[color=gray][h3][sup][sup]“Fine. I’ll cover for you. But I d—”

“Don’t like it one fuckin’ bit. I know, Fi. I know. But we gotta try something. For Genny.”

Fi stepped out of the shower with a groan and started drying herself. Sally, still fully dressed for the night, grabbed a second towel and started to help. 

“I just. It’s a helluva long shot. Sure you don’t wanna ask Miggy to go with you?”

“Gotta keep our heads down on this, Fi. Miggy won’t snitch, but what about the other boys?”

Fi sighed and began lotioning herself from the top down. Sally knelt and started from the bottom up. Even with the two of them, it took some time. Fi and Sally were the biggest kids by a significant margin, but in very different ways. Sally wasn’t all that short, but Fi was tall. When properly clothed, her ashen complexion was perhaps the only thing that hinted at exactly what sort of build she was meant to have. Her cheeks were sallow, yes, and her eyes were sunken, but clothes hid the full extent of the story. Her skeleton hadn’t entertained any rosy notions of stunting growth and staying small. Her stretch marks were probably more mass than the sum of her body fat. Maybe on someone of a different build, it wouldn’t have looked quite so sickly, but Fi clearly was never meant to be a small woman. And yet here she was, a giant beanstalk of a girl, trudging along and poking herself in the ass with her own hip bones whenever she sat down. It was always difficult for Sally, helping Fi in the bathroom. For years, Fi had fought herself. She only seemed to eat when Sally, or on the odd occasion, Sunny, fussed at her. Sometimes, late at night, Sally had to wonder if Fi wanted in her heart of hearts to just stop eating altogether, and let her bones finally leave the rest of her behind. 
    
“Thanks. Just, uh. Help me with my hair ‘fore you leave, please?” Sally sighed and tilted her head. “My arms are sore, Sal,” Fi groaned, “So fuckin’ sore.” Sally nodded. “‘Kay.”

Fi collapsed onto the bed. Sally grabbed Fi’s bottles from one of the drawers and sat cross-legged next to her. As Sally massaged the progression of products into Fi’s hair, the only sounds that came from either of them were occasional contented sighs from Fi, and intermittent grunts from Sally as she tried to lean forward far enough to get every inch of Fi’s hair while also not smearing anything on her boob. Eventually, Sally grunted one last time, reached for Fi’s bonnet, and gathered the great expanse of well-attended afro into it. She pulled it right into place, and tied the ribbon into a bow.

Fi rolled over, then begrudgingly rose. The two girls leaned on one another for a moment, then moved on. They got off the bed, got changed—Fi from nudity into a well-worn, lightly torn ghost of good cotton pyjamas, Sally from a sausage casing of a black lace slip pulled over an organ-crushing waspie into a frumpy amalgamation of scavenged working man’s clothes salvaged into something she could wear—and Sally looked back at Fi one last time.

“We gotta trade tonight. I need some smokes. You need some grass.” Before Fi could protest, Sally plucked the pack from Fi’s drawer and pointed to the blunt on the vanity. “Smoke something, goddamnit. Get the munchies. You need both.”

Sally set out into the cold night with her back hunched and her hands planted firmly in her pockets, each curled tight around mismatched, blood-crusted knuckledusters pinched off of the progression of thugs that’d left too blasted to remember what they’d forgotten. And hunched over, with her hair tucked into the drape of a shirt she had on, Sally could pass herself off from behind in the dull yellow street lights as the sort of heavy-fisted brute that might have knuckledusters in his pockets. And the shabby clothes sent a clear message to any would-be muggers creeping behind that there wasn’t much to steal. Broke white men that nobody recognized had it easiest at night, after all. Neither the crooks nor the cops could be bothered to give a second look.

Of course, it wasn’t a perfect strategy. From the front, it was harder to play that card. Anyone who got a good look at her face would see the eroded remnants of her nightly getup, and the dark-circled, sullen shadow of what might’ve been a cute face back when it belonged to a younger child with less months-turned-years under her belt. And there was the rest of her, of course. Bodies came in all sorts, yes, but even without the outline of a military-grade bra, she didn’t carry her weight in any sort of way a man usually did. But hunching over helped. Pulling a cap down to cover part of her face did too. It was the best that could be done, and when it didn’t work, that’s where the knuckledusters came in. Sally could plant a good, solid sucker-punch, and when she was out and about, that usually meant she was in a mood that made her all too happy to throw as much into it as she could manage. She had the better judgement not to go out looking for a fight, but the odd time it did happen, she often found it more cathartic than scary. After all, out here, there was no reason not to fight back. Get a punch in. A real fucking punch to a face that really fucking deserved it. Even if she didn’t win, it felt nice to see the bastard lose a tooth for his decision to try something.

There was, however, one subset of man she didn’t mind running into out and about at this time of night. The lonely hot-dog man was a blessed island of fortune in the vast concrete expanse of jackasses of all colors and creeds. Sometimes, the guy on the night shift still had a face that deserved a broken nose, sometimes he was someone different—an honest man just trying to keep warm and keep everybody fed. It was a gamble, but it wasn’t one Sally really minded making. There was, whether the guy in question wanted cash or was after something handsier to warm himself up, the plain truth that it was one of the only places in the world where there was an honest exchange, no strings or secrets, that led to everyone getting some of what they wanted. Sally preferred the sublime joy of being the one to exchange currency for goods and services instead of the other way around, no doubt, but even in the latter case, it was a plain and simple trade—no bullshit, no evil, just two people who wanted something the other had. It was still dirty, but it was honest dirt. Not scum dirt. Dirt where everybody got a say in how much it sucked. And at least she saved the money.

A small solace tonight was the fact that the young man shivering behind the counter at the dinky little stand was a rare breed. He didn’t get angry or offended, just politely took the money and turned the alternative down with an explanation that he had a girl back home he was devoted to, and then got to fixing her a duo of Milwaukee-style dogs. He wished her well, she thanked him, and Sally was off with her prizes, which, even after the second went cold, made the rest of the way over to the Soirée far less of a schlep.

[center]...[/center]
When she finally reached the place, Sally sulked on in, eyes glued to the booze-stickied floor, and hopped up the closest stool at the bar to the kitchen. She had three requests for the barkeep: Booze, a hearty meal, and a word with Madame Pearl, when she got a chance. 

“It’s important,” she stated, “It’s about one of Sunny’s girls.” Then the stone wall went up. She wanted a word with Pearl. Not a grunt or a whore. Madame Pearl.

Pearl pressed the receiver between a raised shoulder and her ear, both hands still shuffling notes like a blackjack dealer. A cigarette hung loosely from between lips that muttered hushed counts.

“500, 600, 750, 8…55 - Lloyd. I’m busy. Ya hear that? That right there is the sound of me countin’ bills and - Oh, fuck. 920? 950 - Fuck if I know. See, I’ve lost count now Lloyd. On account of you blastin’ my line. What’s so fuckin’ urgent, huh? Cos I’m countin’ my last nerve right now.”

“Some kid’s at the bar. Says it’s about one of Sunny’s girls?”

Sunny. Was it already that time? Another graduate of Sunny’s Sex School?  It was still a name that bolted straight through her, reached a hand right into her mouth, wriggled down her throat, and gripped at her heart. 

“Well why didn’t ya just say that, Lloyd? Tell the lil’ angel that I’m on my way and for gods sake don’t serve her a drop of nothin’. We ain’t watering saplings in my goddamn garden.”

She slammed the phone down. Rose from her seat and sniffed. She hadn’t had a whiff of coke since Winnie had been and gone. It showed in the ache of her bones as she made her way downstairs. The office door rattled as she kicked it shut behind her. The Soirée crowd parted like seas as she meandered to the bar, mink-lined shawl wrapped round her slender neck. The little cherub was sat stiffly at the bar, trying to badger Lloyd into pouring her something. 

“What you doing out so late on a school night, treasure?” Pearly asked, slinking behind the bar to face Sunny’s girl. “You’re a little younger than the usual special delivery.”

Sally leaned forward on the bar like an old man. “Look, Miss Pearl, here’s the deal,” she stated, “Don’t wanna waste your time, but there’s a problem that I wanna solve, and it’s not something to talk to Sunny about. And I can pay you back for your trouble.” She cleared her throat. “So anyway, if you got a minute, d’you want the long story or the short one?”

Pearl arched a brow. Lloyd pressed a glass of champagne into her palm and she sipped from it, letting the young girl's words hang in the stale Soirée air. She smacked her lips, bubbles still fizzing on her tongue that flicked out and mopped up the residual liquid that coated her bottom lip like vaseline.

“Don’t wanna waste my time, huh?” she mused. “Well then, you better gimme the short version. But if you’re looking for a problem to be solved, don’t leave out the gory details. Pearly ain’t a fan of wool over these pretty eyes. Tell me. What can I possibly do for you that Sunny can’t know about? You need me to sign your report card?”

Sally chuckled dryly. “Actually, it is about school. Not me; I ain’t been since elementary. But got a younger girl, we call her Genny. She’s about 12, and she’s bright. Real fuckin’ bright. Keepin’ up with her grade level usin’ textbooks from the library with [i]Sunny[/i] as a quote-unquote tutor bright. I could go on.” She gesticulated as if to wave the extra words away. “She begged and begged to go to school, busted her ass to prove it, all that, so Sunny reached out to a guy she knew, last name Radowicz. He’s the principal over at St. Rita’s. And apparently a real sonuvabitch. Tonight, he came over and rocked Genny’s shit real bad. She can’t speak. She’s got cuts. Belt marks and choke marks—whole nine yards. Apparently when Sunny first did him, he broke a drinking glass across her head. Can’t kill him, though, because otherwise Genny ain’t going to school. But she’s gonna be in his office every goddamned lunch period takin’ his due, and so I want the name of a kneecapper or burglar or something who can scare him straight a bit. Break into his house, steal some shit, rough him up—that sorta thing. But if it came from Sunny—she doesn’t know I’m here, of course—he’d definitely back out. Genny’s got potential, Miss Pearl. She could do your books. Shit, she could go out, live a real damn life, and not die in a ditch before 40 like I prob’ly will. So, can we do something about him?”

Lloyd had a cloth draped around a wine glass, clouded with steam. His wrist flicked as he polished, eyes pointedly averted but ears pricked with intrigue. Pearl sipped from her flute, shooting him a warning glare. She shooed him, leaning over the bar from her side of the jump, leaving a mere arms length between her and Sunny’s girl. The image of her mama’s babydolls teaching her to read, ever patient as she struggled through syllables from a kids cardboard storybook at 12 years old, flashed through her mind. A baby prostitute with promise? Who was she to deny potential? Maybe this poor little soul could get out the game? Maybe even go to college? She’d be saved from a life of spread legs and thinning optimism. So she needed some muscle to intimidate some sick sod with an appetite for little lambs?

“[i]We[/i] ain’t doin’ nothin’, darlin’” Pearl purred, her eyes narrowing at Sally from across the sticky bartop. “All we need to do is make one lil phone call and let the professionals do the rest… But it’s a risky pie to put our fingers in, you know. This Radowicz may well just be a fly caught in a web… But what if he’s the spider, darlin’? What if Pearly sticks her neck out for you and them pincers find their way into my pert lil’ behind? I got enough dramas of my own to be dealin’ with without putting my name down for another… You know anything about this guy? Tell me he’s just a teacher who needs a lesson of his own…”

Sally shook her head. “I just need a name, Pearl. That’s a normal thing you do, right? I just need a name for someone who can give a principal who’s been beating kid whores since the 50s a taste of his own medicine.”

The Madam straightened her spine, eyes hardening at the young girl. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“Oh, sure. It’s a normal thing I do, sweetie. For a friend. For a customer. Not for one of Sunny’s flock. Which is what you are, ain’t it? And see, that’s what makes this a lil less than [i]normal[/i], right?” Pearl’s tone was licked with warning. She turned her back, pulling out a drawer that sat beneath the back-bar. Setting a notepad down with one hand, cradling the champagne flute between the fingers of the other, Pearly sighed to herself and shook her head. It was just a name. Just a name and a number. A small act of charity for the poor things. It was good karma. And lord knew she needed some of that. Pearly’s pen scratched across the paper, her handwriting wobbly and barely legible. Shame pricked at the capillaries in her cheeks. This Genny could probably write a darn sight neater than that. Maybe she’d learn to? Get this teacher’s hands off her and she’d soon be writing cursive. The paper ripped from the wire pad’s binder and crinkled between Pearl’s fingertips. She whirled back round to face Sunny’s girl, chin raised and gaze darkening down the bridge of her nose.

“Take it,” she clipped. “You didn’t get it from me. You ain’t even been here, darlin’. Pop it in your pocket and head on back to Sunny. I don’t never wanna see Genny’s name comin’ across my desk, ya hear? Make sure she gets herself up on outta here. As for you? Stay outta trouble, sweet thing. Else you’ll be in a ditch much younger than 40.”

“That’s the plan.” Sally produced a small wad of cash from her pocket and slapped it down on the counter. It was messy and crumpled, but probably more than people usually paid for this type of thing. “Thanks.” She slid off of the stool and left, squinting at the name in her hand.

Genny couldn’t help read this one. She needed to be as surprised as Sunny when the news broke.[/sup][/sup][/h3][/color]

[i]Written in collaboration with [@themaybreeze][/i]