Bronx Requiem(11)

She asked, “What’s your name, honey?”

“Bill. What’s yours?”

“Princess.”

“Princess what?

“Okay, Bill, let’s get to it, huh? Pull over there around the corner, baby, and find a quiet spot.”

“I asked you a question. Princess what?”

“Princess I-wanna-suck-your-dick. Let’s go, baby. Time is money.”

Amelia caressed Bill’s thigh, moving her hand toward his crotch.

“Come on, baby.”

Bill put the car in gear and followed Amelia’s directions, finding a dark spot under a linden tree on Elder Avenue.

By the time he’d pulled over, Amelia had the condom out. She opened his belt and zipped open his trousers. She worked fast, her heart pounding at the risk she was about to take. She said the things she had to say. She did what she had to do. She even let the drunk’s hands wander, all the time keeping a discrete eye on him, watching to make sure his head was tipped back and his eyes were closed.

She kept working him toward a climax, hoping he wasn’t too drunk to come, keeping him occupied while she felt the outsides of his pants pockets. She could tell there was nothing but a set of keys in one pocket, a cell phone in the other.

She kept working him, angry at her bad luck. He’d obviously hidden his money somewhere. Maybe in his sock.

She put a hand on Bill’s knee, then shifted around so she could lightly brush her free hand past his ankle. Instead of a wallet or money hidden in a sock, she’d felt the outlines of a gun in an ankle holster. Her heart pounded. Could this be a cop? Off duty? Or a bad guy with a gun? Either way the danger level had suddenly escalated enormously.

And now Bill had his hand on the back of her head, pushing her head down, adding to Amelia’s panic.

She braced her left hand on the seat and lifted off him. Trying to keep the fear out of her voice she said, “Hey, take it easy, honey. Don’t be rough. I’ll do you good. Be nice.” And as she said that, her left hand slid into the crease between the driver’s seat bottom and seat back. Her fingers touched something. She started in on him again, carefully pushed the fingers of her left hand farther into the crease. His wallet. He’d hidden it there.

She worked faster. Making sounds like she was uncontrollably excited.

The drunk slurred encouragement, telling her. “Keep going, bitch. That’s it. Come on. Come on you f*cking whore.”

She did, finishing Bill off as she slid the wallet out from between the seat crevice and into her back pocket. Fear sent her heart banging against her ribs. She knew if this drunk caught her, he would beat her senseless, or quite possibly shoot her.

She smiled, she flirted, she complimented Bill, and got out of the car as fast as she could without creating suspicion, making sure to tell him she’d keep an eye out for him. She left the condom on him to keep him busy.

The moment she closed the car door, she walked across the street, turned south, hurrying away, trying to find an opening between houses she could duck into.

Every driveway was blocked with a chain-link fence, except for the second to last house on the block, which had a wrought-iron gate. Amelia checked and found it unlocked. She slipped past the gate into a narrow driveway between two houses, trying to move silently in her ridiculous platform shoes. Walking sideways between the house and a car, she made it to the end of the driveway and crouched down out of sight behind a second car and a small garage.

She pulled the wallet out of her back pocket and ripped the cash out of it, trying to count the money in the dim light. She heard a dog bark. The sound sent a wash of fear through her. She lost count. Started over. Two hundred, sixty-three dollars. She shoved the bills into her front pocket, and tossed the empty wallet under the car.

She had to make a quick decision. Hide until Bill gave up looking for her, or make a break right now, catch a livery cab on Bronx River Avenue, and get the hell out of the neighborhood.

She took off her wig, pulled up the pink hoodie, and zippered it closed.

She maneuvered through the next driveway, climbing over a short fence, and made her way out to the next street over. She took a deep breath and stepped out onto the sidewalk, walking as fast as her platform shoes would allow, heading for Westchester Avenue. From the waist up she looked different, but there was no way to cover her long bare legs and platform heels.

She made it to Westchester Avenue, feeling more exposed on the open busy street, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. She half-walked, half-ran two blocks looking for a cab or livery driver, all the while keeping an eye out for Bill’s Taurus.

She saw a beat-up Nissan Sentra with a livery-car license plate stopped at a traffic light ahead. She slipped into the backseat before the driver could pull away.

The driver, a tired-looking Middle Easterner told Amelia, “No. You get out now.”

Amelia was in no mood to take any shit from the driver. She yelled, threatened to call 911, 311, and the cops. She showed him money and argued about the fare. She even had to fend off a stupid proposition that he’d take her if she showed him her tits. When she threatened to call her pimp and have him come shoot the driver, he finally agreed, but only after Amelia paid him first.

She gave him thirty dollars for a ride that should have cost twenty and slumped out of sight in the backseat.

When she got to Hunts Point, Amelia put her wig back on and unzipped her hoodie. She walked around, talking to a few of the other women, asking how things were going, making sure she was seen.