Sounds of the night filtered in, though it was late enough that there was little traffic. There was the occasional hum of wheels on the city streets, or an engine purring as it passed, but at least there were no horns honking, no damned sirens screaming. A peaceful time in the city.

From this window she had a direct view of the apartment building just beyond the alley, but the unit across the small space was dark. Its occupants had probably gone to bed already. The elderly couple who occupied it kept opposite hours from Tiffany. The Sorensons were just getting up and shuffling around about the time that Tiffany turned out the lights. Once in a while Tiffany would peer through the window and catch the old lady in her bathrobe and hairnet, studiously making coffee while Tiffany was downing her last shot of vodka for the night.

“Different strokes,” she murmured, and felt a breath of night air against her skin. Was that the scent of magnolia on the breeze, or her imagination?

Again, she glanced at the clock.

Ten more minutes had passed. If he ever had the balls to show up, she’d charge him extra. With each passing minute, she became a little more agitated. She figured the john could at least be prompt. She was a working girl, had to stagger appointments. Fortunately this guy, not one of her regulars, was her last client of the night. A good thing, ’cause she was beat. Besides this gig, which she considered her side job, she worked part-time as a waitress at a restaurant in the brewery-turned-shopping mall on Decatur. Usually she covered the lunch shift, but sometimes dinner as well. For all her work at Sylvia Black’s, she collected a few piddly tips for umpteen orders of po’boys, gumbo, and crawfish étouffée. So she supplemented.

“Come on, come on, I ain’t got all night,” she said, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. So far there was no sign of gray in the springy black curls that she’d highlighted with a few thin gold streaks. She told herself the lines on her face just added a little character, and there weren’t many. Not yet. Her eyes were still clear, a light brown with flecks of green. Tonight, they were sultry, rimmed in glittery shadow and thick mascara.

Unbuttoned to her navel, her oversized blouse was sheer and showed off her figure as well as offering a peek-a-boo glimpse of her breasts, still firm and high despite having a child and pushing thirty. She’d compressed them into a leopard print bra with cups at least one size too small so that she appeared to be spilling out of it.