Lucy Taylor - Stiletto

I he night was frigid and the coffee so strong you could use it to flush a carburetor. I sat at the counter of the L.A. Diner (That's Last America, not Los Angeles, by the way) and checked out the only other patron, a balding, thick-waisted guy sitting with his back to the wall, going over some books. Tried to calm my nerves by making a game of guessing how big his dick was.

I started with his hands, which were big, thick-wristed, and peppered with dark hair. Full lips and the kind of proboscis people usually buy in a dimestore on Halloween. And when he'd got up to use the restroom earlier, I'd noticed a cowboy jut to his pelvis, like he was either hauling some serious cargo or trying to give that impression.

I figured him for an eight- or nine-incher.

But what the hell, even though I was dressed for the possibility, I didn't plan on fucking Barney McGuire.

Not if I could possibly avoid it.

I glanced at the clock above the door. Ten after one in the morning. Not a lot of time to accomplish what I needed to.

Outside snow drifted past the window, small steady flakes that would add up to a foot or more by daylight. Detroit winters can be brutal. I was thankful to be wearing the full-length fur coat that I'd been nagging Donny to buy me next time he got paid for a smack shipment. He always said no dame needed such an expensive coat, but on a night like this, maybe he would've understood.

The counter girl, Myrna, was coming out of the kitchen with a pot of coffee in one hand and my breakfast in the other. There was a sway to her walk and a droop to her lids that gave her that freshly fucked look. Which, since her boss Barney was here doing his weekly accounting, she might well have been.

Long witchy-looking black hair, a valentine-shaped butt, tits that, from the two inches of cleavage showing at the neckline of her uniform, must be perched on some serious underwire. As usual, she was painted up like a ten-dollar whore-crimson lipstick, kohl eyeliner, gold shadow-and hobbling around in a pair of towering spike heels that gave a succulent jut to her ass.

I'd had the hots for Myrna since we both waited tables at one of Donny's nightclubs and sneaked opportunities to make out in the ladies' room when we could. Then I got a chance at better things with Donny and, not long after that, Myrna went to work for Barney McGuire. Funny, huh? Two nice Detroit gals ending up in the employ of rivals in the numbers, whore, and drug trade.

Myrna slid a plate of grease-drenched eggs and hash browns in front of me. As always, my eyes went to the pattern of raised red scars on the back of her wrists-reminders that Barney, like his buddy the Marlboro Man, had a thing for branding.

"So when do you get off work?"

"When Barney says."

"Which is?"

"Depends on whether or not he's in the mood for any dessert." She seemed to want to change the subject. "So how's Donny? He okay with you bein' here?"

"Donny don't need to know every time I take a piss."

Myrna shrugged. "Your neck."

She reached over and ran her hand over my fur with the mingled lust and timidity of a girl about to give her first blow job. "Mink?"

"Sable."

"Lucky girl. Donny must be a generous guy."

"He can afford to be. Every few weeks, he does a transaction, he takes in fifty or sixty grand."

She picked up my cup of coffee and refilled it. I reached for it just in time to let our fingers brush, nails clinking lightly together. Then I couldn't stop myself from glancing at the clock. Myrna saw me, and her scarlet mouth pouted up like maybe I'd hurt her feelings. Maybe she thought I had a hot date. Night like this, most people aren't in a rush to be anywhere.

I looked around the empty diner. "Weather keeping people home tonight, I guess."

She nodded. "Yeah. Everybody but Barney, I guess, but he's gotta finish the damn books."

It was common knowledge how grumpy Barney got if he had to deviate from any of his comfortable routines. Going over the books at the Diner Saturday night was one of them. Arty Cohen, Donny's right-hand man, used to say Barney would wait to take a shit if it weren't written down on his schedule.

"He's been checkin' you out since you got here," said Myrna. "You don't want him to hit on you, you better leave."

I sipped my coffee. I didn't care what Barney did, as long as he stayed where he was a little longer.

When I set the coffee cup back down, I let my hand stray across the counter and brush hers. She jerked her hand away and glanced over at Barney to make sure he hadn't seen.

"You know what, these eggs just ain't doing it for me this morning. What I really want is something hotter, sweeter."

Underneath the makeup, her cheeks actually darkened to a deeper shade of pink. "Jeez, Viv, this ain't the time. He'll kill us both."

"Nobody lives forever. Don't you have a storage room or a basement? And stop lookin' over at Barney, he'll think some-thin's goin' on."

She giggled, scowled, and glanced at Barney all in the space of an eyeblink. "No shit, Viv. We can't. Barney, he don't like games if he ain't winnin'."

I was ready to risk scribbling something on a napkin or whispering in her ear when Barney yelled, "Hey, Myrna, what the hell's going on over there. Do I pay you to make out with my customers?"

Myrna jumped back like he'd jabbed her with a cigarette.

"Fuckin' broads."

He pushed back his chair and strode over to the counter. He was dressed like a banker who had a thing for Liberace. Nice suit, silk tie. Gold cigarette holder and a diamond big as a Chiclet on his right hand. Smile rehearsed and phony as a Fuller Brush salesman about to fuck the farmer's daughter.

Shit. It was almost one-twenty. I didn't have time for this crap.

"Ain't you one of Donny Marshak's girls?"

I nodded.

"He know you're here in my establishment?"

"Me and Donny, we had what you call a partin' of the ways. We're not so close no more, you know."

"He let you go? The man's a bigger dickhead than I figured him for."

"He got a short attention span, Donny does."

"So you're a free woman?"

"You could say."

Barney's expression went cool as a corpse. Like if he let anything show, his skin would crack. But I saw the tiniest, secret smile. Nothing you could even swear for sure was there. Like the smile of a man who's just seen his mistress across the room when he's got his wife on his arm.

He whisked out a card for Jules' Liquor Store and scrawled a number on the back. "Look, hon, I'm takin' off now before I get snowed in. You call me, though. Beautiful woman like you never has to worry where her next meal's comin' from as long as Barney McGuire's around."

I stroked the collar of my fur. "You don't gotta go right now, do you?"

He shrugged, looked almost embarrassed. "My daughter's gettin' baptized tomorrow morning. Don't wanna run the chance of missin' it, you know. Disappointin' her and her mama."

A kid? Funny, but I never thought of guys like Barney havin' kids. Not legit ones, anyways. Or going to baptisms, for God's sake.

"Hey, don't worry, though. I'm a man of my word. You want a job, doll, you got a place with me."

I imagined I could hear the clock over the door ticking. Like it was daring me to do something.

I put a hand on his lapel. "Before you go promising to buy the merchandise, ain't you gonna ask for a sample?"

"Hey, do I look like a guy who'd ask a woman to elope if I didn't plan to marry her?"

"I don't know. What does a guy like that look like?"

The bags below his eyes puckered with irritation. "Look, honey, Donny may go for pushy broads, but-"