“What?” In the lamplight, the driver looked like he’d just peed himself.

“Fuck! No way!” an African American dude in the backseat called. “That’s highway robbery, man.”

“Going rate.”

“Like hell.”

“That’s the going part of it. You’d better get going.”

“That bitch tryin’ to rip us off!” said another kid, one in the shadows of the backseat, his face hidden.

She wasn’t into playing games.

“Gang bangs aren’t free,” she said.

“You ain’t seen what I got, baby,” No-Face purred. As if he were God’s gift.

The rain was coming down hard now, so she said, “So let me show you all what I got, okay?”

“Yeah, baby,” the guy in the passenger seat said.

Gross.

She whipped out her cell phone. “If you don’t want me to call my pimp, then you’d better get yourselves out of here. You know he’s pretty badass.”

“We . . . we got fifty bucks,” one kid offered up. Jesus, had his voice even changed? “Don’t that buy a blow job? It’s my bro Jesse’s birthday.”

“Happy birthday, Jesse,” she said. “How old are you?”

A kid with red hair pressed his face to the window of the backseat.

“He’s eighteen,” No-Face insisted.

She almost laughed. Jesse couldn’t have been more than fourteen, fifteen tops. The fun was over. She threw her cigarette onto the street, mashed it out with the toe of her platform, then dialed a fake number into the phone. When a male voice answered, thank God, she said, “Yeah, Big Len, I got me a little problem down here . . . Yeah, my usual corner. Some punk kids are hassling me . . . Yeah, bring Ralph along. And make it quick.”

“She’s just fuckin’ with us, man.” No-Face again. The wise one.

“I wish she was fuckin’ us,” the black dude said. “Check out her ass.”

Gracie glanced down the street, as if expecting someone. That did it for the driver. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I’m outta here. My dad will kill me if I get into any trouble with his car.”

“What a pussy!” No-Face wasn’t impressed, but the driver hit the gas, tearing out and nearly running a stoplight.

She was about to give up when a silver sedan, one that had driven around the block a couple of times, showed up again. This was it, her last chance. The rain was playing hell with her hair and makeup.

The car eased up to the corner, and a guy with dark glasses rolled down his window. No marijuana. No group of testosterone-driven teenagers. No rap music, just the quiet banter of a radio talk show.

“You lookin’ for a good time?”

“Always.” His smile was enigmatic.

“It’ll cost ya,” she said, but he was nodding; he knew the drill. He didn’t even flinch when she upped her standard fee twenty bucks.