“You know,” the wop said, still leaning on the sill, “I ain’t never hardly seen Denny with his dick in his pants.”

Denny still shucked his cock. “I just like to jerk off in the goddamn street!” His face sort of twisted, almost twitched. “Hey, everybody! I’m jerkin’ off MY FUCKIN’ DICK!” he yelled the last three words so loud I jumped. He turned to look down the block, crouched, his fist speedin’ up. “In the goddamn street, you see?”

We were the only ones on the sidewalk.

“Come on,” Hogg said, over the wop’s shoulder. “Get on up here in the fuckin’ truck, will ya’?”

“He gonna get in trouble,” the wop said.

Denny climbed up after the wop. I climbed up after Denny. The nigger climbed up after me, and leaned out to slam the door.

“Just don’t catch his peter in there,” Hogg said, turning the ignition, letting the clutch. The door slammed. Everybody laughed. Denny too.

While we drove, I sat wedged between Denny and the nigger. I watched Denny playing with himself. Once I bent over and took his cock in my mouth. A couple of seconds later, the nigger’s big hand slipped in there to tickle Denny’s balls and my chin.

Suddenly somebody cuffed the back of my head.

“Shit, Hogg!” Denny said. “You gonna make the little bastard bite my dick off!”

“Get up from there, cocksucker,” Hogg said. “What you after another load again for? These bastards gotta save their juice for an hour or so. They gotta work. So cut it out!”

I sat up again.

“Shit …” Denny mumbled. His grubby, nail-bitten fingers closed around his wet dick, ran down to the base, ran up to the head, slipped two scrawny red knuckles across it, and slid down again.

“You can fuck around later,” Hogg said, pushing forward on the shift, tugging back on the wheel, “if you want. We got to work now.”

Night and street lamps rushed the window. Light filled and flushed from the cab.

“Hey, Dago, reach in my shirt pocket there and pull out that envelope for me.”

Denny’s swollen knuckles slid over the shiny veins.

4

“Yes? can I do anything for—”

The wop swung his knee against the—it was cabin “87”, in copper numbers—door. The chain snapped, whipping her cheek. The door edge hit her face and the knob jammed her stomach. She let out all her air and stumbled.

Hogg chuckled.

She looked too scared to make a sound. Her pink bathrobe was all knotted in her fingers against her belly.

She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, shook her head—her hair had been sprayed into complicated shapes; one started falling. As she swung her head back and forth, they shook like blond balloons.

The nigger, with one hand on the door jamb, drawled, “Shit …!” His zipper rasped.

She screamed.