. Michael says she was always making eyes at other guys and giving Fratenzza a hard time about every goddamn thing. He'd knock her around now and then but it didn't do any good. The bitch refused to wise up.

"So with Calhoun trying to be Arnold-fucking-Palmer," he went on, "Fratenzza's already having a bad day. The last thing he needs is Louise in this golf cart. She drives right up onto the green, almost runs over Fat Vic's foot, and goes charging right at Fratenzza, screaming about how she found a note in one of his suits from some whore he'd been banging on the side. Michael doesn't know what the hell to do so he just sits there watching. Well, Fat Vic starts laughing and turns away, so Fratenzza won't see him and Calhoun lines up his putt and ignores the whole thing. Meanwhile, Louise is still screaming and yelling about what an asshole Fratenzza is and how she wants a divorce, when all of sudden he grabs her by the throat, throws her down on the ground, and with a penknife he keeps on his key chain proceeds to hack her fucking ear off."

Frank felt his jaw slacken. "Holy shit."

"Slices the motherfucker off – off – right there, throws it into his golf bag and tells the bitch if she ever talks to him that way again he'll cut the other one off. Michael's the one who ended up taking her to the hospital. After that, everybody called him 'The Ear', and you can bet his wife calmed right the fuck down and never raised her voice to him again."

"What happened to her ear?"

Vincent stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Her ear. What happened to her ear?"

"The one he cut off?"

"Yeah."

"How the fuck should I know?"

"But I've seen Louise Fratenzza around," Frank said. "She's got two ears, Vin."

He waved at the air between them. "The right one's a fake."

"A fake? How the hell you get a fake ear?"

"I don't know, must be rubber or plastic or something. You know, like one of them Mr. Potato Head ears."

Within seconds they had both begun to laugh. Lightly at first, then uproariously as the realization of what they had been discussing dawned on them.

"What happened to her ear?" Vincent echoed. "It's a dealer at a blackjack table in Atlantic City, you twisted prick."

Once they had regained control of themselves, Frank lit another cigarette and sat at the kitchen table. "Seriously though, I didn't think we'd have to deal with anybody but Michael."

"Neither did I," Vincent admitted. "But the way Michael explained it, it's safer if everything goes through Fratenzza."

"Guess it's all his fucking money anyway."

"But this way if something goes wrong and we have trouble paying the money back, nobody can go to Michael and say: What the fuck did you do? This way he covers his ass by letting Fratenzza make the decision."

"You sure he'll OK it?"

Vincent nodded. "Of course. It's just a matter of going through the motions and showing 'The Ear' respect. You know all that grease ball shit guys Fratenzza's age still make everybody go through. All we do is pay our respects, and once the loan is repaid and we've made a few bucks of profit we pass a little along to Fratenzza as our way of thanking him for his help and support. Little tribute, as they say."

"How much money we talking about?"

"Couple thousand once we can afford it."

"What about actual payments on the loan?"

"Michael will give us as much time as we need as long as there's some sort of regular payments coming in. He's not out to break our balls."

"We're scheduled to be in Rhode Island next week for Charlie Rain's show," Frank said. "I'd like to be able to tell him that we're up and running by then."

"I can have a meeting with Fratenzza arranged within a day or two. Just say the word."

Frank took a deep breath and looked up at Vincent. "Word."

From the window in his bedroom Gus watched the sun as it set over the city, its natural beauty an inordinate contrast against the squalor of a manmade skyline. He could also see the emergence of those people it seemed dusk itself produced, night crawlers slithering up through soil under the safety of darkness.

Three punks in their early teens had already gathered at the end of the block. Each wore oversized clothes, baseball caps and beepers. Each took turns approaching the cars that every five minutes or so slowed just enough to make a buy. Interesting, Gus thought, how almost all of those cars were makes and models one generally only saw passing through areas like this. Rich white boys and stressed-out yuppies gliding through the city, scoring their powders and pills from children. When Gus was young this had been a nice neighborhood, but those memories were so distant he often questioned their validity. At times, the line between a lie and the truth could be frustratingly indistinct.

"I wanted to talk to you about this in person," Frank was saying through the telephone he had pressed to his ear just seconds before, "but I've got to stick close to home tonight. I promised Sandy a romantic dinner."

"So, what are you saying?"

Frank described in detail his discussion with Vincent and the planned meeting with Fratenzza. Gus listened intently and tried to remain calm.

"It's no big deal. I'll take care of your end as an expense," Frank told him. "You'll be our sales manager and – "

"You're working me."

"No, listen – "

Gus cradled the phone against his shoulder with the side of his face while he lit a cigarette. "I've been in sales my whole life, Frank, I know when I'm being worked. Just tell me what's going on. A few days ago I was a partner, now I'm an expense."

"Try to understand. I know it's hard, but try. If I didn't agree to Vincent's terms then the deal was off. You know what that means? Gus and Frank sell stoves for the rest of their lives."

"You didn't have to – "

"I needed to cut the deal, Gus."

"Why'd you have to sacrifice me in the process?"

"You know I'd never fuck you over. It was the only chance we had to get this done. I thought you'd understand."

Gus removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. A killer headache had settled behind his eyes. "I still don't see why it can't be a three-way split."

"Because Vincent and these other guys don't know you, and they don't make moves with people they don't know, cabeesh? I could've easily cut you out completely, but I didn't."

"Oh gee, thanks, man. Should I blow you now or you want to do it later?"

"Look, once we're up and running and Vincent gets to know you better we'll all sit down and talk about making you a full partner, all right?"

The line was quiet until Gus said, "I thought this was about you and me."

"It is," Frank insisted. "But we need Vincent. You have my word that I'll make this up to you, but for now I need to make sure you're with me on this. In or out, Gus, what's it gonna be?"

Gus blew a smoke ring toward the window. "I'm in."

"Good," Frank said. "I know you're disappointed, but hang tight. This is going to be beautiful, man. Wait and see."

"Okay, Frank."

"You with me?"

"I'm with you."

He returned the phone to the base, took a deep hit of nicotine, and stared at the floor for what seemed a long time.

"That sounded like bad news."

Gus looked over his shoulder at the hooker sprawled out on his bed. He'd nearly forgotten she was still there. He let his eyes wander across her shoulder-length kinky brown hair, her dull eyes, bony shoulders; breasts too large for her small frame and sagging too low for a woman so young; a flat but flabby belly, and pale skinny legs spread wide and bent at the knee. "Or is it none of my business?"

"Yes," Gus said mildly.

"Yes, it was bad news, or yes, it's none of my business?"

"Both."

The woman adjusted herself so he could get a better look between her legs. "We gonna party, or what?"

"You never told me your name."

"You never asked."

"I'm asking now."

"April."

"Is that your real name?"

"It is tonight."

He studied the glowing tip of his cigarette for a moment then pulled the shade closed over the window and switched on a small lamp. The thought of having sex with this woman both excited and repulsed him all at once. Things were always the same. "Been doing this long?"

April cupped one of her breasts, pulled it to her mouth and licked the tip of her nipple. It stiffened, and she twisted it, working it between her thumb and forefinger. "Long enough."

Gus let his pants drop to the floor. He stepped out of them, leaving his T-shirt on. As he sat on the edge of the bed he stroked her hair and leaned his face close to hers.

"I don't kiss," she said, helping him out of his boxer shorts. "I told you before."

"I'll pay extra."

"It don't matter. I don't kiss."

Gus put his head on her shoulder and fondled her breasts while she masturbated him. When he was ready, he sat up and straddled her, stabbing his erection between her legs. Within seconds, he pulled out, ejaculated across her stomach, and collapsed as if he'd been shot. "Get off," she gasped. "I can't breathe."

He rolled off, pulled his underwear on and lit a cigarette. "Jesus, that was sweet."

"Can I get up?" she asked. Gus nodded, tossed her a small towel. She wiped herself off and dressed quietly. "Be a doll and give me one of them cigarettes, will you? I'm all out."

Gus shook one free from his pack and lit if before handing it to her. From a small desk on the far wall he produced a wad of bills, peeled off four tens, and held them out to her. April stuffed the money in her jeans, snatching it the way a cat pounces on a field mouse. "If you want to hook up again some time I can give you a phone number to call. Saves times and it's safer than cruising the streets."

"Are you busy now?" Gus brushed sweat from his brow. "I mean… do you have plans for the rest of the evening?"

She looked at him with disbelief. "You want to go again?"

A siren blared in the distance, slowly faded. Gus returned to the window, raised the shade and watched the street. The kids on the corner remained, and in the public park across the street some sort of disturbance between a man and a woman spilled over to the next block as they argued while walking.

He opened his bedroom door, listened to the sounds of a television game show blasting from the set in the living room.

"Is that old man your father?"

"Yeah." Gus shut the door. "We've lived together since my mother died."

"Both my parents are still alive, I think."

Gus forced a montage of memories from his mind. "Are you hungry?"

She nodded.

"Good. My treat. There's a diner over by the airport I like. You can get breakfast day or night."

"I know the one, only I can't be off the street too long."

Gus looked at her. "You got a pimp?"

She shook her head. "I'm outlaw."

"Then what's the rush?"

"I got bills to pay, and a daughter at home."

"How old?"

A coy smile slowly surfaced across her otherwise callous face. "Three and a half. Her name's Tiffany."

"Nice."

"What do you do? For a living, I mean."

"I'm a businessman."

"You do pretty good?"

Gus shrugged. "All right."

"As for me, I only work three nights a week. I need to score a certain amount whenever I go out, you know?"

"I'll flip you another forty for the rest of the night," he said abruptly. "We come back here and go to sleep. In the morning I'll give you a ride home. Be nice to me on the way."

"I can be real nice for an even fifty."

"Fine."

April studied Gus the way a scientist observes lab rats. "Why are you being so cool to me?"

"I didn't know I was."

"Maybe you're just lonely?"

Gus retrieved his pants from the floor and stepped into them with a sudden scowl. "We can go get some dinner or I can drop your ass back on the street, honey. Up to you."

"Kathleen," the woman said softly. "My name's Kathleen."

"Augustus Lemieux. My friends call me Gus."

"Believe me, I've heard some wild names – guys make up all kinds of crazy shit – but I'd bet that's gotta be your real name." They shook hands awkwardly. "Hiya, Gus."

"You didn't laugh," he thought aloud. "Everybody laughs the first time they hear my name."

She smiled. "Try going by the name April Showers."

Gus wrapped his arm around Kathleen and escorted her to the door. He had no way of knowing for sure if her sudden warmth was genuine, or merely the actions of a whore going through the motions after having been paid for the effort. For some reason, it didn't matter.

It didn't matter at all.