By John McFetridge
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Extra info for Dirty Sweet: A Mystery
Forty grand a car, half up front. Before, Anzor would have taken the cash and deposited it in a friendly bank in Bosnia while he was getting more girls. It would have made its way around the world and ended up in Boris’s account, nice and clean. Fuck. They’ll have all the cars by the end of the weekend, ready to go. Boris pulled out of the parking lot and looked at the empty space the Jeep had been in. She could be anything, that woman. If only he could remember. • • • Roxanne couldn’t figure out why she was so freaked out by the gun.
She remembered he said his club would be classy, upscale, very European, professional dancers. “International,” he’d said. Roxanne finished her drink and found the yellow pages in a cupboard under the sink in the kitchenette. She sat on a barstool at the breakfast nook and looked under “entertainment,” and saw ads for belly dancers, Strip ’N’ Tell, clowns, and Hollywood look-alikes. Flipping pages, she saw twenty or more full page ads for escorts and remembered something about most of the ads all being for the same place, a house on Coxwell, some guy and his wife who got arrested last year.
Like he used one all the time. So, Roxanne figured, okay, forget it, just drop it, these guys are serious. Whatever they’re into, there’s nothing here for me, it’s not worth it. But it did feel like a rush, her heart pounding. Like when she was eighteen years old and going out with Sammy. He’d pick her up at George S. Henry High DirtySweetM4 4/24/06 10:00 AM Page 51 DIRTY SWEET in his Camaro and squeal the tires pulling out of the lot. It was even better when one of her asshole teachers was there, left in the dust.