That afternoon, Tony jammed the plastic key into the slot on the EconoMo Motel door, Room 217. Nothing. No buzz, no green light.
He gave the doorknob a vicious twist, just for good measure. It wouldn’t open.
He pulled the plastic rectangle from the slot and pushed it back inside. Then again. He was so focused on the key that he failed to note the dried blood coating his knuckles and embedded in his fingernails.
He could hear movement inside the room. Good; Dede was inside. He knocked on the door with the side of his fist.
Though Dede’s voice was muffled by the door, he heard her respond to the knock. “Don’t want to see anybody. Go away. I’m in bed.”
He pounded on the door, wishing it was someone’s face he was striking. Maybe Dede’s. Sometimes his bottom bitch needed a reminder about their relative positions. Or better yet, he’d enjoy giving another pop to the little piece of trash he’d worked over in the Rancho Motel in Barton, Missouri.
The girl had needed to be taught a lesson. And he taught her one. Taught her good.
The door opened a crack. He pushed it wide, walked in, and slammed it behind him.
“Don’t ever leave me waiting.”
Dede took a step back. Tony walked to the bathroom for a cup. The sight of Dede’s cosmetics; her curling iron and hairspray, scattered around the sink, pushed his foul temper several notches higher. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked the items to the floor. Face powder made a snowy pattern on the bathroom tile.
Dede peered into the doorway. “Damn it, Tony. That eye shadow was brand-new.” She knelt down and picked up a plastic case of blue and green shades in a palette. “The mirror is broken.”
Tony turned the tap and scrubbed his hands with the miniature bar of soap. The lather on his hands was rust-colored.
With a mournful face, she said, “I’m afraid to use it now. What if I get glass in my eye?”
The towels were scattered on the floor, piled beside the tub. He plucked up a damp bath towel and wiped his hands.
“Clean this shit up,” he said. He picked up the cup and made his way to the desk. A few cubes floated in a puddle of water in the plastic ice bucket. He scooped them into the cup and filled it with vodka. Then he opened one of the prescription bottles, shook out two pills, popped them in his mouth, and chased them with the liquor.
Dede was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, her broken eye shadow in her hand. She eyed him with trepidation.
“Where’s Mandy?”
“Fuck,” he said. Tony walked to the unmade bed and sat. He took another swallow before placing the cup on the scarred bedside table. “She’s right where I left her. Trashy bitch.”
He stretched out, leaned against the headboard, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He stared at the screen, frowning.
Dede took a tentative step in his direction. “I thought you’d bring her back when she was done.”
“I guess I didn’t.” He didn’t look up, just scoured texts on the phone. “You’ll have to go get her.” He glanced up. “Get out of that bathrobe. And do something about your hair.”
Dede’s hand ran over her hair, smoothing it away from her face. The auburn waves were frowsy, flattened by sleep.
“What’s that on your shirt?”
He didn’t answer. Cautiously, she sat on the corner of the bed.
“Is it blood?”
He looked up. “What do you think?”
She swallowed before answering. “I think it looks like blood. Kind of.”
He shot Dede a look that should serve as a warning: watch your mouth.
Because he didn’t feel bad about slapping Mandy into line. It was business. And he was a businessman.
In his line of work, Tony was the boss. The girls? They were inventory. And if the boss man couldn’t control the inventory, the business would go to shit in a New York minute.
Tony hadn’t been raised to understand the principles of running his own operation. His old man had always worked under somebody else’s thumb. Never got to be in charge. That was why he came home at night with an itch to kick the household around. Tony’s mother. The kids. Even the damn dog.
Tony hadn’t learned how to make a buck from his old man; but he’d learned how to throw a punch. He’d had lots of opportunity to observe that, back in the shithole where he grew up, in Sweet Home Alabama.
Tony hated that song.
He studied the cell phone and commenced typing on the phone with his thumbs. Dede stepped over to her suitcase and pulled out some clothing. As she slipped a shirt over her head, she said, “What happened?”
“Mandy got out of line. That’s all. I had to remind her who’s in charge.”
Dede pulled on a pair of jeans, and then dug in her purse for a hairbrush. Standing before the mirror on the dresser, she ran the brush through her hair, while keeping her eyes trained on Tony’s reflection.
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
When Tony’s eyes met hers in the mirror, he saw her flinch. He smiled.
“Mandy had an attitude problem. We’ve got a hot new client down there in hillbilly country. He was prepared to pay top dollar for the services he wanted. Top fucking dollar.”
The hairbrush stopped moving, midstroke. “And?”
“And Mandy didn’t feel like doing what he’d paid for. The dude texted me. Asked for a refund. Shit.”
He returned his attention to the phone, with his thumbs moving at a furious pace. In an offhand voice, Dede spoke again.
“Will she be able to work?”
“Not for a while.”
She fastened back her hair with a plastic barrette. “I’m pretty good with makeup.”
“Yeah, I dunno. I kinda flipped out. Gave her a pretty good smackdown. You’ll need to pick up the slack. It’ll give you something to do, other than sitting on your ass.” He tossed the phone onto the mattress. “What you still standing around for? It’s a forty-minute drive to Barton. Go get her before she starts wandering off.”
He threw a hotel key at her. It fell onto the frayed carpet. The key read Rancho.
Dede picked up the key and headed for the door. Before she opened it, Tony said. “We need more girls.”
She paused, looking at him over her shoulder, but didn’t reply.
He said, “We came all the way from Birmingham to stake out this territory. I’ve worked the internet connections, made contacts, built the clientele. We got prime location for highway traffic. I should be raking in a fortune. This ain’t like the drug trade. You sell your stash and it’s gone—done. But these girls. That pussy don’t disappear. You can sell it over and over again.”
Dede spoke. “I’m working on it. I’m gonna meet with the kids you hooked up—same town as your new client.”
“Why aren’t they lined up yet?”
She stared at the floor, grimacing.
“One of them is gung ho—the white chick. She’s a piece of cake. But the other one, the pretty black girl; she’s kind of jumpy. It won’t be that easy to bring her into the stable.”
Tony picked up the vodka and took a deep swallow. He sighed and tucked a flat pillow behind his head. His Elvis combo—booze and painkillers—was starting to work its magic. His muscles relaxed, his mood was lifting.
“Get that pretty black kid in here to meet me. She needs to see me in the flesh. I know just how to motivate her.”
As Dede slipped out the door, Tony said, “You can only eat a cow once. But you can milk it over and over and over again.”