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destination, and, man, there are so many transvestites out there it is unbelievable. Them niggas is looking better than the average bitch. But I don't give a fuck what anybody says, a nigga should still be able to tell a nigga from a bitch. Straight up! Niggas be using that shit for an excuse to get they gay on. Talking about they couldn't tell the difference.
    I stand back on the wall and wait for the show to begin. Nessa blows me a sexy kiss like she always does before showtime. Before I know it, Nessa is strutting down the block like Julia Roberts in
Pretty
Woman.
Her legs are long and sensual, and her phat ass is bouncing and behaving. She looks good enough to eat and tempting enough to swallow. I stand back, half cover my mouth with my hand, and yell, “That's right, baby, make that muh-fucking money for Daddy, get that money, baby.”
    A black Mercedes-Benz pulls up. Nessa sticks her head in the car and says a few words to the driver, who is a middle-aged black man dressed in a suit and hat. She turns to me and nods the okay signal. I jot down his license plate number in case Nessa turns up dead or something. They pull off; I stand on the wall and wait while checking out the other prostitutes. I have to give them niggas they props; cars are rolling up left and right. Hustlers, white men, black men, and a few college cats even walk up on foot. Them niggas is turning tricks right in the alley. I'm chilling; Nessa has thirty minutes to be back.
    About then I see this shim out there named Shanté. I know Shanté from Richmond City Jail. Our paths crossed 'cause they put that nigga in the wrong holding cell at the lockup. They thought he was a girl and shit. Shanté turned a few niggas’ ass out in jail. Niggas caught him up under the sheets with William Braxton. Big Willie had just gotten knocked off for killing two niggas outside the twenty-four-hour McDonald's on Broad. That gangsta nigga killed the muh-fuckers, then said, Fuck it. He sat on the curb and waited for 5-0 to come get him. He was fucking Shanté while he was waiting to be transferred to a maximum-security prison. Shanté spots me and comes over to talk.
    “Hey, baby, long time no see,” he says, all the while twisting and poking his ass out for the cars riding by.
    “Word,” I answer, trying to keep the conversation short and simple. I wasn't out there to be lollygagging. I was out there to get paid; I didn't have time to be fucking with Shanté.
    “I'm just waiting on my Saturday night special,” he says. Shantélooks good. His real name is Sam Oliver Brown. That S.O.B. is bout five feet ten, 210 pounds. He wears a long red dress and red hooker shoes: red plastic criss-cross type strap across the front and a fat-ass three-and-a-half-inch-wedge heel. His hair is up in a French roll, and he's wearing this “fuck me” red lipstick.
    “Is that right?” I say, trying to be polite, but I am already feeling uneasy with Shanté all up in my space.
    “Oops, got to go,” he says and takes off running to this white Honda Accord.
    I look to see who his client is and I be damn, if it wasn't La-La then my goddamn name ain't Demetria. I check the license plate and the tag starts off with an R, which means rental. Mutherfucking La-La has been hitting faggots. I start tripping 'cause I think about what my cousin Melody said about him. She had told me that their sex life wasn't hitting on two cents. La-La has been fucking with my cousin for about five years and is hustling out of her house in the pj's. She only puts up with the nigga 'cause he keeps her hair and nails done and supports her dope habit.
    Nessa comes back and passes me our first $75 of the night.
    “Hey, baby, did everything go okay?” I ask.
    “No, that tight-shirt-wearing-ass schoolteacher only tipped me five dollars,” Nessa says while standing with her hands on her hip and her face balled up in a knot.
    “What service did he get and how do you know he a school-teacher?” I ask 'cause it