Montoya cruised down Wolf Street in his red ’06 Mustang looking for a pro to finish off his evening at the clubs. He saw her just as he crossed 2nd North by Twilight Nights. She looked like she was a bit wasted, which was good. He had only a twenty left.
He slowed down and called across the street, “Hey, Baby. Want to earn twenty bucks?”
It took her a minute to turn stiffly and face him. She walked into the street, oblivious to traffic. Montoya thought this was a good sign. She was desperate for cash. He’d get his money’s worth.
She came close to the window and leaned in, letting out a low, smoky moan. She leaned toward down him. This was going to be a good night indeed. She moved toward his left cheek. Oh man. He leaned back. He loved this part. They always thought being nice would get them more money, but Montoya never tipped. It was all part of the game.
She nearly took off his ear.
Montoya pulled his head back just in time. He said, “I don’t want a stinkin’ crack whore” and pushed her to the pavement. “I got standards.” He stepped on the gas and headed the Stang south on Wolf toward 81.
He wiped the blood off with a Kleenex, held it there to be sure the bleeding had stopped, and tossed it out the window. He checked it in the mirror. There was hardly any damage. The bleeding had already stopped. He saw her following him in the rear view mirror. She was on something, for sure.
His wife wouldn’t notice. She never did.