Jesse walks to the liquor store next door. A patchwork Monte Carlo—maroon fender, white door, gray-primer hood—is parked out front. A buzzer goes off when Jesse enters the store. The clerk, a big black man, ignores him. He’s looking toward the beer cooler in back. There, another black man—a pimp in platform shoes, green velvet trousers, and a silk shirt open to his navel—is arguing with a skinny white whore in tight jeans.

“You best not be holdin’ out on me, bitch,” the pimp says.

“He only gave me twenty, I swear,” the whore says.

“That ain’t what Trina said.”

“Fuck Trina,” the whore says. “I’m the one sucked the motherfucker’s dick, and this is all he gave me.” She waves a twenty. The pimp snatches it away from her.

“How you gon’ say, Fuck Trina?” he says.

“Fuck Trina, fuck Trina, fuck Trina,” the whore says. “Fuck her in her motherfuckin’ ass.”

The pimp backhands her. She crashes into the glass door of the cooler and slides to the floor.

“Take that shit outside,” the clerk shouts.

The pimp comes up the aisle toward the counter without another glance at the whore. Instead he focuses on Jesse, bugging his bloodshot eyes. Jesse stares right back.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” the pimp says, moving in so he and Jesse are chest to chest.

“Nothing,” Jesse says.

“She your sister?”

“No.”

“Your mama?”

“No.”

“Then keep to yourself.”

The pimp leaves the store, gets into the Monte Carlo, and roars out of the parking lot.

“You want something?” the clerk says to Jesse.

“Give me a half pint of Old Crow,” Jesse says.

The whore is still sitting on the floor. “Can I use the restroom?” she says.

“The facilities is for customers only,” the clerk says, handing Jesse his bottle and change.

“Come on, man,” the whore says. “I need to clean up.”

“Buy something, then.”

The whore reaches into her purse, fishes out some coins.

“You sell loosies? Kools?”

“No loosies.”

“I ain’t got enough for a pack.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

Jesse lays a dollar on the counter.

“Give her her cigarettes,” he says. “And let her use the bathroom.”

“Thank you, man,” the whore calls after him as he walks out the door.

He’s leaning against a telephone pole and looking up at a sliver of orange moon when the whore comes out of the store. He’s been nipping at the whiskey and is feeling like he’s ready to do what he has to.

“Are you waiting for me?” the whore says. She’s pulled herself together after the beat-down, got her sass back.

“Maybe,” Jesse says.

The whore takes a drag off her cigarette, exhales smoke, and does a little thing with her hips, a little sway.

“You want a date?” she says.

“Who was that guy, the one that hit you?” Jesse says.

“Sugar?” the whore says. “He’s nobody.”