Retta Mae Wagons wasn’t yet twenty years old. She was still beautiful and brilliant, and knew it. Retta Mae constantly caught men looking at her. Men had been checking Retta Mae out since she was sixteen. Only now, even a man glancing at her could become a horrible nightmare. The imam was jealous and didn’t need much of an excuse to give Retta Mae Wagons a beating, though his punches never left a mark on her. The imam seemed to know exactly where to hit.

“It’s an art I learned in prison,” he once told her, smiling.

But though the beatings were bad, they never stopped Retta Mae Wagons from piecing together the answer to her original question. All she had to do was observe and listen to the gossip, innuendo, and remarks from the imam’s drunken friends and sycophants. Even Rasheed Jamal’s bragging helped her figure it out. In time, Retta Mae Wagons was able to connect all the pieces, much the same as doing one of her easier crossword puzzles, about the Imam Rasheed Jamal, aka Cleveland Steve Beastie from Chicago. And all that detective work made her more fearful than ever.

It certainly didn’t set her free.

And then one evening, at the dinner table of Rasheed Jamal’s Florida mansion, Retta Mae Wagons said, “I want to go up to New York City.”

“What for?” asked the imam.

“I want to try out for that new TV program The Big Question.”

“That’s the one where you can win a hundred million dollars, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“What would you do with all that money?”

“I’d figure something out.”

“You think you’re smart enough to win a hundred million dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Buy yourself a lot of fancy dresses, couldn’t you? A lot more fancy dresses like the ones you have packed in all three of your closets.”

“I could do that,” said Retta Mae Wagons, “but I wouldn’t. No, Rasheed, if I won a hundred million bucks I’d set up the Retta Mae Wagons Fund.”

“What kind of fund?”

“Money for kids who can’t afford to go to college.”

“That’s really nice, Retta Mae,” said the imam, his sport shirt unbuttoned to his belt, allowing the hair on his chest to breathe. “You’re willing to risk your life for some poor nigger kids?”

“In a minute. And they don’t have to be black. The kids can be anything. At least my life would have some meaning, Mr. Imam. It sure as shit doesn’t have any meaning now.”

“Well, that’s mighty public-spirited of you,” said the imam, his words dripping with sarcasm. “A young girl like you willing to risk her life for such an altruistic cause? Very commendable, Retta Mae.”

The sun was setting in Miami Beach. It sent a warm orange glow over the imam’s dinner table. A white trawler chugged by the mansion on the inland waterway. All was right with the world of Rasheed Jamal.

“So can I take the plane?” asked Retta Mae.