“Aha.” In the dirty mirror running behind the bar I saw the chunky bimbo turn, look my way. It was hardly a compliment—against the wino I was obviously the best catch. She had a weird face—the make-up put on in hard, definite lines.
Turning to see what I was watching in the mirror, the barkeep snorted, “Of course you know the kind of women they are?”
I nodded again, wishing he'd shut up, wanting to be alone, thinking hard. The whiskey warmed my belly, and that was all it did.
“Mister, in my work I seen whores, honest women in their own way. Misfortune forced them to peddle their hips, but at least in the old days they accepted their fate, gave a man what he paid for. Whores today, like Lucille over there—ain't misfortune which makes them take to the street: they do it to support their needle. A habit...”
“Wait a minute...”
“... a habit they could break with any true will power. But with the crooked values of today, who knows of will power? Docs say smoking causes cancer but the companies advertise more than...”
“Hold it: the stocky one is a junkie?” I managed to cut in.
“Indeed she is. The new curse of the poor and the damned, dope. Opium ruined the mighty Chinese nation hundreds of years ago. Same is happening to us today. I see young punks who...”
My brain slowed down as he chattered on. I turned and looked directly at this Lucille, put on a small act. “You sure she's really a dope addict, bartender?”
The map of Ireland broke into a snort-laugh. “Been hooked for over a year. Three cap gal.”
“Cap? What's a cap?” I asked, playing along like a straight man.
“Fix, a shot of dope. Means she needs three capsules of the stuff a day. Lucille's an educated one too, could be a nice sort.”
“But she looks so... healthy,” I said, to be certain. “I thought they were all sickly, nervous?”
“Mister, you haven't been around. Just as well— the Devil's playground is overcrowded as always. Notice she's wearing a long-sleeved dress in all this heat? Arm is full of dark marks where she shoots the evil into her soul. Looks okay now, probably had her shots. But see them when they're in need of a fix—they look like death eating a cracker. I...”
“What's her drink?”
“Scotch and milk. I...”
“Take one over to her table, please. Give the mutt with her whatever she laps up, too.”
The map of Ireland rubbed his rummy nose, very disappointed in me. He made two drinks, waited until I'd paid for them, before waddling over to their table. When the girls turned to glance at me, I motioned for Lucille to come over. Instead, she coldly shook her head, turned her back to me as she sipped the Scotch. I strolled over to the table and she said in a warm voice, “Listen, don't ever snap your fingers at me like calling a pet pooch. I keep thing on an even level—a business level.”
“Fair enough,” I said, finally sitting at their table: I didn't want to get hooked for any more drinks.
Her scrawny friend showed a row of dirty teeth as she said, “Me, I don't mind being finger-snapped.”
“Maybe some other time, dearie,” I told her, turning to Lucille. Despite the bad make-up job, she had wonderful eyelashes, like fine feathers, and her facial structure at close-up was full, unusually strong. “If you're open for business, let's go.”
She gave me a cold look, then grinned, all her face getting into the act. “Got yourself hot and excited out at the beach, buster? Going by your tan, you must live on the beach—be hot all the time.”
I stood. This Lucille sat for a moment, then slowly got up and stretched, really a feline gesture. Taking her purse, she said, “See you, Bea. Come on, eager, I'll take the starch out of your pants.”
Reaching the street she said, “Since we're in business, it's fifteen bucks.”
-"I'm interested in the rest of the night.”
“Well now, that's the kind of executive talk I like to hear. A whole night costs sixty bucks.”
Shrugging, I took her arm. “Where we heading for?”
“I have my own pad—for all night Johns. My name's Lucille.”
“Tony.”
We turned into a side street and pulling her arm away, she pointed to a small tenement on the other side of the block. “See that house over there? Red one, next to the stinking grocery shop? Apartment 2F—which cleverly stands for the front apartment, second floor. I'll walk ahead. Wait a few minutes, then walk right in, like you belonged. Okay, Tony?”
Examining the dusty window of a shoddy liquor store for a few minutes, I wondered if I was about to be mugged—decided I had to chance it. Crossing the street I casually walked into a narrow hallway smelling of stale foods, up wooden stairs, and in the dim light made out a crudely lettered 2F. Lucille opened the door before I knocked, wearing a dirty negligee. I stepped into a living room/kitchen, plainly furnished—including, to my smug surprise, a full bookcase, and a cheaply reproduced Degas print on one wall. In the other room I saw the large bed, open door to a tiny bathroom.
I rested my duffel bag on the table; Lucille came over and kissed the side of my cheek, awkwardly pressing her body against me. I grabbed the sleeves of her negligee as she whispered, “The money, Tony, sweet.”
Pushing the robe up her arms, I saw the main vein in her left arm an angry purple, surrounded by faint scars and skin bruises. Pulling her arm away, she said, “Come on now, Tony—some green stuff.”
Holding her left wrist I asked, “On junk, Lucille?”
She yanked her wrist savagely away, right hand caressing my hips, the sullen face alarmed. “Cop?”
“Nope.”
Staring up at me with bold dark eyes, she shrugged. “You're big... but not cop-beefy. You're not packing a gun and I never saw a dick with hair pretty as yours. You a user, too?”
“No.” Pulling a chair over, I sat down, blocking the door.
She suddenly giggled. “What's the matter, no hot hurry-hurry to bed now?” Turning on a table radio she began dancing, the robe billowing out to show solid thighs. Lucille moved with heavyweight grace. “Tony, I must have the money in front. You understand?”
“Relax. I've a business proposition for you...”
“Fat stuff, what the hell you think you're pulling? I want my sixty bucks—now!” Her badly painted face was an angry mask.
“Get me a saucer and stop the lip. I may give you a hundred times sixty dollars.”
“A saucer? If you think you can con me into a freebee...”
“Get it and shut your goddamn mouth!”
While she did a hippy walk to the sink, took a saucer from the shelf above it, I dug down into the duffel bag, under the towel. Opening the plastic pillow case, I removed a pinch of heroin. Dropping the white powder on the white saucer she held out, I zipped the bag shut, punched the towel firmly on top of it. Lucille's big eyes traveled from the plate to my duffel bag. “Great God, that full of horse?”