Читать книгу Dukkha Unloaded - Loren W. Christensen - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

Yolanda Simpson laboriously made her way up the litter-strewn stairs, grasping hand over hand on the splintery handrail that threatened to rip from the stained wall with her every tug. Her brain was swimming from a thumb-thick joint and the however many pulls from the jug of wine she shared with Candy in her car. Sharing a little wine after they’d call it quits for the night was a two-month-long tradition for the two of them. The fat joint was an extra bonus she found at the bottom of her purse next to the Vaseline. On top of her brain fog, her legs were tired as hell from walking on concrete for the past several hours in high-heel shoes way too high and way too tight.

Reaching the third-floor landing, she stopped to adjust her white headscarf, and to fight back the nausea from the exertion of climbing the stairs loaded. She leaned against the wall to pry off her pearl white shoes, lost her balance, and fell to one knee. She remained there for a moment to make sure she wouldn’t fall all the way over or heave up all the wine, and then palmed her way back up the wall.

A statuesque black woman, Yolanda stood an inch shy of six feet and possessed a body that slowed traffic at her usual corner, especially when she had on the outfit she wore tonight. A regular gave her the full-length, fake-fur coat last winter, which was way too warm for June, but was always a real showstopper on Eighty-Second Avenue. More than one customer had told her that when she opened her coat to flash her butt-cheek-revealing gold satin hot pants, and the clinging pink camisole over her unencumbered breasts, they had to have her right then and there.

At ten feet away, she looked like the 25-year-old she was, but up close, her eyes and face revealed years of dope, booze, and the countless johns who had frequented her body and then gone home to their wives and children. Normally, she wore a red wig to hide her alopecia, a disease that caused her to lose most of her hair. But a couple of weeks ago she had a hell of a fight with Rosie, the bitch, which Yolanda won, but not before the Mexican whore tore her wig off and chucked it into one of those big storm drains under a sidewalk curb. Now she had to wear a scarf until her new wig came in. Twelve hundred bucks, but there was no way she would wear some cheap over-the-counter thing.

Yolanda counted aloud each apartment door, since most had long ago lost their numbers to vandals and thieves. She stood unsteadily in front of the sixth door, pulled a single key from her big coat pocket and fumbled it into the lock. Before opening it, she looked fuzzy-eyed to her left and right to ensure no one was in the hall. Unlikely at 1:20 a.m., but better safe than sorry, a philosophy that’s kept her alive in a dangerous job.

She shuffled in, managed to click on the lamp, and butt-pushed the door shut. She sagged against it. “Shit,” she breathed. “Got to count the money before Lee shows up.”

Lee wasn’t a bad guy, except when he’d hit her in the stomach, sometimes really hard. He never hit her in the face because it was important she look good to bring in the money.

She reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a fat, orange clutch purse. She pulled out a wad of tens and twenties, dropped them onto the pink sheet at the foot of the bed, and did a quick count.

“Damn, two hundred twenty dollars,” she said aloud. “Must have done ten … no, eleven blow jobs tonight. Not the busiest night but above average.”

She made two piles, 110 dollars in each. Sometimes Lee let her keep more than fifty percent, especially when she brought in a good haul. It would be nice to get a little extra to buy some dope, maybe get a couple nights off to rest and spend time with Chelsea.

Chelsea! She raised her heavy eyes to the head of the bed and smiled drunkenly at her four-month-old sleeping peacefully between two oversized pillows.