NEVER TOO LATE

Prologue, Chapters 1, 2, 3, NEVER TOO LATE

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NEVER TOO LATE

Jo Barney

PROLOGUE

"Yeah?" a voice asks when he rings the bell.
"I've got something nice for you," he answers.
A buzzer lets him in, and he finds Patsy's door open at the top of the stairs. Inside, a tattered blind defends the only window. A woman, gray irises glowing

beneath heavy eyelids, greets him from a narrow bed pushed against one wall. "One hundred dollars," she says as she lifts a bottle to her lips. She frowns, shakes it, and sets it down on the table beside her.

Art knows the minute he sees her sprawled across the bed, her privates showing, her robe ties clutching loosely at her waist, her voice soggy with drugs or alcohol or both, that he has made a mistake. There'll be no talking to her.

She wheezes. "You said you got something nice for me. Where is it?"

"In my pocket. Fifty dollars, your going rate, Patsy." He pulls a wad of bills out of his back pocket. "I heard you were worth it."

"Yeah? From who?"

"Someone who said you're really hot." Nice touch, he congratulates himself. Maybe there's still a chance to negotiate with her. Not about the sex. He can't imagine doing it, but about the blackmail. "Can I sit down for a minute?"

"Sure, it's Christmas isn't it? I've been doing a little celebrating." She shoves her body upright on her pillow, reaches with a dark, unsteady hand toward a second bottle on the nightstand. "Drink?"

Art has already had a couple of drinks, to get his courage up, before he drove to the street his son Brian had described. He's glad he did. Patsy, her pale eyes now dimming under lowering eyelids, her boobs deflated at the edge of each armpit, her fingers touching herself as if they have a mind of their own, makes him shudder. He glances away from her, takes in the emptiness of the room.

A narrow bed presses against one wall. He slides a pile of clothes off a wooden chair and moves it closer to her. As he sits down, he knocks against a small sink stacked with bowls, a hot plate next to it. This hole is her home, not just a place of business. She pours a plastic tumbler half full of bourbon and leans forward to offer it to him, and he accepts it with a shrug.

"Like I said, it's Christmas. And you look a little nervous." When his fingers misfire and he spills some of the liquor on his pants, she caws a laugh and lifts the bottle again. "Come on, we don't have all night...or do we? Hundred dollars, all night."

"Let me finish my drink," he says, and he drains his glass and looks for a place to put it. It slips and bounces on the floor. He doesn't need any more alcohol; he's slurring almost as much she is. And if he doesn't do this fast, he'll not even remember why he is here. "I'm not sure I can get it up. I'm a little drunk, and I'm really tired. I haven't slept good the past couple of days." He sits back, trying to gather the words he needs.