Jazz Funeral

shopkeeper hurried by, he and whatever entourage he’d gathered.
    Melody’s chest sounded to her as if it were inhabited by frogs; every breath was a croak.
    The second wave came. A lilting, lovely voice.
    “You see a young lady? She lose her ring.” The little girl was probably holding up the ring, all innocence, brown eyes wide and gentle.
    “What did she look like?” the man said.
    “Oh, she have two-color hair, white and purple.” Mass giggles. There must be a dozen children out there.
    The man laughed too. “White and purple? Now how I’m gon’ forget somethin’ like that?” There was a pause. “She went by a minute ago. That way.”
    Okay, that was it. Except for the tracker. Her nemesis was still out there, and she couldn’t warn this man, couldn’t tell him not to pick up the cloth at the wrong time or she was screwed.
    He did. He picked it up now. “Is that all, sweet pea?”
    Melody closed her eyes and shook her head, desperate. “Ten minutes. Please, okay? Just ten minutes more.”
    “Sure. Sure, baby. Stay just as long as you like.”
    She closed her eyes again. Her breath was coming more evenly now, her pulse slowing down, and she realized how hot she was.
    Her makeup had probably melted, but that was the least of her problems. The tracker could have heard her talking to the man, could easily stick around till he lifted the cloth again, and there she would be, staring dead-on into the eyes of the enemy.
    She squeezed her closed eyes tighter, banishing mental pictures, bits of her old life, and tried to think what to do next.
    Okay, if the tracker was there, what?
    Run. Get out of there fast.
    And if not? She had a potential ally here, and her benefactor seemed a nice man, but there was a problem—she’d made a deal with him and he was bound to insist on payment. Maybe violently.
    Melody wondered how that would be. Could she just sort of close her eyes and think of something else? Wasn’t that what nineteenth century ladies did? She could, she supposed, if she’d made a slightly more basic offer.
    “Hide me and I’ll fuck you?” What would have been wrong with that? She could have gotten through that, probably. Why had she gotten fancy?
    The truth was, Melody had only a very dim idea what a blow job was, and wasn’t at all sure she could actually perform one; knew she couldn’t without coaching. This guy probably thought she was a pro. What would he do when he found out he’d been had?
    Anyway, how strong was her stomach? This guy was a stranger, and a pretty big one at that. His dick was probably in proportion, and she knew she had to put it in her mouth (though she hadn’t a clue what the next step was). Could she do that? Quickly, she put her hand over her mouth to stop the noise coming out of her throat. Just thinking about it, her gag reflex had kicked in. She had to get out of here.
    She lay still and thought. Finally she got up the nerve to roll out from her hiding place, to stand facing her benefactor, smiling, knowing she was about to pull a double-cross and wishing it didn’t have to be that way. Her eyes darted, looking for the tracker. No one she knew was in sight. She smiled at the man; seductively, she hoped. She even moved closer to him, touched his chest with her breasts and moved back, teasing him a little.
    “Ready to collect?” She wished her voice was breathy.
    He smiled. He was really very handsome. “Mmmmm-hmmmm, baby.” All lazy and nice, like he did it all the time, bought sexual favors from fleeing criminals.
    Fleeing minors, she thought, aware that a grown man shouldn’t have made such a deal with her. She had no call to feel guilty— the man was a child molester.
    She turned and looked over her shoulder, still smiling, still seductive. “Catch me.”
    He looked surprised, but not yet daunted. Apparently, he still thought it was a game.
    Melody ran, dodging men, women, and children, ran in earnest and as if she were desperate. “Help!” she screamed. “Somebody please help! Police! Rape!”
    She sneaked one more look and saw the man staring after her, frozen, terrified to move an inch.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    Nick was watching the swarm around Ti-Belle, hanging back on the sidelines, thinking that this was perhaps the first time in his adult life that such a thing had happened—that he was not the center of attention. He was currently being as decidedly ignored as the tall chap with the video camera in the other corner. He was enjoying both the