I know what you think–you think I'm that Call Girl Killer, don't you? The one the newspapers are making all that fuss about. The newspapers lie, you know. They don't tell the truth. Most of those girls, they weren't real call girls at all. Just common prostitutes. Whores. But "call girl" sounds better in the press.

I can always tell when a woman's a whore. Those are the only ones I take. You can tell. Always. Some of them, they just stand out in the street and scream at you–they're not ashamed at all. Some of them are secret whores, though. Like undercover cops. In disguise.

Are you warm in here? Do you want me to…No? Okay, that's okay. Just relax. I won't do anything.

What was I…oh, yes, undercover cops. They have them out there. I saw them. One, I see her all the time now. But she's not a whore. Not a sex-whore, anyway. But she's still trying to trap me.

I'm too smart for them.

In fact, they were the ones who gave me the idea. The first ones, they were street trash. All I needed was a car. That's what they do, they get in your car. It's easy after that. But they said they were call girls. The papers said that. Or maybe it was the cops. So what I did, I called one myself. They have the numbers in the Yellow Pages. Escort services, some of them are called. Or in the personals…role playing, they call it. I just called them up and they sent one over. Every time. I have to move afterwards, but that's no big deal–I just put everything in my car.

I would never order one of the call girls to this place. My basement. I would never want to move from here.

I'm sorry about the ropes. And the tape. I know it's uncomfortable. I'm actually a very nice person. That's what people say about me…that I'm a nice person. And it's true–it's not a lie.

I'm really truly sorry. When I saw you, walking alone in that neighborhood, that time of night, I was sure you were one of them.

I'm really sorry, Colleen. That's your name, isn't it? Yes? I thought so. I knew you wouldn't be the type of girl to have a phony ID. You're a student, aren't you? At the University? That's what it says…I'm sorry about that, going through your purse and all. I didn't take anything. I'm not a thief.

I guess you work at that diner to pay for school, right? Yes, I thought so. That's very good, to make your own way in the world. That's what I do too. I don't have any family. Do you have a family? Yes? Brothers and sisters and all? No? You're an only child? That's too bad. I was an only child too. It would have been nice to have brothers and sisters.

I'm sorry about…looking. I mean, you were dressed in that little skirt and all….I didn't know it was a waitress outfit. I mean, it looked like it could be one, but some of the whores, they dress up different ways. That's why I had to look…under there. I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't touch you or anything. I wouldn't do that.

Please don't be afraid. It's all right. Look, I'll prove it to you. I take pictures of them. I'll always have the pictures. Even after they're gone. I always take pictures of them. Wait, just sit there…oh, I didn't mean anything. I wasn't being sarcastic. I hate it when people are sarcastic…they can really hurt you with their words. I'll be right back.

See? See the pictures? Polaroids. I couldn't send film out to be developed. See theme Look–she was the first one. But I never took a picture of you, even when you were…out. I know you're not like the others.

I'm really sorry. I know you're innocent. An innocent girl. Do you have a boyfriend? No? Gee, a pretty girl like you…you're too busy with school and work and all that, huh'

You don't have a boyfriend. Gee, do you think if I…? No, that's too stupid. I mean, if you met me…maybe in the restaurant, we could…?

Yes?

Oh, I know you don't mean it. I'm not mad. I know you're just trying to be nice. Nice to a stranger. That's very sweet. I'm not mad at all.

I'm really so sorry. If I knew, I never would have…do you understand?

Good. Once I found out what kind of girl you were, I wanted you to understand. I wanted to talk to you.

I know this wasn't your fault, Colleen. It wasn't my fault either, not really. If only I could explain it to you. But…

It doesn't matter. I know you're really a nice girl. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry.

You taught me a lesson, Colleen. People aren't always what they seem. I guess I'm not either.

So I'm done with all this.

I'm really, really sorry. I'm sorry about everything. Maybe this won't help that much, but I wanted you to know.

I promise. I'm sorry and I promise.

You're the last one.

Drive-by

It was a diss what got me my shot.

I was on the corner in my new jacket, stylin' and profilin' for my homeboys. The jacket was a little big on me but it was a real bad boy–all soft, fine leather, maroon panel on front, white over the shoulders, with this big black 8 Ball in the middle of a triangle on the back. I got it a couple nights ago, when me and my crew went rustling on the subway. You gotta get paid in this life, make motherfuckers give up they gold. This young boy was wearing my jacket, on the J train, comin' home from a party with his girlfriend. The fuckin' coolie didn't even have a ride, takin' the train like a wage slave. Maurice yoked him while I put the box cutter right against his face, sliced a little piece of his cheek to let him know his life wasn't worth that jacket.

Peoples like that, they gotta expect a little vie comin' down on them, they go out on the street.

You don't got the right gear, you ain't shit out here. Motherfuckers be wearin' old raggedy hightops, yesterday's stuff, they don't get over. Bitches don't want a man who don't sport the gold.

My birthday's Saturday night–I'm gettin' too old to be foolin' with this rookie shit. I need to hook up, get somethin' sweet for me.

I'm ready. Man, I been ready. Last time I was busted, went down to the fuckin' Youth House, I carved a name for myself, you understand what I'm sayin?

I saw the posse car pull over across the street. An all-black Jeep. The windows was black too–a very def ride. Everybody knows whose ride that be.

The front window slides down. Big guy in the seat. "Yo! Tyrone!" he calls out.

I cruise over to the car, proud in front of my homeboys. Posse don't be callin' on you for nothin'. A big guy gets out, opens the back door for me. Like a star climbing in a limo. Everybody on the corner saw it.

The car slides off. I'm sitting next to Luther Beauchamp. The Man himself. He got houses all over the 'hood.

Luther don't say nothin' to me at first. The guy driving takes off slow. Smooth. Very chilly. Nice.

Luther, he got a Mercedes hood ornament on a chain around his neck. Solid fucking gold. Black leather gloves on his hands. Thin black gloves.

We go up Buffalo Avenue, turn down behind the Projects.

"Z'up?" I ask him, like I go in his ride all the time. I'm with it, whatever it is.

"You know the house I got over by the Flats?" Luther asks me.

"Sho," I tell him. It's over in East New York. The Badlands. Big house, all empty upstairs, got no windows. There's a steel door with a slot in it. You slide the cash through, the crack come back.

"I'm needin' another man, work the front. Been hearin' about some young dumb motherfuckers, thinkin' about takin' what's mine. I don't play that. Five bills a day, you watch the front. Dust any motherfucker acts stupid. I been hearin' about you. Hear you got a lotta heart. That you?"

"That's me, man."

"You got your shit with you?"

I go in my waistband, pull out my piece. Luther opens his palm–I hand it to him.