Free Dope by Sara Gran Page A

black suit. Before she had a chance to give me the same routine as the doorman I showed her the photo of Nadine and McFall. She looked at me for a long time before she looked at the photo, and then she only glanced at it.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said. “That could be anyone.” I asked if it was all right if I spoke to some of the girls. She looked at me and shrugged. “You wanna buy a girl a drink, you can do whatever you want with her.”
    I figured the Nelsons had given me enough dough to shell out a little. I went over to a table full of girls without men by the stage.
    â€œHi,” I said. “I’m Josephine. And I’d like to buy you all a drink.”
    They looked at each other and giggled, and then they all made space for me at the table. A waitress came by and took their orders: one Tom Collins, one sloe gin fizz, a pink lady, a mimosa, a whiskey sour, a ginger ale for the lady picking up the tab, and a bourbon, on the rocks. The bourbon was a dark-haired girl in a black dress who looked like she’d already had a few today, and plenty the day before.
    The girls tittered excitedly and whispered to each other until their drinks came. Anything unusual in a place like this, like a lady buying drinks, was cause for excitement. It could get pretty dull on an ordinary day. When they were settled in with their cocktails I passed around the photo of Nadine and McFall.
    â€œOh sure, she used to work here,” one girl said, a blonde in a pink dress with lipstick to match. “And him, he’s around here all the time. What’s her name, Trixie?”
    â€œNo,” the next girl said, a chubby redhead in green. “Trixie was that other girl, the one who went to Alaska. This is Belle. You remember.” She handed the photo to a girl across the table who looked about sixteen. The jailbait looked at the photo and shrugged. “Belle? Maybe. But I thought her name was Candy.”
    â€œNah,” the bourbon said, with a low, raspy alcoholic’s voice. She was looking at the photo over the jailbait’s shoulder. “She was one of McFall’s girls. The guy in the picture. One of those goddamned junkies. Ask what’s-her-name.” She nodded toward a little brunette who looked twenty years old, sitting alone at a table in the corner. I hadn’t noticed her before. She was thin and wore a black dress with long sleeves to cover her track marks. Her face was hollow where there should have been flesh, and even though she was still pretty she also looked like she was dying. “She works for that rat bastard, too. She knows her, I’m sure of it.”
    â€œWhy’s he a rat bastard?” I asked.
    She scowled. “Junkies, all of them. He gets those girls hooked on dope and then gets ’em working here. Some of ’em are just kids, you know. Anyway, ask any girl here, they’ll have a story about Jerry McFall. All of us who are independent, like me, who work for ourselves, he’s always trying to recruit us. Like I want to give half my money to some rat bastard so he can hook kids on dope. Junkies,” she said. “They’re the worst.”
    Right, I thought. Except for alcoholics.
    I thanked the girls and left money on the table for another round of drinks before I went over to the little brunette. She smiled at me.
    â€œHi,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
    â€œSure,” she said, with a sweet young voice. I sat down next to her.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” she asked.
    â€œJosephine,” I said. She kept her eyes on me like it was the most fascinating word anyone had ever spoken. I realized what was going on—she thought I was a customer.
    â€œActually,” I said, “I’m hoping you can help me with something. I’m looking for a girl, and you might know her.”
    Her smile faded somewhat. No lesbian meal ticket for her tonight. But I’d paid for a drink and she