Around 4:15 on the first day of March, 27-year-old Lashawna Streeter broke away from the half dozen or so people clustered around a bench at Crack Head Corner and walked toward the red four-door Granada that had just pulled into the parking lot. Kind of an old dude behind the wheel. Plain enough what he was hunting for. With her most provocative grin, she leaned against the passenger side door. “Lookin’ for a date?”
He gave her the once-over before he answered. “Maybe,” he said. “But you won’t do. I’m looking for a white woman.”
Bastard! Still, if she played it cool, she might make a few bucks out of the old sucker. She put on a fake smile. “I might could help you out, Sugar…for the right price.”
He pulled three tens from his wallet, but didn’t hand them to her. “How’s thirty sound?”
LaShawna considered for a minute. The man didn’t look like a big spender – very likely thirty was as much as she could hope to get out of him. Enough for a few happy rocks. She opened the car door and got in. “Head up Volusia Street. White woman I know lives up that way.”
She glanced down at the money that he’d placed on the seat between them. He saw her looking and took his hand off the wheel to clamp it down on top of the bills, letting her know he wasn’t about to hand it over until she delivered the goods. LaShawna was offended. First the old fool had made it clear she wasn’t good enough for him because she was black. Now he was suspicious that she was going rip him off. She decided that at the first opportunity she’d grab the money and bail out. No creepy old white man was getting the best of LaShawna Streeter.