The Monopoly Man

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The end. This was it: Cheri Trace was in it thick. She’d been close before. That time with the bangers on Broadway. The other time with that ... time she didn’t like to think about. But this was the real end. Panic was in her face, an arm down her throat and a ragged claw hooked into every nerve.

She was out.

Out.

That trumped it all: The punch in the face, the money gone, the purse gone, the blood on her tube top, the pain in her face and ribs, the indifferent smear of faces rushing past in the night fusing into the jumble of lights on West Forty-second. Next to being in pain, sick, and out, nothing’s important. Death a distant second. Getting close to ultimate options.

She leaned back against a wall trying not to look up at the passing faces, the theatergoers, touristas, and street sludge who had yet to be sucked all the way down. On the marquee across the street, Kimberli Fallon in Party Girl.

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