Adjusting her wig, she smiles at me. I told you C-Note take care of me. He watch to make sure nothin' happens. She climbs into the back seat and the Camaro peels off, swerving around the corner. The Bulls' game is over, and a squadron of honking cars comes out of the west.
Jubilant fans troll the avenue, and the whores prance to the curb, ready to strike up a bargain.
The hours of waiting, the frozen fingers and tired feet are forgotten. It's a Bulls' market now, with plenty of money to be made. But it's the squeal of tires and roar of dual carbs that starts me running. I find her in the alley, slumped against a building like a broken doll. The shabby little vest is already drenched with red, like the tattered flag of a defeated nation.