An hour later the predator remembered he'd left his pistol in plain view inside the car, but the doors were locked, so he went back to what he was doing. He kept asking Joanne, "Isn't this better?" and she didn't know what he meant but knew enough to say "Yes" every time.

It was still dark when the predator left the house. He was going to the furnished room he'd rented and sleep until the next night. Then he'd finish with Joanne and move on, doing his work.

He walked around to the driver's door, keys in hand, like walking out of that alley in Chicago.

A heavy, hook–twisted steel spike was dangling from the door handle, swaying gently in the night breeze. Its thick base was crusted with flesh, torn off bloody at the root.

Man to Man

You wait for an obvious score, man. They are not hard to spot after a while but I'll show you a few from the next bunch that pass by. You have no trouble…since you so well–dressed for the role. And make sure you get it straight in front: how much and what you gonna do. There's a lot of studs on this street who'll do any fucking thing for half a C–note, but the real men here, we just let the goddamned queers swing on our joints and that's all! Don't ever come on to a score. Say nothin' to them. Don't talk. Just nod your head if you want to make it and walk away if you don't. The Law around here really don't care so long as you not soliciting…you know, like the hookers do, screaming at the cars and all. And there are some faggot cops who will make it with you and then bust you, man…some motherfucking heat that is! Stay out of the toilets and the movie balconies…'specially on this street 'cause then you become too well–known and it will not take long for the fags to look for a new face and the price drops on you. That's the way they are.

Best deal is to set a goal for yourself each day; like, say, a yard. And not to panic or press if you not goin' to make this right away and bein' sure to quit when you got this because that way the pressure is not on you.

Trouble is, man, you look too much like one of those motorcycle studs and you gonna get all kinds of action from freaks who want you to whale on them for bread. Not that there is anythin' wrong with working over a fucking queer but you got to go someplace to do it…like a room…

In the summer we make it to one of the queer beaches, but you got to have body for that stuff. I work out regularly and don't smoke or drink…only sometimes the queers expect you to smoke while they copping your joint because that is cool and removed…but you look wasted, man. Maybe you want to come along with some of the guys next time we hit the gym. Good bucks to be made from the camera freaks too…if you got the body. You got to have a partner to work out with you. You know, hold your legs while you kick and spot weights for you and stuff like that….I'll go with you sometime.

And don't be talking like some fuckin' intellectual all the time…the scores don't dig that shit. Tell them you a truck driver or a serviceman or something like that. I tell 'em I'm a professional athlete…you better not try that, though. In fact, just tell them you a hustler and let it go like that. That will clear the air and you won't get beat out of bread by some freak thinking you for free.

Lots of goddamned size–queens too. Like to measure the meat before they buy. I got no trouble like that so I make extra bucks sometimes. You, uh…hung pretty good? Better let me check you out first so I can tell you if you should show it to 'em first….

Oh, look, okay, man…that is your choice. I personally don't give a shit….I am just trying to give you a picture of this street so you last and live out here like me. I have been hustling this block for two seasons now and have only one time been busted. You just got to know how.

Listen, man, don't look at me like that. I know all about this "if you'll pitch, you'll catch" shit, but, dig, I don't do nothing. Even in the House, I don't do a fuckin' thing. The House, man…the fucking jail!

That was for somethin' else, not hustling.

Listen, man, you want to make it up to my room, just around the block? I got some beer on ice and we could talk more about this scene….I mean, this fucking street is a drag sometimes.

Plan B

I call myself a gambler, but that's not what I am—a gambler wins sometimes. Me, I'm a loser, that's the right word for it.

In all my gambling life, I only had one piece of luck. And like they always say, luck is a lady. That's my Penny. My Lucky Penny, I used to call her…back when I was keeping at least some of my promises.

The guy who said "for better or for worse" must have had me and Penny on his mind. Yeah. She was the better, I was the worse.

When I first knew her, when I was taking her out on the town, she was such a beauty guys would just bite their hands when she walked down the street.

That was more than twenty years ago, but even all those years of hash–house waitressing haven't made it all go away. She's still gorgeous, and not just to me. Yeah, she's put on a few pounds. And being on your feet all day don't do much for your legs. And having to eat most of her meals at that greasy spoon joint don't help your waistline either. They give her free meals at the joint—that's so they don't have to pay minimum wage. Penny could of made a lot more cash working in one of those joints where letting the customers grab your ass is part of the deal, but she wouldn't do that. I mean, I wouldn't of wanted her to do that, but I couldn't have stopped her. I mean, I was never enough of a man to take care of her like she deserved. How was I gonna tell her I want her to quit her job, when I wasn't bringing home the cash?

It wasn't that I didn't try—I'm a gambler, not a pimp. Truth is, I get ideas…good ideas…but I'm no good at carrying them out.

I mean, I don't drink or nothing. Never touched dope except for when I was in the Army. Everybody smoked in the Nam. Or did something heavier. I hated it over there, but I don't blame nobody but myself. I mean, I was a stone bust–out gambler before I ever got drafted.

Before I ever met my Penny.

Anyway, I always worked steady. Gamblers don't miss work the way drunks do. I got damn near twenty in on my job. At least, I did have until they laid me off. Hell, they about laid everybody off. Some of the guys said it's a bluff. They said they're trying to bust the union. Near as I can tell, the union's already busted. All I got to show for all those years is I get to keep my health plan for another year or so. Of course, I got to pay for it myself—the only thing management kept up was the lousy life insurance…twenty–five grand if I croak, big deal.

And, anyway, the truth is, I'm not keeping up the health insurance—Penny's doing that.

She always has faith in me. No matter how many times I screw up, no matter how many times I lie. Every time I get in a hole because I did something stupid, I always tell her I got another move. "I'll just go to Plan B, little girl." That's what I used to tell her when it started. But Penny ain't no little girl anymore. And me…me, I'm nothing but a liar. A promiser and a liar—for me, they're just the damn same.

Only one promise I ever kept to Penny. The one she told me she'd leave me for, if I broke it. "I'm not waiting around for you if you're in jail," she told me. And I knew she meant it—Penny is real strict about that kind of thing. So I never went to the sharks. Yeah, I was a good gambler, you understand?—I only lost the money I had on me at the time.