SANDRA WHITMORE STOOD ON the corner of Western and Florence in Hollywood, hitching up her skirt and looking hopefully at the traffic.
Things were slow tonight, which was good and bad. Mostly bad. Still, at least she wasn’t desperate for a hit. Not like Monique.
Sandra felt bad for Monique. It was crack that had driven both of them onto the streets. Them and all the other girls who walked these blocks. But while Sandra had kicked the habit, clean for sixteen weeks now, Monique was still deep in her addiction. Sandra looked at her friend’s sunken eyes and protruding bones with a mixture of pity and shame. The shame was for her own past, for what she’d put her son Tyler through.
Not for much longer though.
Sandra was working tonight to pay off the last of her drug debts. Soon she’d be off the streets for good. She felt bad for Monique and the others, but she knew she would never look back.
A beat-up Mitsubishi Shogun slowed as it approached them.
“Can I take this one?” Monique hopped from foot to foot like a toddler needing to pee and ran her tongue back and forth over her gums when she spoke. Her jaw was thrust permanently forward so that her teeth looked bared, like a dog’s. Her whole body vibrated with desperation. “I know it’s your turn . . .”
“Sure. No problem.”
Sandra watched her friend climb up into the car. The man inside was heavyset and rough. He looked mean. Sandra noticed that he didn’t help Monique when she struggled to close the passenger door. Her arms were so frail, she needed both just to move it. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for the guy to reach over and do it for her. But he just sat there as if she were invisible. As if she were nothing.
A shiver of fear ran through Sandra’s body as she watched the car drive off.
I hope she’ll be okay.
A few minutes later, a silver Lincoln sedan drew up.
“Looking for a ride?”
He was clean, attractive even, and wore a suit and a smile. When Sandra nodded he leaned over and opened the door for her. The car smelled of leather and air freshener. This was more like it. Sandra moved a book off her seat so she could sit down. She read the spine. New Interpretations of the Gospel.
“You’re a Christian?”
“Sometimes.” He put a manicured hand on her leg. “I’m working on it.”
Sandra thought, If more johns were like this, I might not retire after all.
She pictured poor Monique, in the truck with the fat asshole, and felt a second stab of guilt. But she pushed it aside.
Maybe there was a reason that girls like Monique always got the short end of the stick?
Good things come to you when you start putting good things out there, Sandra. It starts here, in this fancy car. But it’s gonna end somewhere much, much better.
Sandra Whitmore and her son were headed to a better life.
