He slowed at a stop light, then almost shouted when his cell phone blared. Jesus! “Hello?”
The shrill voice was Blocher’s. “Heyton, holy shit, I can’t even sleep I’m so torqued up about tomorrow!”
“Relax, sir. I think it’ll go well.”
“I tried calling the room we booked you at the con center but they said you never checked in.”
Heyton rarely ever stayed in those rooms; they existed too far away from his need. So he lied: “Oh, yeah, Mr. Blocher, but after flying over from Dallas, I was so dog-tired, I just checked into the first motel I could find.”
“Fine, fine, well—shit. Get plenty of sleep. How early you gotta get up?”
“It’ll be no rush, sir. I’ll get to the con center at two. My presentation’s at three.” Heyton could see Blocher sitting in his den with his hair sticking up, wringing his hands.
A nervous chuckle. “It’s all riding on you, Heyton. You’re going to have chiefs and teckies from three or four dozen Florida departments sitting in tomorrow—the fuckin’ U.S. Marshals might even be there.”
“Relax, sir,” Heytoned repeated, amused.
“Shit, Heyton. What I say earlier? I’ll quadruple your salary? Fuck it—if you sell the IAP system to a bunch of Florida PD’s—I’ll…what’s five times, Heyton? Quintriple?”
“Quintuple, I think, sir.”
“Yeah! That’s what I’m saying! You sell Florida, Heyton, and I’ll quintuple your salary!”
“That’s almost a million a year, sir,” Heyton reminded.
“Fuckin’-A right, and you’re worth it. Did you see what our stocks did today after you sold Texas?”
“No, sir. I didn’t think of it.”
“It went up sixty percent, Heyton. Because of you!”
Even better news. He hadn’t found the right kind of prostitute, but at least he was significantly richer.
“I’ll call you tomorrow after the show, Mr. Blocher. And stop worrying.”
“Yeah, yeah—aw, shit, Heyton! Break a leg!” and then he hung up.
Heyton chuckled to himself. At this rate, the silly bastard’ll have a stroke by morning.
TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!
Heyton’s frown jerked right. The light was green but no cars waited in his rearview.
A woman’s face peered through the passenger window.
Heyton froze.
She was pretty…and hugely pregnant.
She’s perfect…
He pushed open the door. “Guh—get in.”
Lean, fresh white legs angled inside, glittery flipflops on feet that were surprisingly well-pedicured for a streetwalker. A shining sweep of carbon-black hair confused Heyton to a point of distraction; he couldn’t detect her face at first, just the black shine—an obverse halo. Some fragrant scent off the hair filled the car at once.
“Hey,” she greeted.
Heyton’s eyes struggled for a place to look first. The rotundity that replaced her lap told him she was well into the third-trimester—his favorite, for the closer they were to term, the most extreme the image, the same way a donut-addict would pick out the cream-filled with the most bloat.
“Oh, shit, don’t tell me you’re one of those screwballs who never says a word…”
Heyton snapped back. “I’m sorry, hi, er—” the words tripped around in his mouth. “You caught me by surprise—” and then he flinched when a horn brayed behind him.
“Light’s green,” she said.
Mallet-head! Now the rearview showed him a Yellow Cab, and an irate Pakistani shaking his fist. Heyton trounced the gas. “Sorry.”
He detected more than saw her smile. Pretty scents began to intoxicate him; usually streetwalkers didn’t smell good, but this one could’ve just stepped from a lavender bubble bath. She also dressed quite smartly for her kind: beige cargo shorts and a cranberry scoop-neck maternity t-shirt. The clothes augmented her pregnancy rather than covered it up. Nipple-tips the size of thumb-ends tented the cranberry fabric which stuck finely as tulle to the engorged orbs.
Heyton’s palms grew slick on the wheel.
“I saw you drive by couple times,” she said, adjusting her girth in the seat. “You gotta be careful doing that—it flags the cops.”
Heyton knew the scene all too well. Nothing close to solicitation had taken place yet; if the john wasn’t the first to speak up, the girls would be worried about entrapment. “The cops, yes, well, I’m not a cop, if that’s what you’re driving at. I’m a software salesman from South Dakota.”
“Cool. I knew you weren’t five-oh, could tell by the look in your eyes.”
Heyton found the comment intriguing. “Oh, yeah?”
“Sure, man. Dudes into pregnant chicks all look the same: suits, rental cars, middle-aged but in good shape, and the same something or other in the eyes.”
“Really?”
“Um-hmm. Then I was positive when I saw you giving Tracie the once-over.”
“Huh?”
“That knocked-up junkie pipe-cleaner you were eyeballing back there.” She flipped down the visor mirror to finnick with her hair. Heyton liked her nonchalant attitude. “Shit, man, don’t EVER pick that bitch up. She’s crazy from AIDS, carries a box-cutter. Beats the shit out of me how a chick that fucked up can even get pregnant. Usually smackheads miscarry mid-term. That walking piece of trash’d shit her kid into the sewer, then keep right on turning tricks she’s so low down.”
The rough talk rolled so smoothly off her lips, Heyton didn’t even flinch. And she tagged me right away, he reminded himself.
The “look in your eyes,” she’d said.
Finally she examined him, with bright blue eyes in a cheerleader’s face, a creamy white complexion bereft of blemish.
Oh, yes. This one was perfect.
“So what do you want?”
There.
“How much for all night?”
The query seemed to catch her off guard. Ninety-percent of a streetwalker’s business was quick car-tricks, usually of the oral variety. Heyton needed the image, and he needed it to be sustained.
She tried to sound casual. “Shit, man. That takes me off the stroll for the whole night. I can make a lot of money overnight.”
“I’ll pay a thousand,” Heyton said.
Dark, perfect brows popped up. “Gotta see it, you know?”
Heyton gave her the roll. Her thumb riffled through it like a Bicycle deck, then she stuffed it into a wrist purse. “All right. Let’s go.”
“Nice and cool in this dump,” she said and sighed. “Usually the a/c’s for shit in this motel.” Heyton locked the door and closed the brass slide. He was already so aroused by the sight of her he could only think in snippets. Remember. She’s a whore. She’s a criminal. Oh, God, she’s so beautiful. Just. Be. Careful… She carried all eight and a half months quite gracefully, sauntering to the bathroom.
Quick.
Yes, one always had to be careful. He took down the preposterous manatee painting, behind which he’d already hung a plastic bag. In the bag he placed his wallet, car keys, and cell phone, then had the painting back up in seconds. “You got anything hard to drink?” she called from the bathroom. He could hear a tinkle.
He was already pouring himself one. “Just scotch.”
“I’ll have one, on ice.”
Heyton poured a second. He noticed his hands shaking; he couldn’t recall anticipation so potent. Excitement dried his mouth out until the sharp liquor replenished it. Jesus… He sat down to steady the shaking; his armpits felt sodden. Christ, I hope I don’t stink. I’m sweating like a pig.