Sugar -- A Tale of the Runoffs(1)

Sugar leans over the planter and her hair, pale and bodyless, falls as a curtain over lower Fremont Street. She clamps down on an impulse to retch. Her self-control is usually good -- a john can smell pretty rich. But it is fear that twists her guts tonight.
         It started with Lincoln cutting down on her taste. "You gettin' ta like the shit too much, baby. We'a see how you do at the end of the night."
         With the sickness mounting in her throat, Sugar scored the night's first trick, then a rock. After Skate offered her another rock in trade, there was nothing for it but to burn that one, too. She woke alone among her scattered clothes, party long over, at three in the morning.
         Lincoln taxes his girls for two hundred on a slow night. Empty-handed, Sugar is liable for a Lincoln special, delivered so that the bruises won't show outside of her skimpy street clothes or her hairline.
         Mostly, the girls cover each other at the end of the night. Nobody wants to see Lincoln in a mean mood, because nobody is safe from Lincoln-in-a-mean-mood. But Fremont is deserted at this hour, and Sugar has no one to help close her shortfall.
         I can make it up tomorrow night. This is desperation. Lincoln won't hear it. He will be on the stroll tomorrow night before Sugar can score her first trick. Worse, the sickness will have begun to rise in her again. I' gotta find Skate, or one of his horny friends.
         God, please, Linc isn't looking for me already. The thought is paralyzing. Lincoln has a random streak. He can show up at any time. Sugar is almost decided, Best just to take it now and get it over with. A tall sport-utility daubed with splotches of sickly green, dirty white and dull brown rumbles to the curb. The driver dips his headlights.
         Hope is her most secret vice, and it touches her now. Even the Sheriff's plainclothes will have knocked off by this hour.
         The truck is cool as she scrambles inside, the leather of the seat soft under her thighs as she smooths her tiny skirt over her lap. "Hey, mister. What can I do ya for?"
         "Mm-mmmmm ..." The john wears black, with the sheen of leather several grades finer than the seating under her. His hair is white, cropped so close on the sides that his scalp seems even whiter. Oddly, he wears yellow lenses in swept-back frames, black and thick and picked out with silvery bits. The sound from deep in his throat emerges through pursed lips as a growl, almost a purr. His diction is measured. "You can tell me how a pretty young Aryan girl is to be found in this notorious place at this perilous hour." He seems not to blink as his eyes seize on hers.
         Christ, another hero! Another knight in shining armor come to sweep me off the street! The best way to deal with this kind of idiot is to hit him straight in the nose. "I gotta score three hundred off one trick, or my pimp's gonna beat me the way he likes it."
         "Very well." Sugar can feel her eyes widening as the john pulls a sheaf of twenties from one shirt pocket, takes her left forearm and places the bundle in her palm. He does not then release her wrist. He draws two more bills from his other shirt pocket. As he layers them onto her palm, she sees that they are hundreds. Gently, he lowers her wrist to her lap.
         "Jeez, mister." Absently, she feels her tongue pass over her lips. "What' I gotta do for the scratch?"
         "Misguided child, go now."
         "That's all? Just ... go?"
         "Sadkinder, I do not debauch in the public street. Now go." The john's pale blue eyes flatten.
         Goddam! He's a psycho! What had been hope, what had become amazement, morphs into terror. Sugar almost loses the money as she fumbles frantically for the door lever.
         Safe in the open street, Sugar flees behind the planter. She scans the surrounding walkways and stairways to ensure she is alone. She rolls the c-notes as tightly as she can and wets them under her tongue, then lowers her panties.
         The twenties are mint. With the sweat of her palms on her fingers, Sugar counts eleven bills. She folds one twice and tucks it into the placket of her blouse where she has loosened a dozen stitches at the tail. She tucks the tail into her skirt, leaving the rest to hang slovenly loose. She tugs her skirt askew and frees one shoelace. In her guise of the schoolgirl after the house party, she is ready to face her pimp as one of his favorite fantasy objects.

"Coupla minutes," Linc growels, "it' be fo' in the mo'nin', an' you bring me two bills, is all?"
         "Slow night, Linc. You knew it was gonna be slow tonight."
         "Yeah, but you done real good behin' a late start."
         Sugar twitches.
         "Yeah, I talk' to Skate. On'y ques'ion I got now, you wouldn' be ho'din' out on me, little sweet Sugar? Would you?" Using four fingers, Lincoln probes her left breast. "I don' feel no stash money, don' even feel no bra." He brushes her nipple with the ball of his thumb.
         Sugar fakes a shiver and adds a small moan. Just let it be quick.
         "Baby, come back to bed." The soft urgent call floats from the dark bedroom.
         Ruchelle? Linc has chosen his bedwarmer for the night. Before she can stop herself, Sugar sighs and slumps in relief. And she knows she has made a terrible mistake.
         The blow Lincoln issues to her head above and behind her left ear feels as though it will cave her skull. She bruises her ribs falling onto the coffee table, but the sensation is distant. Lincoln looms over her and raves at her from afar. "Don't you ever come to me short money again, you stupid little bitch! Ain't nothin' you do I don't find out! Now get 'cho fat ass the fuck out!"
         Remote impulses move her to her feet, to the door, to resolve, I can't do this anymore.

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