"I warned her, you can't work these streets without a pimp," she explains, shaking her head. Her eyes trail from the scene of the dead woman to me, eyeing me from head to toe with an arched brow. "You should get a pimp."
"What?" I give a weak laugh. Her face doesn't show any humor, making my own fall. "I'm not-"
"Right, none of us are," she interrupts, plucking a cigarette from the black purse slung over her chest. "I'm just saying, you want to run these streets? You need protection, baby. You find yourself needing one, find Daddy Mick over at the Fever Hotel." She inhales a large drag from her cigarette, her eyes trailing my chest. I look down at what she's looking at and notice the cash trying to escape the top of my dress.
"Shit." I roll my eyes and push it back in place.
"Mmhhmm," she murmurs, her lips pursed. "I'm telling you, baby, it's safer." She walks away, puffing a cloud of cigarette smoke, her shiny heels clicking against the pavement as she sashays.