John Lutz - Night kills

In Mexico, and during trips with Jorge to San Francisco, she used to feel above the kind of people she was now about to move among. She was the wife of a drug king, making her a drug queen, a superior creature with both money and power. It showed on her even when Jorge wasn't present. She'd inspired respect and fear among the addicted and the lower echelons of dealers. Now she had to pass as one of them.

Maybe I am one of them!

Trying to ignore her stab of panic, Maria turned away from the mirror. She went to the window and gazed out at the streetlights below. They were starred in the damp air, but the rain had stopped.

It was time to go out.

Before leaving, she added one more accessory to her outfit: a small black beaded purse. It contained a comb, some Kleenex, and a mace bomb she'd bought at a flea market. Supposedly, one whiff of the stuff and whoever might want to harm her would collapse helpless in a coughing fit. She didn't even know if the thing worked, but carrying it made her feel better.

At the door she considered taking an umbrella, then almost laughed out loud. The woman she'd been assessing in the mirror wasn't the sort who'd carry an umbrella if it wasn't raining. Being caught in the rain would be the least of the chances she'd routinely take. Tonight, Maria was that woman.

At first it was difficult to walk in the stiletto-heeled shoes. Maria took a cab south on Broadway until she was in a neighborhood that met her needs. The cabbie, who'd swerved to the curb immediately to pick her up, seemed to know what part of town she wanted to go to before she told him. Image could be everything in this world.

On foot again, it took her a few blocks to stop wobbling. She was almost surely working up a blister on her left big toe, but the hell with it. Blisters she could deal with later.

Now that the rain had stopped, there were plenty of people back out on the sidewalks. Maria ignored the stares she drew, and the occasional remarks. She went to clubs in the Village that looked like places where drug buys might be made. Her clothes were working their magic. Men propositioned her in ways bold and subtle, suave and crude. One place turned out to be a lesbian bar, and she was asked by a butch-looking woman wearing what looked like a leisure jacket to dance to an old sixties rock tune. Had to say no twice. She noticed everyone was dressed as if it were the sixties and realized that maybe she was, too. Women in her ostensive profession were in many ways a constant.

A sign made of pink paper letters strung together and draped on the mirror behind the bar declared that it was NOSTALGIA NIGHT and exhorted everyone to HAVE FUN! Maria had never regarded nostalgia as fun, merely weakness.

She thought about dancing for a while to work off the tension that was building in her, but she was worried she might sprain an ankle in her four-inch heels. A bald woman wearing a baggy tie-dyed T-shirt and huge gold hoop earrings grinned and waved a handful of bills at her, beckoning her to come back. She mouthed, "Don't leave," but Maria pushed through half a dozen women just entering and went back out into the warm night.

The fourth place she tried was Billie G's, in a crumbling brick building just off Christopher Street. It occupied the entire first floor, a vast space with a bar so long four bartenders were working it. There was a good-sized parquet dance floor, a neat rectangle running parallel to the bar. On the other side of the crowded dance floor were tables. The clientele seemed to be of both genders and every sexual orientation. The dancers moved jerkily to a rhythmic, relentless pounding sound that Maria suspected was an amplified heartbeat.

She took a table along a wall and ordered an economical well drink, bourbon and water on the rocks. The waitress, an emaciated woman with one eye made up to look blackened, didn't give her a second look. My kind of place, Maria thought.

Putting on a pointedly disinterested act whenever someone approached her table, she studied the crowd. If she was a prostitute, she was a particular one. Knowing what to look for, Maria sipped her drink and kept to herself.

Near the end of the bar up near the door were some black-boots-and-leather types. Tough-looking guys who might be bikers, or might be daytime worker drones from the financial district, out of their Brooks Brothers garb and playing a role.

Farther down the bar were more traditional types, wearing everything from jeans to suits and ties, drinking everything from beer and straight booze to Cosmopolitans.

As people entered Billy G's, some of them paused near the leather guys, then walked on. It was quick, it was deft, but Maria's practiced eye saw money and small items change possession. A geek in low-rider pants, and with his lacquered hair combed into five-inch spikes, was definitely not running with the leather crowd, yet he, too, paused at the end of the bar and made an almost unnoticeable exchange.

Maria sat and watched, becoming optimistic, thinking maybe she wouldn't have to finish her piss-and-water drink.

Within about ten minutes one of the leather guys, a big one with a graying beard, slid off his bar stool and made his way along the edge of the dance floor toward the restrooms. He was shirtless beneath a black leather vest with chains dangling from it. His muscular arms were adorned with tattoos, and when one of the dancers accidentally bumped into him, he gave the man a casual but vicious swipe with his elbow. The injured dancer, bent over in pain but still moving to the beat, glared at him, but didn't try to retaliate.

Maria had watched people going and coming from the restrooms, keeping track. It was possible that the bearded leather guy would be alone in the men's room.

This is why you came here. Do it!

She stood up from her table and moved among the dancers to catch up with him.

The restrooms were at the end of a long hall and down a flight of dimly lit, steep concrete steps. The stiletto heels were a problem here, too. Maria had to be careful as she descended the steps. The stairwell was narrow, and the closer she got to the bottom, the more the stench of stale urine and pine disinfectant confirmed what was at the base of the steps. Urine was definitely winning the battle with the disinfectant.

She edged around an enthusiastic couple necking in the stairwell, the woman pressed tight against the wall and making soft mewing sounds. Maria heard a door open and close-someone exiting a restroom-and a slim figure began climbing the steps toward her.

When the figure got closer, she saw that it was that of a man in an unbuttoned and flapping sport jacket.

Good. One down. All the more likely that the beard's alone.

At the base of the stairs were two gray-enameled flimsy wood doors identical in every way. Each had international skirt-and pants-clad figures stenciled on it, indicating the restroom was for both men and women. Cute.

Maria took a deep breath before remembering the ammonia stench of urine, then quickly exhaled and pushed open the nearest door.

Oddly, the air was better in the restroom. Maybe more disinfectant. There was a urinal mounted on the wall to the left. On the right was a stall. Its door was closed, and Maria could see a pair of definitely female ankles above dainty feet wearing low-heeled pumps.

She backed out and went to the other door.

This time, when she entered the restroom she glanced to her left, where she figured that with a flip plan the stall would be. Its metal door was open and it was unoccupied.

Standing to her right, at the urinal, was the bearded leather guy taking a piss.

Polite to a fault, Maria stood and waited for him to finish and turn around.

He zipped his jeans and turned at the same time. She saw the surprise in his eyes. He'd assumed another man was behind him, waiting to use the urinal.