Our hero stepped out of the cab while demonstrating his displeasure with a snarl and lack of a tip. He began to walk to Miss Yvonne's storefront door when Yvette emerged. Her long straightened black hair had a bit more bounce than when the two had met a few days prior, and she was wearing fake eyelashes and entirely too much makeup. A long black coat clung tightly to her body and provided a stark contrast to her white platform patent leather boots (complete with stiletto heels). Her right hand grasped the straps of a large black leather handbag. Her nails were painted a bright candy apple red. The same silver skull ring as before adorned her right forefinger.
"What's going on?" The Guak asked, finding the lady's ensemble curious. He was more curious about what was under the trench coat.
"Not here," Yvette answered. "In the car. You drive; I can't work the pedals in these heels."
She handed our hero a set of keys and pointed to a 1983 sky blue Dodge Aries parked in front of the shop. She lowered the security gate in front of the store, deterring any would-be burglars of Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings. With the gate completely locked into place Yvette approached the passenger side of the K-car.
"Let's go. That shirt looks good on you."
"Thanks," responded The Guak.
"And I'm glad you didn't shave. You look tough."
The pair entered the sedan. The Guak put the seat back to accommodate his longer legs.
"We're going to the Big Buddha Bungalows," Yvette informed The Guak. "Do you know where they are?"
"Yeah."
Our hero inserted the key into the ignition and started up the car. It roared to life, and the engine revved loudly.
"It idles high," remarked the honey. "It's a shit box."
Our hero shifted the shit box's automatic transmission into drive and began the journey to the foot hills outside of The City. It was then, nearly hidden underneath the odors of a cheap "new car scent" air freshener shaped like a leaf and stale marijuana, The Guak detected an interesting aroma of cherries and Coco Puffs emanating from his passenger. It was nearly intoxicating.
"Bidness has been shit ever since Momma started getting weird," Yvette began to say while looking straight ahead. "Well, weirder than usual. A weirdness I think you have something to do with."
She turned her neck to face The Guak. Her eyes narrowed. He merely shrugged.
"To keep us from getting evicted I sometimes have to do some things I'm not particularly proud of. But I don't have any conventionally marketable skills, so I have to make do with what I do have, and that means on occasion I resort to dancing at private parties."
"You mean you're an escort?" asked our hero.
"Oh, fuck no!" Yvette answered. "I'm not a call girl. I am not a whore. I give lap dances. I shake my ass and titties in their faces. If they look like big spenders or suckers I may let them touch me a little if I think it will get me a bigger tip. I do not fuck them. Shit, I'm not even fully nude. And if I even see a hint of willy coming out of pants I'm fucking out of there."
"I'm sorry," The Guak apologized. "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions about what you do."
"No, it's okay. I'm a bit sensitive about it. This isn't something I want to do, but I got to play with the hand I'm dealt. I'm too stubborn to hold a normal job where I have to answer to someone."
"So I'm protection?"
"Basically, yeah. You go in first. See if anything looks...strange. If it don't they give you the money, and you return to the car. Then I go in and do my thing, and then you drive me home. You probably won't have to do anything physical. Knowing you're outside is usually enough for them to play by the rules. But if they don't you'll come running."
"How will I know you're in trouble?" The Guak asked.
"Oh, you'll know," answered Yvette cryptically. "I appreciate you doing this. I have another guy who acts as driver, but he never showed up. The clients are annoyed I'm so late but fuck 'em. I'm not showing up alone."
Our hero drove through The City while breathing in Yvette's scent and trying not to steal glimpses of the beauty, but his ability to not sneak a peek was broken when he heard the flick of a lighter followed by the strong smell of pot. The Guak looked over at Yvette to see her pulling heavily off of a brightly colored ceramic pipe.
"Should you be doing that now?" our hero asked. "Wouldn't it be better to keep your wits about you?"
"Step off," Yvette shot back dismissively. "Smoke helps me focus and calms me down. I get nervous when I do these gigs."
The pair remained silent during the rest of the trip to the foothills. The Guak pulled into the entrance of Big Buddha Bungalows, the cabins of which were neither large in size nor quantity and had nothing to do with an Asian religious philosophy save for the large wooden statue of the Buddha in front of the office. The Aries creeped along the bumpy dirt road that snaked between the two dozen or so bungalows before stopping at a cabin marked "22." Our hero shifted the car into park.
"Okay,"said Yvette. "Go knock on the door. Be polite but a little intimidating. Step inside, but you don't have to check out every nook and cranny. If you get a weird vibe call it off, and we'll leave."
"Something tells me I'll feel uncomfortable no matter what I see...or what I don't."
Yvette sighed.
"Yeah, I get it," she responded. "Horny pervert creepy is okay. Rape me, kill me, dump me in the river creepy is not. You feel me?"
"Consider yourself felt," our hero replied.
"If they check out then they need to pay you upfront. No fucking checks. Cash only. Four bills."
"Four hundred?" The Guak asked incredulously.
"I'm very good, and the crackers like a hot black girl to objectify."
"Is it worth it?" asked our hero.
"I dunno," she replied. "I try not to think about it. Right now I still have some self-respect. But enough talk: go get my money."
Our protagonist exited the K-car and made his way to the door of the bungalow and rapped loudly upon it thrice. A short time later the door was answered by a short pudgy man. He seemed to be in his early forties and obviously shaved his head to hide the fact he was prematurely balding. It wasn't working. He looked cheesy with his generic navy blue t-shirt tucked into his khakis.
"She's really late, man" the guy said.
"She's here now," said The Guak coldly.
"I...I...I didn't mean..." the man said while backing off. "No worries, man. It gave me and my boys more time to get our drink on. You know what I mean, bro?"
The man raised his arm with his palm outstretched. Our hero did not grant his tacit request for a high five.
"May I come in?" asked The Guak. He stepped past the man before he had a chance to answer.
The bungalow, though small, was open, giving off the appearance that it was much larger. Three doors lined against one of the walls of the room. In one corner was a kitchenette with a small table and four wooden chairs. The counter was lined with empty beer bottles and cans. In the center of the room were two leather couches, seated in them were three men similar to the one who answered the door: approaching middle age, dumpy, and wearing loose clothing. Each of them gripped a full bottle.
"Um, we decided to free up some space to give Caramel room to...perform," said the group's spokesman as he gestured to the large coffee table on its side pushed against a wall.
"Very clever," responded our hero with nearly clenched teeth.
"Look," the man said as his voice lowered. "Are you sure she's okay with this?"
The Guak wanted to tell him no. That no self-respecting woman would. And then shove one of the bottles completely down his throat. But it wasn't his place. It was Yvette's choice, and as much as he hated it he knew she would hate him more. Maybe she'll find another revenue stream. Soon.
"Yeah, it's all good," our hero replied despite knowing there was nothing good about it.
"Awesome," the man said with a huge grin.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a white envelope before handing it to The Guak.
"We added some extra. We appreciate this."
Our hero peered inside the envelope and counted six crisp hundred dollar bills.
"I'll send her in," The Guak informed the man flatly.
Our hero left the bungalow and returned to the driver's seat. Yvette was taking another hit from the bowl.
"They seem harmless," The Guak told her. "They look like teachers or IT guys."
"Cool."
Yvette placed the pipe on the dashboard before turning to our hero.
"How do I look?" she asked.
"You're wearing too much makeup, but I guess that's the look you're going for. You look sexy, but how can I know for sure if I don't see what's under your coat?"
A sly grin grew upon The Guak's countenance. He did not like what Yvette was about to do, but he really did want to to view what was undoubtedly a copious amount of mocha-colored flesh.
"Maybe after," Yvette replied. "But bidness first."
The foxy lady planted a smooch on our hero's cheek.
"That's the kiss you asked for the other day. But don't jump to conclusions, white boy."
"I wouldn't fucking dream of it," The Guak responded.
Yvette stepped out of the shit box car and, with bag in tow, approached the bungalow.
