Ray-Ray, drug peddler extraordinaire and part-time pimp, stood next to the abandoned train depot and kept an eye on his girls. He had two women out servicing the ever-growing line of consumers. Ray-Ray considered himself a businessman. Granted, he didn’t perform any services himself, he was management, and he was known to try out the product before putting it out on the street. His stable of robust fillies had decreased since the murder of Amber Wainwright, but business went on.
A blue and tan Chrysler minivan with blacked out windows pulled up next to him, and the driver rolled down the window part way. Ray-Ray leaned against the vehicle, his right hand gripped the .32 caliber derringer in his coat pocket, as he forced a smile said, “Whatcha lookin’ for?”
The driver wore a black hoodie with the hood raised, and flashed a wad of hundred dollar bills. Ray-Ray grinned, his gold teeth flashing in the darkness, and said, “Heck yeah, baby. Let’s party.”
Ray-Ray climbed into the van, and the driver pulled off into the night.