When Johnny Walker laughed, there was no mirth in the sound. To Johnny, laughter, like all other expressions of human emotion, was no more than a tool – an instrument of deception – to be used in the manipulation of people. While his soft, almost-hypnotic base voice might lull strangers into a false sense of security, those who knew Johnny knew him to be as cold and as hard as the knife that was his ever-present companion.
Johnny was lounging on the raised black platform in the center of his living room, dressed comfortably in green double knit slacks and a green-and-yellow smoking jacket. Around his neck was a white satin ascot, tied loosely and tucked into the front of the jacket. The stark whiteness of the material contrasted sharply with the coal black color of his skin.
Johnny laughed again, flashing two rows of shiny white teeth. One of the upper centrals was capped in gold, the white tooth enamel showing through a heart-shaped cutout in the center of the cap. Gloria stared at it in fascination as Johnny's upper lip curled back to let the laugh out.
Gloria was on her knees in front of the platform, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please, Johnny," she begged. "Just one shot. Just one shot and then I won't ask you again. I'll kick it, I swear. Just let me have this one shot and then, so help me, I'll be through with heroin for the rest of my life."
Johnny laughed again, shifting his six-foot-two frame to a more comfortable position on the foam rubber surface of the platform. He was broad and well muscled – built like the heavyweight fighter that he could have been if he hadn't found an easier way to make a living. A pink scar running from a point alongside his right eye nearly to his chin was evidence that things hadn't always come easy.
Johnny Walker had been born in Corona, one of New York City's lesser-known slums. Although every bit as oppressive and as savage as New York's other Black ghettoes, Corona never received much attention from the city's sensation seeking tabloids, perhaps because it was located in the borough of Queens, always less dramatic than Manhattan. As a result, Corona received even fewer city services than the better-known Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant sections.
Ever since he was a kid, Johnny fought for everything that he got. At first his fighting was restricted to the crowded two-room apartment occupied by his mother and her family of twelve. Back then the victims of his fury had been his brothers, his sisters, and his cousins. And his rewards had been a few more inches of elbow room and a couple of extra forkfuls of hominy grits, stolen from someone else's plate when his mother wasn't looking.
By the time he was ten, Johnny's fighting had moved on to the streets and into the yard of the broken-down old Corona school building that he visited whenever the mood was upon him. Children three or four years older than he were already learning to fear his quick temper and his flying fists. But Johnny didn't emerge completely unscathed from his fights.
Having spent the early part of his life making enemies, it was only natural that some of them would look for a way to strike back at him. It happened one day when he was twelve years old. Johnny found himself cornered in one of Corona's garbage-strewn back alleys, surrounded by six of the young Black boys who had felt the force of his wrath in the past.
After beating him for the better part of a half-hour, the boys had left him for dead, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood. But Johnny, who was tougher than they reckoned, had managed to drag himself home where his mother, using a darning needle and black button thread, sewed up the gash on his face and patched up his other injuries.
Johnny stayed home for two weeks, licking his wounds and waiting for his strength to return. Then, borrowing a knife from one of his older brothers, he went after the boys who had attacked him. He was patient and cunning, waiting for an opportunity to get each of them alone. When Johnny's rampage of vengeance had ended, five of the boys wore facial scars like his own. The sixth was pronounced dead on arrival at Elmhurst General Hospital, the cause of death officially listed as "loss of blood".
Johnny never bothered to return the knife to his brother, keeping it with him ever since. It was the only weapon he ever needed in a world in which only the strong survived and compassion was a weakness. Few people ever bested him in a fight, and those who did always lived to regret it. For Johnny believed that a reputation for making life unpleasant for anyone who tangled with him was the only kind of life insurance that would do him any good. It worked for him.
By the time Johnny was sixteen, he had five girls turning tricks for him – standing under the lamp-posts at the corner of One-Hundred-Eighth Street and Northern Boulevard waiting for the "white trade" that drove down to Corona at night hoping to pick up some Black pussy and maybe change their luck. From each of the girls Johnny collected seventy or eighty percent of the take, enough to pay for the fancy clothes that he had gotten used to wearing and for the rent on the apartment that he had been living in ever since his mother had thrown him out calling him "trash" and telling her daughters to stay away from him. He didn't spend any of the money on a car, though. Because it would be two years before he was old enough to drive.
In return, Johnny gave his girls protection. And he gave them junk. It hadn't taken Johnny long to learn that junk was the key to manipulating people in the ghetto. And he had a hunch that it might be the key to manipulating them on the outside, too. At sixteen, he didn't know much about life outside the ghetto. But he meant to find out…
To the police, Johnny Walker was just another neighborhood punk, making trouble now, but likely to spend his more mature years as a porter or a bootblack or a taxi driver over in Forest Hills. Most of them didn't even know him by name.
But to the men who profit by the Police Department's mistakes, Johnny Walker was distinguishing himself as a tough – but smart – young, in dependent racketeer. A kid who hadn't been to school but knew how to get his way with people. A kid who knew what made them tick. The men were especially impressed by the fact that, although Johnny had been dipping a finger in the small-fry dope traffic of Corona's back streets, he had been smart enough to stay off the stuff himself. Maybe he could even be relied upon.
It wasn't long before Johnny was approached by these men, and a deal was made. And it wasn't long before Johnny added numbers running to his burgeoning criminal operations. Johnny Walker was a man on the way up. He had already started thinking about what color Cadillac that he would buy. Next year. When be was old enough to drive.
When Johnny got his Cadillac a year later, he had already begun to outgrow Corona. He couldn't see any reason for staying out of Jackson Heights to the west or Elmhurst to the east. Color barriers meant nothing to him. Johnny had no prejudices. He hated everybody.
Now, looking down at Gloria kneeling on the floor and blubbering like a baby, Johnny laughed again. Corona was a long way off and a long time before. He remembered that day, twelve years before, when he had bought his first Cadillac, paying in cash to the amazement of the high-talking white salesman. He had driven his new car straight to Forest Hills. Not more than two miles south of Corona via One-Hundred-Eighth Street, it had been a whole different world to him then – a world in which his new Cadillac didn't seem like such a big deal. He remembered stopping on Queens Boulevard to look around and resolving to settle for nothing less than the nicest apartment on the highest floor of the tallest building.
And now, twelve years later, he had all the things that he had dreamed about as a kid. His penthouse apartment in the Silver Towers was probably the most desirable in Forest Hills. His living room had been designed by one of New York's leading decorators. There was no other like it, anywhere. The floor was done in white vinyl with big splashes of bright color scattered carelessly across it like the spots on an artists palette. All the furniture was of molded plastic and foam rubber, rising out of the floor in all manner of other-worldly shapes and designs, yet each piece was perfectly comfortable and completely functional. Each piece of furniture was colored to match the section of floor that it occupied, making the whole room appear to be a cohesively molded unit.
In the center of the room was a black plastic platform, raised to the same height and serving the same purpose as a sofa. When Johnny was at home he occupied it, using the platform as his throne. All the other seats in the room had been carefully arranged so that they faced the black platform. The Forest Hills crime king liked his subjects to be attentive. Johnny liked the effect. It pleased him, as did the sight of Gloria, her dark face stained with tears, groveling at his feet.
"Please, Johnny," she sobbed. "I'll do anything for you. Anything you ask. Just give me a shot. Please. Just one shot."
Johnny smiled, flashing his gold-capped tooth.
"Anything I say, huh?" he said, frightening her with his sudden affability. "Wait a minute, then. I want Foxy to be here."
Then, turning away from Gloria and facing the back of the apartment, he called, "Foxy! Foxy, come on out here." Foxy was one of Johnny's henchmen. Along with the other two, Cobb and Edward, he occupied the rear section of Johnny's penthouse, converted from what had formerly been two apartments. Foxy was Johnny's closest associate – though not his friend, for he had none. He was the muscle that Johnny used for his dirty work now that he had risen above soiling his own hands. If Johnny Walker was Forest Hills vice king, then Foxy was his Captain of the Guard, his enforcer, carrying out the big man's orders and seeing to it that all his underlings did the same.
A moment after Johnny called him, Foxy entered the room, his white skin appearing almost yellow, a result of the fact that he rarely went outside in daylight. He was short – about five-foot-six – and built like a bullet. Even his head was bullet-shaped, coming to a bluntly rounded point at the top. His gray – nearly white – hair was cropped close to his head, the bristly covering accentuating his bullet-shaped skull and making him look like a gnome.
Foxy was dressed in a stained leather vest and equally stained leather pants. The bulging muscles of his shoulders, back and biceps threatened to tear the vest apart at the seams. His pants, fastened at the front with a leather thong, gaped open, revealing the curling growth of silvery hair on his belly and loins.
"Foxy, you know Gloria, don't you?" Johnny said, his voice taking on a mockingly courteous cadence.
"Yes, I believe I do," Foxy answered, sensing the game that his boss was playing. Foxy's voice was gruff, as though hoarsened but not quieted by a permanent case of laryngitis.
Gloria began to sob again. "Oh, come on Johnny," she wailed. "Don't tease me. Foxy knows me as well as you do. I've been living in your bedroom for the past three months."
Johnny looked angry. "Shut up, bitch," he spat. "You said you'd do anything for a shot. Now's your chance to prove it. Take off your clothes."
Gloria looked up at Foxy and her eyes opened wide. Then she turned back to Johnny. "Oh, come on, Johnny," she said, her voice falling to a whisper. "Not in front of him. I'm your girl. Yours alone. Please, Johnny. Don't make me do this. I'm your girl." She began to cry and the rest of her words were swallowed in her sobs.
"Then do as I tell you," Johnny responded coldly, his lips drawn tightly across his flashing teeth. "You want a shot. Now take off your clothes." Then, changing his tone to a friendlier one, he added, "I just want Foxy to see your tracks – your needle marks – so he'll know how badly you need the fix. You're still my girl."
Gloria brought her sobbing under control although the tears continued to fall. "If you say so, Johnny," she said hopelessly. She rose from the floor without using her hands to assist her. Her lean body was lithe and sinewy. Before meeting Johnny, she had been a dancer, working whenever she was lucky enough to get an occasional chorus part in an off-Broadway show.
But her legs trembled as she stood before Johnny trying to compose herself so that she could do as he had ordered. Johnny looked at her without saying another word. Her skin was brown, the color of chocolate milk, and her hair was done in an Afro that stood out three or four inches from her head. Her thin face, high cheekbones, and long, narrow nose was evidence of the American Indian blood which had run through the veins of her maternal grandfather. Her eyes, round and very dark, were framed by long curling lashes and perfectly formed eyebrows. She hadn't been a heroin addict long enough to lose her beauty. But it wouldn't be much longer now.
Gloria's tits were small, barely disturbing the lean curve of her body under the soft, black, long-sleeved sweater that she was wearing. Her nipples poked juttingly against the material. But her dancer's legs were muscular and her ass full, round, and well developed. It had been her ass which had first drawn Johnny to her three months before at a party given by the producer of an off-Broadway musical. Now he was tired of her, and impatient with the addiction which he had given her and which now had robbed her of her last vestige of pride.
"Come on, girl," he said. "Foxy hasn't got all day." His voice was soft but menacing. Gloria shuddered, her need for junk having not quite blocked the realization of what Johnny Walker had helped her to become.
Resigned to her lack of choice she reached for the buttons at the front of her sweater and began to undo them, one by one. When she opened the third button, the sweater fell open, revealing the soft curve of her petite tits and allowing the air of the room to caress, the firm black nipples, bringing them to turgid erection. She finished unbuttoning her sweater and shrugged out of it, her pert little titties quivering from side to side.
"Rub 'em," Johnny ordered. "Rub your titties so that Foxy can see how nice and firm they are."
Gloria's lower lip began to tremble as she reached up to comply with Johnny's command. She had lived with him for three months now, and had been happy to satisfy his every sexual whim in the privacy of his bedroom. He had often asked her to caress her own body, while he watched, but he had never humiliated her this way before, making her perform for another man.
She cupped her tits in her hands, rolling them from side to side and brushing the tips of her fingers across the stiff nipples. From the corner of her eye she could see Foxy licking his lips as she stroked the small, but firm, cone-shaped mounds of brown flesh.
"Take everything off," Johnny said. "I want Foxy to see your ass."
Without hesitation, Gloria dropped her hands to her waist and undid the snap which closed the waistband of her flare-bottomed yellow pants. She unzipped the front and began working the pants down over her full round hips. She was numb to her own humiliation now, thinking only of the heroin that Johnny would give her when he would have finished tormenting her. Thinking about the way everything would suddenly be all right, when the needle slipped into her vein, was almost enough to make her degradation bearable.
Gloria dropped her pants to the floor and stepped out of them. She wore nothing but the black lace panties which clung to her hips and stretched snugly across her ass. She could feel Foxy's eyes boring right through the flimsy material. She was about to remove them when Johnny spoke.
"Come here, Gloria," he said. She stood in front of him her thumbs hooked into the elastic waistband of her black drawers. "Bend over now," he ordered, gesturing with his hands. Like an automaton, Gloria hastened to obey him, bending forward, and resting the palms of her hands on the platform in front of her.
Johnny, who was sitting off to one side, leaned forward and placed his hand on Gloria's hip. "Look at this, Foxy," he said. "See what a fine pair of legs she has." As he spoke, his long black fingers stroked the backs of her thighs, running lightly across their pocked surface. "But look at all these junk-tracks." His fingertips lingered at each of the dozens of needle scars that dotted the silky smooth skin of her shapely brown thighs.
Then he suddenly took hold of the elastic waistband of her lacy black panties and pulled them roughly downward. Gloria could feel the material straining to hold together, and then parting with a loud rip. Johnny tore the panties from her in tatters, a scrap of material catching between her legs and bruising her cunt as he pulled. Now she was naked, her full round ass fully exposed to Foxy's gaze as she bent over the platform. Johnny reached between her legs with one hand and rubbed the puffed-up lips of her glistening pink pussy.
In spite of her shame and humiliation, Gloria felt her cuntal lips beginning to pout and her cunt juices beginning to flow, moistening the pink folds of her pussy flesh. Johnny parted the hair-fringed lips and allowed some of the thick creamy moisture to ooze between them. Dipping his index finger into the cream, he spread it thickly over the length of her slit, smearing some of it into the wiry black hair which surrounded her cunt in a furry triangle.
"Nice and wet," he said. "Here, have a taste." Pulling his hand suddenly from her cunt, he brought it to a position directly in front of her face. He held his index finger straight out under her nose and wagged it slowly from side to side. "Have a taste," he repeated.
Gloria heard Foxy, laugh as she snaked out her tongue and licked the juice off Johnny's finger. She couldn't see him, bent over the way she was, but she knew that he was somewhere behind her and that he was enjoying the sight of her obscenely naked ass and pussy, naked and lewdly offered for his amusement. She wanted to die!
But Johnny had reached for her cunt again and was rubbing it gently up and down. In spite of her shame and humiliation, she felt her clitoris spring to erection. Johnny's finger was probing the little tent of cuntal flesh which sheathed it, probing in the cuntal juices for the pea-size pleasure button. When his fingernail began scratching gently at the little pearly erection of flesh, she drew her breath in sharply, unable to restrain the excitement which was building inside her body. She hated Johnny for his control over her, just as she had once loved him for it.
"Like that?" Johnny asked, his voice soft.
"Mmmmmm, yesssss," she cooed, for a moment forgetting the presence of Foxy and imagining that she and Johnny were alone.
"Then do it yourself," Johnny said, his voice suddenly hard and cold again.
Hot tears of shame filled Gloria's eyes and began to run down her cheeks. How could he do this to her after all the time they had spent together? He was making her degrade herself in front of Foxy, he was making sport of her by holding back the shot of dope that he knew she needed so badly.
Gloria's voice was racked with sobs as she whispered, a look of quiet desperation off her face, "Please, Johnny. Don't make me do that."
Johnny smiled contemptuously, flashing his gold-capped tooth again. "You don't have to," he said. "Unless you want a shot."
Leaning all her weight on her left hand, Gloria, still bent forward over the platform, reached between her legs and rubbed her own cunt. She stroked the entire moistened length with her fingers, conscious that the fleshy lips were flowering open excitedly. She dipped one long supple finger inside, moving it slowly around in the hot creamy warmth of her inner cunt. The little shocks of pleasure that were flashing through her body were somehow beginning to soothe the burning embarrassment that she had felt a moment before.
She stiffened her middle finger and began driving it, cock-like, in and out of her drooling pussy. Johnny was toying with her, idly stroking her tits. Little electric tingles of delight were starting to emanate from the quivering nerve-endings which were concentrated in her nipples and were traveling downward to ripple into full scale tidal currents in her belly as they joined the pleasure waves generated by the plunging finger with which she stroked her own pussy. Her hips began to move involuntarily, keeping rhythm with the fucking motion of her finger. She could feel the warm air of the room washing over her asshole as her firm round cheeks separated and came together in time with her movements.
"Her ass is for you, Foxy," Johnny said, his voice hard and cold again. "And, Gloria," he added, "if you want that shot, you'd better not miss a stroke with your finger."
When Gloria heard Johnny's words, her blood ran cold. He was offering her to Foxy, like some morsel of patronage passed along by a king to his prime minister. "Her ass," he had said. Gloria was about to protest when she remembered what he had said about not giving her a shot. Her need for heroin made her whip her finger even faster in and out of her cunt. In a few minutes this will be over, she thought, and then I can get my shot.
She had too much invested to blow it now. And it wouldn't be the first time that she had been fucked in the ass. Johnny had been especially fond of doing that to her the past three months, and she had become a veteran in the time that she had lived with him.
Gritting her teeth she tried to prepare herself for whatever was coming. Behind her she heard Foxy fumbling with the leather thong at the front of his pants. As she continued fingering her own pussy, she leaned forward a little further so that she could look back at him through her legs.
Oh my God, she thought suddenly as she saw his pants drop to the floor. He's tremendous. His cock is too big. I'll never be able to take it in my asshole. Above her, she heard Johnny chuckling, as though something very funny was happening. She knew that he was laughing at her.
Foxy was now moving toward her, his massive cock swaying from side to side as he approached. The sight of that mastodon terrified her. It was long and thick – as big around as the base of a beer bottle. The swollen purple cockhead was the size of a man's fist – thick and massive, engorged with blood and hardened by lust. She was sure that he would kill her with it.
Although she knew that it was hopeless, Gloria couldn't keep herself from begging Johnny for mercy. "Please," she wailed. "I'll never live through this. Johnny, have a heart. Haven't I meant anything to you?"
But Johnny's answer was clipped and curt. "Forget it, Foxy," he said. "She doesn't want that shot after all."
"No, I didn't mean it." Gloria said imploringly. "I've got to have the shot. I'll do it. I'll do anything."
"Well this is your last chance," he said. "No more complaints. You're liable to hurt Foxy's feelings."
Foxy was right behind her now. She could smell his body as he approached. It smelled as though he hadn't washed in a month. Mechanically, she continued to piston her finger in and out of her pussy, afraid that if she stopped, Johnny would make good his threat to withhold the shot. She put all her weight on her left hand, leaning forward as far as she could until her face pressed against the cool vinyl of the platform's mattress. Johnny had moved back for a better view.
Gloria felt Foxy's ham-like hands on her fright quivering body now, grabbing her hips and pinching the softly rounded cheeks of her ass. The flesh was firm and muscular from all the exercise that she had gotten as a dancer. Her inactivity of the past three months, lying in bed all day waiting for Johnny's pleasure, had robbed her thighs and buttocks of some of their tone. But they hadn't yet gone to flab.
She could feel Foxy's hands pulling roughly at the soft mounds of flesh, separating the cheeks to reveal the tightly winking brown slit of her anus, nestled safely in the valley between them. She felt the heat of his breath on her asshole as he leaned forward and brought his face next to the pungent slit. Since she had been using junk steadily, Gloria hadn't bathed much herself. The fragrance that greeted Foxy's nostrils was heady and aromatic. It made his already-stiff cock throb painfully with desire.
Huckering a gob of saliva from the back of his throat, Foxy spat onto the tight brown slit that lewdly lay offered up before him. He hit the mark, the thick ball of saliva thoroughly coating the puckered lips of Gloria's soft brown asshole. Then, jabbing at her with a stiff finger, he forced some of the lubricating moisture into her anal crevice itself, probing relentlessly against the opening until finally the pouting lips separated admitting his finger as far as the second knuckle. He twisted it one way and then the other, smearing the warm saliva around the inner walls of her clutching rectum.
Then, with no further preparation, he straightened up and stepped into position, the thick bulbous head of his swollen prick nudging insistently at the tensely resisting lips of her glisteningly lubricated asshole. Gloria, continued stroking her cunt automatically. Fear had stopped the flow of moisture and her probing finger irritated and bruised the dry inner walls of her twat. But Johnny's threat kept her hand working, moving her finger in and out.
She knew that Foxy would drive his mammoth hardon into her any minute now and tried to prepare herself for the searing pain that would follow his entry. But no amount of preparation could have readied her for the sudden agony of his penetration. Like a powerful battering ram, Foxy's cock, swollen with lustful desire, plowed its way past the protesting lips of her tormented asshole and buried itself in her warmly clasping anal depths. Gloria couldn't contain the gasp of pain which tore from her lips as his relentless prick assaulted her brutally, punishing her anus and rectum with twisting, tearing in-strokes that seemed to reach her belly itself and with pulling, tugging out-strokes that brought the inner walls of her anal cavity following his pistoning penis halfway out of her.
But heedless of her agony, Foxy continued his buggering, feeling the walls of her lower bowel clasp tightly at his cock, milking it, squeezing it, stroking it in a series of spiraling contractions that threatened to swallow it like a snake might swallow a live mouse. He could feel the hair of her back turned pussy stroking at his heavily swinging sack of balls as he pumped his body forward and back, driving his cock yet deeper into her nether channel.
Gloria had abandoned the stroking of her own pussy now and, was using both hands to support her body weight. Cries of pain were tearing rhythmically from her lips as Foxy pounded her like a piece of tough meat, forcing his thick cock into the tunneling warmth of her anus, overcoming the weak resistance offered by her elastic ass muscles. He felt the curling silver hair of his pubic mound, dank with a mixture of sweat and sexual secretions, crushing against the chocolate-brown softness of the lobes of the girl's ass and knew that he had plowed her to the hilt.
He drew his hips all the way back, moving them from side to side, until no more than the bulbous head of his punishing cock remained buried in her swampy anal depths. Then, just as Gloria was beginning to hope that he would withdraw completely, he rammed forward again, driving the thick pole of hotly palpitating flesh as far as it could go into the tightly constricting channel of her suffering asshole. An animal groan of satisfied pleasure escaped from his throat drowning Gloria's wail of agony.
Foxy could feel a climax building in his swinging swaying scrotum. The thin muscular body of Johnny Walker's chocolate dancer was wrapped tightly around the shank of his meaty cock, pulling its thick collar of flesh up and down as he assfucked her. The fact that she had been Walker's girl for the past few months made her even more attractive to Foxy. Degrading her this way while Johnny looked on in amusement seemed to put Foxy on the same level as his boss and made him feel important. He knew that be rose a notch in Johnny's estimation for every tormented cry that his cudgel-cock brought from Gloria's tortured lips.
Her asshole was wonderfully tight, and Foxy knew that it wouldn't be long before he pumped her full of his hot joy-juices giving her a thick gooey enema. He pumped faster and humped harder hearing Gloria's cries become louder and more agonized. He knew that no woman's asshole could ever stretch wide enough to accept his cock comfortably, and Johnny apparently knew it, too. For here he was using Foxy's cock as a tool in the subjugation of Gloria.
This realization added to Foxy's mounting excitement and he felt his balls about to explode as he drove his burgeoning prick onward in the roiling depths of the girl's anus. In a moment, his climax was upon him. He felt his cock swelling and then spitting like a submachine gun, pumping pellet after pellet of thick hot semen into the wide open channel of Gloria's nether passage.
The flood of hot sperm eased the friction of Foxy's penetration, greasing her rectum and allowing his swollen cock to slip in and out more freely and less painfully. Gloria knew that he couldn't stay hard much longer now that he was ejaculating. Soon it would be over and she would have her shot. But his stamina was incredible and he drove on and on pumping load after load of swirling hot scum into her burning belly.
Then at last she felt the thick but deflating cock slip from her asshole, leaving the lips of her anus stretched, flaccid, and gaping open to allow a hot trickle of sperm to drip unchecked from inside. She slumped forward against the foam rubber surface of the platform and then slid to the floor, the pain in her ass slowly subsiding but not altogether disappearing. She could feel the thick juices of Foxy's orgasm sloshing around inside her, dripping from her anus and running down the backs of her needle-scarred thighs.
She looked imploringly at Johnny Walker, shivering involuntarily at the snarl of hatred which distorted his lips. "Can I have my shot now?" she asked, her voice soft and strained.
"I guess you've earned it," Johnny said contemptuously. "But it's the last shot you're ever going to get from me." Then turning to Foxy who had already pulled on his leather pants and was tying them at the front, the Black gangster said, "Give her a fix and get her out of here. I don't want to see her again."
His words struck Gloria like a stinging slap. She knew, of course, that Johnny was finished with her now. Otherwise he wouldn't have treated her that way. But here he was talking about her like some kind of stray dog that had, wandered in out of the street. She looked up at him through defeated eyes. If only he would say one kind word she thought, anything to acknowledge the good times we had together.
But his words were cold and hard and full of hate. "Now take your shot and beat it," he said. "If you really shake your ass, you might be able to get down to Eighth Avenue and hustle enough money to buy your next fix by peddling your ass with the rest of the junkie whores. Your freeloading days are over."
Then, yawning and stretching elaborately, Johnny headed for his bedroom, leaving Gloria with Foxy.