Scarf Breath

Violette laughed, her voice harsh and rough as that of a smoker. "You may be a king, but a king does not know all his subjects." she looked once more at the man sitting at the bus stop, still he stared. "Come on, it's the new place, the one on second."

Stan noticed his lips curling into a smug smile as the woman began to nod. Fortunately, she was looking the other way, and the man had enough time to hide the grin once more before she turned back to face him. Years of dealing on the streets had trained his features to snap into hard lines, the ones mothers would worry their children about. Sometimes Stan really did feel like his face was "stuck that way", dark eyebrows over sunken eyes, his mouth a solid line, his jaw ever-clenched shut. Today, his face was having some trouble, though. If it weren't for his reputation around town, people might think he was completely nuts. People didn't just make expressions around here, unless they wanted to be mugged.

"You know a place?" Stan raised an eyebrow. There went his face again, making expressions. He should really be more careful. The man folded his arms across his chest, and took a lazy step forward, crossing one foot across the other. "I thought we covered that I was the king of this place, and you were the newbie." he snorted. "I don't even know your name. If I don't know it, how could anyone else possibly know it?" he grinned, taking another, slightly anxious step.

"Hold on a minute," Violette stopped and waited, expecting the man to get rough or demanding, "I think you might be interested in my first-timer price." He smiled at his own joke, he knew she was no first timer as he tossed the small bag to her. "Free." The word settled uncomfortably like the bag at her feet.

The man looked hagard and experienced, but he was as reckless as a first timer on the streets. He ducked to pick up the bag and shoved it into her hand, her numb fingers forced closed around the plastic. "Now you can take the night off." The short, simple statement that said, 'gotcha.'

Violette glanced back, to see if a man still sat at the bus stop, and then back to the greasy haired man before her. "Let me buy you a drink." he continued, as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. She glared at the man, stuffing the drugs into her empty bra. "Believe me, if I wanted you to feel like you owed me anything, I'd have stopped at the dope. Whaddya say?"

Violette looked back for the second time, the man at the bus stop still stared at her. It was unnerving, the stare. No one waited so long for a crack whore and if they did they'd certainly move to the next girl on the street. He was probably mentally retarded, she had met several of the sort through the years. The ones with head problems where easy to manipulate, good for favors, good for cash. The retarded men looked at her like a sick, stupid puppy in a cardboard box would have. No, the stare was more than that... it seemed cold and expectant like a serial killer or a cop. She shuddered, "I know a place where we can get some drinks."

Stanley's gaze shifted from his empty coat pockets to the face of the woman before him as she took the bag of heroin in her hands. Maybe he was still affected by the tiny white crystals that glistened now across her fingers. He was sincerely captivated, and a little bit disheartened at the way her lips fell open into a calm sigh, the way her eyes blinked closed and open again, fresh and new, though she was anything but new. Suddenly, the man was reminded of something. He liked making people feel new. New was happy, happy was free. A dealer was in the business of pleasure, just as much as any street whore. See, making people feel good was a rewarding feeling of its own, for the first few months, anyway. Then the numbness sets in, and you start to forget who you are and why you're in it. Years pass, life becomes little more than broken phone booths and counting change, with the exception of rare occasions like these, when a penniless prostitute shudders a breath, blinks an eye, and reminds you who you are.

The young woman sighed, pinched the baggie closed and pressed it into Stan's palm with unnecessary force, as if the drugs would not leave her hand. "I have work to do now, but I'll be free late tonight." This was the second time she had rejected him, and impatience rose again in Stanley, but of a different sort. The man drew a quick breath, the kind one makes before doing something terribly stupid and terribly like themselves.

"Hold on a minute. I think you might be interested in my first-timer price." Stanley grins as he says the word. The woman before him is definitely no first-timer. "Free." Stan tossed the baggie back towards the woman, regretting the decision instantly. His words had obviously not quite processed in her mind, and she simply stood there, a confused expression frozen on her face, as the heroin landed at her feet.

Stan looked around him again before diving down to retrieve the bag. This time he placed it firmly in the woman's palm, curling her freezing fingers around it. "There. now ya can take the night off. Warm up, your hands are cold." The man stuffed his own hands back in his pockets, and his dark eyes fell to the cement. His head turned in the direction he wanted to walk, but his feet stayed planted. He glanced up at the woman one more time, before he drew another quick breath, the stupid kind again. "Let me buy you a drink." It was one of the more out-of-place statements Stan has made in his life. He felt odd, but sure of himself. Perhaps that was more than heroin in that bag. "Believe me," he held his hands up, grinning a cheesy grin as a defense to the cold glare that the woman now held on her face. "If I wanted you to feel like you owed me anything, I'd have stopped at the dope." he paused. "Whaddya say?"

Violette felt the mans hand tighten around her wrist as he yanked her back and reached inside his jacket. She pushed the hair from her face, the purple was fading and needed redyed. With a smug grin, the man opened the bag and carefully gathered some powder on his fingers. It was heroin, Violette could recognize the stuff as easily as her own reflection, and he offered her a taste. She bit her lip, hard, small specks of blood oozing on her chapped lips. Gingerly, she coated a finger in the powder and smelled it, touched it to her lips, and finally rubbed it into her gums. The rush was quick, the release exillirating and for a moment she forgot about the men from earlier, the man at the bus stop, and the man with the greasy black hair. For a moment she felt free.

With a sniff she opened her eyes to see the tall man grinning expectantly. He new he had her, she knew she wanted him. "I have work to do now, but I'll be free late tonight."

The skinny woman started walking away, but slowly. She was playing him, trying to test him. For what, Stan had no idea. He had already gotten the information he needed. "Heroin, huh?" the man mumbled, reaching for the woman's arm as it swung backwards. He caught her at the wrist, her bones digging into his palm. It didn't take much more than a light touch to pull her back around to face him. "And you don't pay up front? Little Lady knows her stuff." Stan sighed, flickering his eyes to his over sized green jacket as he retrieved something small from one of the upper pockets. "Well, I can't let you mainline, but I do love my customers, so I let 'em have a little taste." he purred, carefully arranging the powder across his bare fingertips poking through his gloves. Stan rubbed the heroin across his gums, welcoming the quick rush. The man held out the bag towards the woman before him, knowing full well that once she took the bait, she would come back again and again, they all did.

"Now, we covered what I want I get for free, but what you want, you pay for. What's your poison?" The man was confident and snarky, he knew what he wanted.. what she wanted and would take advantage of it if he could.

Violette took a deep breath, the bitter cold bit at her lungs and cheeks. "I don't work for free and I don't pay up front," her voice was steady and sure. "No one owns me, I can always find another block." The thin woman blew on her hands and rubbed them ferverously. Vie had been down that road before. The naive ideals of a drug driven teen had led her onto the streets working with and against the other women on the block. When she didn't make enough she had to choose to accomidate her 'pimp' or find a new place.

"Heroin." It was a single word, barely whispered above the wind as she turned to walk away. A man had been lurking, staring at her from the bus stop. He was willing. He would pay.

Stan could tell from the moment the woman opened her mouth that he could cut the smooth demeanor. Her voice slurred as she spoke, her dull eyes barely glanced over him. She was young, but not new - not by any means. Normally the young ones had enough energy to keep up that veil of disbelief. The young ones would play dumb, act as if they weren't really selling their used body parts to random passerby on the street. This one was different, a no-nonsense type who let her body to the talking. And damn, it could talk. Stanley dug his hands back into his pockets, fingers grazing over the loose change he had with him. That was the real goal here, he reminded himself. Even if tonight were one of the rare occasions he took home a girl, well, he wouldn't exactly have anywhere to take her back to. Selling just a couple bags could get him a motel room and a working phone, on which, he would dial up his landlord, threaten his life, then tuck in alone and sleep easy. Sounded like a good plan.

The skinny girl in front of him must have caught his mind wandering, because she started to narrow her eyes just slightly, and purse her lips tight together, draining what little color was left in them. "Do you want something, if not keep movin I can't work if I'm talkin." she mumbled.

Stan took a step forward, and bent down a bit to look the woman in the eye. "Babe, if I wanted something, you'd give it to me. That's the way it works around here." He drew back, lips curling into a grin. "I'll forgive you this one time, because you're new. But let me explain. See, these couple blocks are mine. Dope, blow, people come to me for their shit. I'm the one who gets all the lonely fucks out here feeling lousy enough to want anything to do with you." Stan drew another breath, feeling winded already. His hands were sweating like crazy in his pockets. The man glanced behind him before continuing. "Now, we covered what I want I get for free, but what you want, you pay for. What's your poison?"

"You new around here, little lady?" a man cooed as he peeled a tattered scarf from his face.

The woman was new, "I should have known I'd stick out," her smile was coy as she nodded to the other women dotting the street, "I could have covered up a little more." she gestured to her thin frame and the skimpy clothing. Nothing she wore helped to keep her from the cold; the shirt too loose around her shoulders, the skirt that barely covered her ass, not even the torn leggings helped. "Do you want something, if not keep movin I can't work if I'm talkin."

Violette was used to this, to the waiting, the sex, the high. For her it was a small circle, one that kept spinning and spinning until it was time for her to move to the next street or corner or alley. There were always people willing to pay for what she had.

It was cold out. Stanley's scarf was wrapped over his mouth. It smelled like cigarette smoke and dusty apartment floorboards, and each breath burned his throat, but the man didn't mind. He'd inhaled worse things, and the scarf was worth it. It was mid-December. A scarf was the difference between living and dying, he reminded himself, though his fever begged to differ.

The man was too distracted by his burning throat and his sweat and his shaking hands, that only now, after at least five minutes of staring blankly at the dial pad ahead of him, did Stan realize that the phone he had to his ear made no sound. "Shit." he mumbled under his breath, jamming the broken phone back to position. Stan turned and started walking along the sidewalk, showing his gloved hands into his pockets. His sweaty fingers clenched tight around whatever loose change he still had, as if holding it might prevent any other broken phone booths from snatching it away.

This wasn't the first time Stan had been forced to make due with a couple quarters and dimes on the dark streets of downtown. However, the broken phone did put a significant damper on his plans. Stan adjusted his scarf and pulled his beanie closer to his ears. He wasn't worried. The night was still young, and he was approaching the infamous intersection of twelfth and broad. The girls who worked the corners here were always looking to buy.

Stanley approached the closest woman, thin and pale like the rest of them, but when the turned her head towards him, he stopped. He'd never seen this one before. Stan drew his hands from his pockets and peeled his sweat-drenched scarf from his mouth. He cleared his throat, switching tactics. "You new around here, little lady?" he cooed.