THE SMOKY ROOM OVERFLOWED with people—men mostly. Half-naked women carried drinks and scampered back and forth. Loud music shook the thinly made walls, rattling them. The scent of cheap cigars and expensive cologne clashed. The smell rocked the senses to full consciousness. Zones sat in the deep cut of this darkened space . He spied the naked women who gestured and gyrated on stage for the pleasure of men and tempted them into who knows what. He sipped on a half-filled glass of fake spirits, chilled by a few cubes of ice. The stingy, brown concoction of burnt sugar, Sprite and almond extract tasted horrid as it rolled down his throat. Although, it did relieve the large knot in it and helped to rid his mouth of the place’s gritty taste. The strobe lights pulsated. They tranquilized his senses. This was how he drowned out the noises ringing in his head. Seedy places, those low in spirit like this New York haunt, gave him comfort.

“How are you, sweetie?” A young woman in lingerie interrupted his concentration. “You want a dance?”

Zones gawked as she twisted back and forth in front of him. She smiled a young school girl smile, batted her long, false eyelashes and flicked her

false hair over her shoulder. The drinks weren’t the only fake things in this joint.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Conversation cost y’ just the same as a dance.”

Zones huffed, “…How much?”

“Ten dollars and that includes the conversation.” Zones counted two fives out. He placed them into her outstretched hand. She folded the bills

and stuffed them between her breasts. She danced and removed pieces of her clothing slowly. “Two years, I’ve worked here two years.”

“You know the playa in the black Kangol?”

She looked over her shoulder but did not break her rhythm. “Who, you mean Slim Man?”

“I guess so, he looks husky to me.”

“No, that’s his name, Slim Man. That’s what they call him, at least. I don’t know his gov’ment name. The girls here call his old, cheap ass

Busta.”

“What’s his game?”

She stopped dancing. “You the popo? ‘Cause I ain’t no snitch—at least not for ten dollars.” She snapped her hands to her hips and frowned. “Or

is you gay or something? ‘Cause I been shaking this ass and these tits in your face for the past five minutes, and all you want is to know about another man.”

“Now would I be paying for a dance and for a piece of that ass if I was five-o or gay?” She smiled, sucked her teeth and continued her dance. “So,

what’s his game: drugs, girls or numbers?”

“You haven’t even asked me my name, and y’ keep pumping me for information, too.”

“I already know your name, baby. It has got to be Ms. Fine.”

Her smile grew larger. It covered most of her face. She straddled Zones and leaned in close to his ear. “I don’t know for sure, but he bragged to

some of the girls that he worked for some big shot in the gov’ment. He was drunk though, probably bullshit.”