Bull Mountain(57)
“What’s up, girlie?” Louis was one of the few black guys allowed to roam free in the Time-Out. The owner, a guy named Bill Cutter, wasn’t big on “darkies,” but Louis moved a lot of dope, crank, herb, even heroin, and he always kicked up a piece to Cutter for letting him work the room, so he was given a pass.
“You’re late,” Marion said.
“But I’m here. I saw your kid outside in the car. That shit ain’t cool, girl. He should be at the house or something.”
“Ain’t got no house to be at. Barb and Tim booted us out again. What do you care? It’s none of your business anyway.”
“That may be, but Cutter don’t play that shit. If he finds out . . .”
“He won’t find out if nobody says nothing. The boy’s fine out there. He’s got his comic books and some leftover pizza from happy hour. At least if he’s out there I can go check on him when I can instead of . . .” Marion stopped talking and looked at the slinky man in baggy jeans and a wifebeater leaned up against the wall, and realized she wasn’t having that conversation with this guy. “What are you anyway,” she said, “a social worker? Are you here to judge me or hook me up?”
“That depends. You payin’ or you wantin’ to put it on your already inflated tab?”
“I’ll get it to you by Friday.”
“Always by Friday. Don’t the fellas in this place tip?”
“You know waitresses don’t make it like the girls up there do.” Marion pointed to the sad brunette baring it all from the pole in the middle of the stage, doing her best to block out the obnoxious 38 Special song blaring over the PA and imagine she was somewhere else.
“Well, you know there are a few ways we could work all that out,” Louis said, rubbing a gangly black thumb down the smooth curve of Marion’s hip bone. She swatted it away immediately. “I don’t trick. Not anymore.”
“It don’t have to be like that, girl. I can make it real romantic.”
“Come on, Louis, can you help me out here or not? I need to get back on the floor. Either it’s on or it ain’t. Don’t play games.”
“Damn, Angel, you ain’t gotta be like that.” Louis reached into the pocket of his filthy black jeans and pulled out a small baggie. “Here,” he said, and reached out, took Marion’s hand, and pressed a tan-colored lump down hard in her palm. “Don’t think I’m gonna forget what you owe me, Angel. I got a keen memory, and someday soon you’re gonna have to pay the piper. You get what I’m sayin’?” Louis cupped his crotch to emphasize the play on words, and looked down his flat nose at her. She wasn’t impressed.
“You’ll get paid.”
“I always do.”
Marion pushed open the door to the women’s room but turned back to look at him. “And don’t call me Angel.”
2.
Marion shut the door and locked it. She looked at the baggie in her hand and worked the knot carefully so as not to rip the plastic. It was lighter than she’d hoped for, but it would get her through the next eight hours of fondling and groping. And maybe if she was lucky, she’d find someone desperate enough to want a lap dance from her so she could get out of the hole, maybe rent a squat for a few days for her and the kid. She spread open the bag in her palm and dug out a bump with a long press-on pinkie nail. She held it to her nose and sniffed. It burned like a blowtorch every time, but she liked it. Crystal that didn’t burn was stepped on too many times and never did its job. Louis’s shit was always on time. Her eyes watered immediately, and her damaged left tear duct gushed even more than it did normally. She yanked a paper towel from the dispenser next to the sink and dabbed at it. She always wore her dark chocolate hair down in her face, not to mention a ton of foundation, to hide the damage and scars, but under the bathroom’s unforgiving fluorescent light it was all she could see. She dug out another bump of crank and hit it again. More tears. More dabbing. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror. She still had her body, even after childbirth. If anything, having a baby added only more definition to her already killer curves. No stretch marks. No oversized nipples. Just Marion—but better. It didn’t matter, though. Once someone got a look at her face, it was all they would ever see. She carefully tied the knot back in the baggie and slid it underneath the skimpy fabric of the barely-there neon bikini top. Then she took a deep breath, tilted her head back, and let the crank drain down the back of her throat. That was her favorite part. She faked a quick smile at herself in the mirror and unlocked the bathroom door.
After locating the server tray she’d set down on the speaker, she scanned the room for the best opportunity to make a few dollars. She began to walk toward a table full of what appeared to be college students, bushy-haired twentysomethings with hats on backward and football teams on their T-shirts. The crank was kicking in hard, and she was feeling the confidence it gave. The dope made it easy to forget that this was her life.
3.
By the time the Thursday-night crowd whittled down to just a handful of regulars, Marion found herself at the server well, chewing on the empty baggie of crank she’d depleted in record time, talking to the barkeep, Todd. Todd was a good kid, handsome and clean-cut. She liked looking at him. Other than the few jailhouse tattoos that peeked out from under his shirtsleeves, he didn’t even look like the type that belonged in a place like this. He was fit and cut in all the right places and his teeth were so white they glowed.