Milk and Honey

“But maybe you do.”

Maynona looked off to her right, stared at stuffed pink elephants and black-and-white pandas.

Chrissie said, “I think she was an independent since Letwoine got blowed away.”

“Nice try,” Decker said. “But you know and I know that no one is an independent here.”

“Well, maybe she wasn’t no independent,” Chrissie said. She unknotted her halter strap and tied it tighter. The increased pressure flattened her round breasts and made them pop out of the sides of the garment. She gave Decker a sultry smile.

He remained stone-faced and said, “So if Myra Steele wasn’t an independent, who was she working for?”

The girls were silent.

Decker took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to each girl. He lit their smokes, then lit one for himself.

“There some new foreign businessmen around here that scare you gals?” he inquired.

“Maybe,” Amanda said.

“Do they have names?”

“You ain’t getting them from me,” Amanda said.

Decker opened his jacket. He said, “See that gun?”

The girls didn’t answer.

“It’s a nine-millimeter automatic,” he said. “We dicks are finally beginning to get real, you know what I’m talking about. Mr. Foreign Businessman starts hassling you, you tell me. Mr. Beretta and I will take him out to lunch.”

“Shit, that’s puny against a sawed-off,” Amanda said.

“You know, we can carry shotguns, too,” Decker said. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Who’s Myra’s man?”

“I ain’t’ tellin’ you nothin’, ’cause I happen to know that the dude’s crazier than shit,” Amanda said.

Decker smiled, wondering, How crazy is shit? He said, “Mr. Foreign Businessman of the Hispanic persuasion?”

A faint flicker passed through Amanda’s eyes. Decker went on.

“Happen to be spookin’ you with some weirdo hexes?”

“My man’s not Myra’s,” Amanda said defiantly.

“Sure about that?” Decker said.

“Yes.”

“Does the name Conquistador ring a bell?”

Amanda sneered. “He’s a wimp.”

“El Cid?”

“Wimpo dos,” Amanda replied.

“What can you tell me about Myra’s man?”

The whore drew her finger across her lips.

“Think about it, honey,” Decker said. “Give me something, or maybe your man will hear things you don’t want him to hear.”

“I’m real scared,” Amanda said. But it was false bravado.

“Myra’s man is suppose to have a tattoo on the back of his hand,” Maynona volunteered. “Between his thumb and forefinger.”

Chrissie spoke up. “A heart with a ribbon on it.”

Decker nodded. A Mariel tattoo—traditionally, it meant an executioner. The guy was bad news. “Anything else?” he said.

“Swear to God, that’s all I know,” May said. “We keep away from them.”

Decker believed her eyes if not her words.

“This is all stupid,” Amanda said. “They said it was her john that cut her, not her pimp.” She bit her lip, then said, “You know something different than that?”

Decker said, “Yeah, what about this bad-assed john? Any of you know him?”

The girls didn’t answer, but exchanged knowing looks.

“Anyone of you ever service him?” Decker asked.

“Why you so interested in Myra Steele?” Chrissie asked. She scratched her cheek, still pocked with acne. “And her john?”

“Because rumor has it that this mean ole trick has been bailed out,” Decker said. “Now we’ve got a pissed-off pimp and a psycho john running the streets. Shit, ladies, I’d hate to see one of you end up like Myra.”

Maynona raised her eyebrows. Decker caught it.

“Ever service the man, May?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Boy, you gals are kind of quiet tonight,” Decker said. “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna fill in the blanks. I’m gonna say that all three of you have serviced him, ’cause this trick likes ladies of the evening, and he’s been cruising the area for years.”

“You can think what you want,” said Amanda. Her eyes had returned to the ground.

“You ever see to his needs?” Decker asked.

She didn’t answer.