By John McFetridge
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Extra info for Dirty Sweet: A Mystery
She does whatever she wants. She makes her own luck. Roxanne hadn’t listened to that first Madonna cd since she was wearing a big crucifix on a gold chain, a dozen bracelets and crop tops, and getting kicked out of that snob school and she stole it from the cd store in Fairview Mall. But as she turned her Jeep off the 401 and onto Airport Road, she sang along and wondered. Would Boris Suliemanov be her lucky star? Could he take her far? • • • The one with the crew cut, Amelie, but she called herself Martina — all the Czech girls did — came out of the lounge, naked except for her high heels and white tennis socks, walked up to Boris at the bar and said, “You uncle,” and shook her head.
Loewen kept up the pressure. ” He looked at Price. ” “Ow. Fuck. ” “And hookers. ” “Picks them up in Bosnia, or wherever the fuck. Tells them they’re going to be nannies. ” “Ow. Fuck. ” Loewen kept on pulling the fingers back and Price kept nodding. “He gets his supply from the bikers. You know, the mayor’s friends? ” “We got a new mayor now. ” Price said. ” Price pulled his sunglasses down on his nose and stared at Loewen. ” Loewen let go, and Willis pulled his hand right back to his chest, draping his stump over it for comfort.
She wondered how long she’d had the skirt she was wearing, and the blouse, the Dior. No, it was new. So was her hair, shorter than it had ever been and a lot blonder. But he’d looked right at her. Say it would take him a while to realize she wasn’t a stripper. Then he’d go over the professional women he’d met. That’s what she was, and he probably hadn’t met that many. Would the breweries send a female rep to strip clubs? Maybe, they might like that better. Maybe he’d come looking for her. Could she play it cool like Vince would?