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buckled. I had to take a break before sucking her boyfriend's dick,” Nessa says, fanning herself 'cause the memory was just that hot.
    “Did you take good care of ol’ boy?” I ask. I need to know if we have made a lifetime customer.
    “Oh, yes, I did. I sucked it so good, the skin peeled off that tiny pink mutherfucker. They said they didn't have any extra money to tip tonight, but asked if I could provide services to them on a regular and said we could stop by his store on Monday if we need anything.”
    Nessa hands me the man's business card; he is a general manager at Kinko's. I toss the card in my back pocket, thinking, What the fuck does he think I need a photocopy of?
    The next car that rolls up is a young black cat in his early twenties. Nessa struts over to the car, makes a sharp turn to show him her rear end, then swings back around and leans, asking, “You think you could handle this, baby boy?” He's pushing a black Acura Legend, with tinted windows and chromed-out wheels. His windows are rolled down so you can hear the bass from his stereo. He's blasting
    “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang” by Dr. Dre. The nigga is leaning to the side and bopping his head off track five of the Chronic. When he opens his mouth to talk, his gold teeth sparkle.
    He whispers, “I want the total package.”
    Nessa jumps in, and I yell, “One hour.” It is already ten P . M . and Nessa is rolling. I walk over to the Exxon Gas Station to get me a pack of Newports, a Snickers bar, and a Mountain Dew. It's gonna be a long night and I need a sugar rush to keep my ass up.
    As I cross the street, I see Shanté getting out of the Honda. I'm tearing open the pack of cigarettes with my mouth, and by that time I am right up on the car. La-La's eyes meet mine, and that nigga speeds off:
Screeeech.
He has to be pushing eighty down Broad Street. I go back to the alley to wait for Nessa. Shanté comes over.
    “Heyyy, I'm about to roll out,” Shanté says while tucking his money into his bra.
    “Damn, so soon.” I try to give da nigga a blank statement so he'll keep it moving.
    “Hmm, after my Saturday night special, I'm done,” he says while sounding all lisp tongue and shit.
    “Oh yeah?” I shoot back. I didn't want to ask shit about La-La but I felt a story coming. One thing's for sure, if you fuck a shim, them muh-fuckers gon’ tell it sooner or later, and one thing about it, they don't ever lie on a nigga's ass.
    “Hmm.” He sucks his teeth. “You see that nigga I was with? He picks me up every Saturday night at the same time, and we go to the hotel on Chamberlain across from Burger King. And trust me, I lets the nigga have it his way.” He strokes his hair and continues. “Baby, I gets four hundred dollars a whop. Oh yes, baby, that nigga fucks the shit out of me. I asked him if I could hit him one time, but he don't trade off.” Shanté rubs up and down his girlish figure, straightening up his tight-fitting body dress.
    “See ya.” He waves good-bye and heads toward Feldens, where each and every Saturday night the drag queens perform. He was sashaying like Naomi Campbell on the runway. I thought about hiring him to give Nessa some touch-up lessons, but I just flat-out refuse to pay a nigga to show a bitch how to work it.
    It's now eleven and Nessa's ass isn't back. Broad Street has a party atmosphere. Cars are going up and down, back and forth. I see the same cars ride by me so many times that I get dizzy as hell just from being out there. Carload after carload of muh-fuckers is making they way to Ivory's. My pager goes off with a 5-0 code. I know then that the gold tooth–wearing nigga that Nessa left with was the po-po. I jog over to Exxon to the pay phone, only to realize that there ain't a phone in the cradle. So I walk down to Mickey D's to use the phone out there. I close the door to the booth behind me and call Momma.
    “Ma, what up?” I ask, knowing very damn well what time it is.
    “You know, don't play