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extra.
    But, like me, not much had improved in sobriety. ‘Attitude problems’ caused her to quit or be fired from three dancing jobs in three months. Lately, her older sister’s husband, Caesar, had begun demanding that she catch up on back rent or vacate their rear bedroom at the house in Los Feliz. Collection agencies rang her phone in the middle of the night; she had a dresser full of traffic tickets gone to warrant. The pressure of staying clean and working too was making her nuts. Jimmi considered Orbit Computer Products her last shot.
    She grabbed my arm. ‘Pretty screwed-up, right mijo?’ she whispered. ‘I mean, lap dancing. Private booths with red curtains. Suckin’ dick for money. Tha shit. Thaz deep down even for a loca chola.’
    I lit my own cigarette and tossed the match.
    There was a connection between us. We both felt it. Two fuckups holding on by our fingers. ‘People do what they gotta do,’ I said…‘I’ll help. We’ll work together.’
    In gratitude, smiling, she ran a long finger over the hair above my ear. ‘Right,’ she breathed, ‘“don’t quit before the miracle.” Right, Bruno?’
    ‘Right.’
    But then something was different. She twisted away in her seat. The eyes went empty. ‘Hey Bruno, know wha?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Troof? Okay to say the troof—to say what’s up?’
    ‘Okay. Sure.’
    ‘Well…don’ be mad, but you’re like a pussy. You know?’
    The words stung. I felt my anger. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Before—when we was havin’ Pepsis—and right now. You lookin’ ah me. All sweet. All fuckin’ watery baby-dog eyes n’ shit. I mean, you’re a pussy. Easy meat. Know wham sayin’?’
    I popped the car door open to get out, then turned back. ‘You’re the one who wanted to talk.’
    Leaning across me, she pulled the door closed. Her thick, perfumed hair was in my face—her smell, her tits hard against my arm and chest. Before I could pull away, she was licking my face, my cheek. Two big, wet, slow swipes, the way a friendly Irish Setter would kiss its master. Then she kissed me, deeply. Slowly. Her tongue twisting in my mouth.
    Afterward, seeing my eyes and my reaction, she fell back, laughing. ‘See? Was I wrong?’
    I pulled away, angry.
    ‘If we was in the club,’ she hissed, ‘you was wit me—private—I could get an extra two hundred, maybe three, no problem.’
    ‘So I’m like a trick, right?’
    She giggled, took a new cigarette from my pocket and lit it. ‘Done get all mad’n’shit, man. It’s jus’ the troof. You’re easy.’
    It was enough. Outside her bug, I put my head back through the window. My mouth wanted revenge. I dug in my pocket, pulling out fifty or sixty cents in change, flinging it on the seat. ‘This is all I’ve got,’ I said, tossing the coins at her. ‘After we get paid our first checks, I’ll have more cash. You can suck me off and lick my asshole then.’

Chapter Six
    COLD CALLING IN telemarketing is a weird test of survival. Too confronting for normal people. A hundred calls per shift—face deep in the lion’s mouth, hour after hour—dialing for dollars. The bodies pile up fast. By Tuesday afternoon of my first week on the phones, two trainees from our group of four, Jeff Baitz and Prince Johnson, had already quit. Blown out. Jimmi and I were talking again. I knew it was because she was using me, needing my help. We ate lunch together every day. As friends. I didn’t care. I liked the company.
    But by late Thursday afternoon, she was sinking too. Behind me at her desk, I could hear her slamming her phone down after each cold-call rejection from a receptionist or a data processing manager. Her pitches were monotone; customers were saying ‘no’ easily after sensing the clumsiness in her typed-out delivery. She had only six deals for the week, four under the minimum limit. Grounds for termination.
    On the other hand, I was home, taking no prisoners. After the initial hour or two of