CHAPTER THREE

Tuesday, July 24, 10:40 PM

The woman is tall, a good two inches taller than he. Her long legs spill from a black skirt the size of a paper towel. The tattoo across the front of her thigh barely stands out against her dark skin. He has to walk past her on the sidewalk to read it. Written in script, the tattoo says, “Johnny’s Girl.”

Her black hair is wrapped in a tight bun. She carries a small purse and wears a white blouse that shows a lot of cleavage. As he passes her, she gives him a long look, assessing him. Cop or john?

He turns to watch her sashay past. He has seen her before on this part of Tulane Avenue. Tonight, she is working the corner at South Dupre, just one block from the colossal granite courthouse that looms over the intersection of Tulane and Broad, and only two blocks from the back of the still-abandoned police headquarters building.

She hugs a streetlamp and spins around to look at him. For a minute he feels uneasy. She’s staring at him, expecting him to say or do something. Just like his mother. A half block separates them. She’s confident. He’s not. As he lurches toward her he tries to hide his unease.

The woman nods at him. “How you doing, sugar?”

An old Camaro, fire-engine red with loud pipes, blows past them on Tulane. The driver lays on the horn as he roars by and a young guy hangs out the passenger window. “Get you some, you fucking loser!”

The woman’s slim brown arm shoots up. She flips the bird at the passing car as it heads south in the direction of Saint Michael’s Catholic Church, less than a dozen blocks away. After a few seconds she drops her arm and turns toward him. “You looking for some company?”

He stares at the fading taillights of the Camaro.

“Don’t worry about them, sugar. Momma’s gonna take good care of you.”

A trickle of confidence seeps through his body. He sees her for what she is, a dirty slut who trades sex for silver.