"I'll throw in an extra rock," he said, meaning crack.
His buddy grabbed his crotch. "I give you two rocks." They all laughed, even the girl. It was like wheeling and dealing with the old lady in the clothes store. Everything was for sale in this part of town. Everything was negotiable.
The desk clerk looked up. "What's it gonna be?" "Huh?" Andie answered.
The clerk looked past her and raised his voice. "I' m talking to those jerks. You boys want a room or don't you?"
The bald one answered. "We're working on it, okay? I'm this close to talking Gives-Great-Head into changing her name to Fucks-Three-At-Once."
They all laughed again. The clerk said, "Take it out of the lobby, pal."
The man was still laughing as he stepped to the counter and opened his wallet.
Andie stepped back and waited, watching the Indian girl. The eyes were glazed. Her mouth was partly open, as if it required too much effort to keep it closed. One of the men held a rag to her nose, from which she sniffed. It almost sent her spinning. The tall one had his hand inside her shirt, caressing her soft, young belly. They were dirty, rough hands, soiled from work in the fields. But the girl didn't flinch. She was beyond not caring. She was numb to it. Whatever she'd inhaled had made her night livable, her life bearable.
"Hey," said the one at the counter, "one of you losers got five bucks?"
Andie could hear them haggling as they pooled their money to cover the room and the girl. Her eyes, however, never left the girl.
It was a painful sight. Andie felt for her, but she also felt for herself. She thought back to the remark that old woman at the clothing store had made, something to the effect that you--meaning Indians--all work cheap, at least when you're working. Prejudice was something she had never come to terms with, the ridiculous views that crime and unemployment and a host of other social ills were simply a part of the Indian culture. But she knew next to nothing about the traditions and values that were her real heritage. Nine years of foster care had taught her only about survival, and the nice white family that finally adopted her had raised her as their own, with the best of intentions but without regard for where she had come from. She knew only that her father was white and her mother was Native American, but she didn't even know which tribe.
Strangely, she had never pursued her past. That was something her ex-fiance had found puzzling. They had talked about it once, when she and Rick had talked about having kids of their own. Rick had asked point-blank if she'd ever wondered who her real mother was. . . .
"At times," Andie told him.
"Ever try to find her?" Rick asked.
"No"
"Why not?"
Andie thought for a second. "Just out of respect." "Respect for who?"
"My adoptive parents. I think it would hurt their feelings if I started looking for my biological parents."
Rick scoffed. "That's stupid. You would put their feelings above everything else?"
"It's just not important to me."
"Come on."
"Honest. I don't really need to know."
"Maybe you just don't want to know. I think you're afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of what kind of woman your mother was. Afraid she was a hooker or druggie or something."
"Go to hell."
"I'm sorry. You're right. It doesn't matter. You are what you are. Not what your mother was." He leaned close and took her hand, as if his sudden about-face was supposed to be the sweetest thing she'd ever heard. As if she was supposed to melt in his arms and marvel at his sensitivity. As if he really believed the future was all that mattered. Andie just looked away and wondered. . . .
"Hey, doll face." It was the clerk behind the counter pulling her back to reality. He had finished with the threesome and their nineteen-year-old prize. "You're next."
Andie didn't move. She watched as the men gathered around the girl in the hallway. The debate had shifted to which of them would be first.
"You want a room or not?" the clerk asked.
Andie didn't answer. Watching that girl had triggered the irrational fears her adoptive mother had drummed into her head. Fears about who--or what--her biological mother had been. Fears that Andie would have been the same if she hadn't been adopted.
Confusion boiled inside her. She. felt compelled to do something. The pistol was strapped to her ankle, but that would be stupid. She had to think like Kira Whitehook, not Agent Henning. Kira would just let them go. Can't save the world. Save yourself. Screw Kira.
"Hey, asshole," said Andie.
The men froze. The biggest one shot her a look. "Who you think you're talking to?"
"An asshole, apparently. You answered?'
The attitude amused him. "Whadda we got here? Another whore muscling in on her sister's territory? Maybe a little head-to-head competition?" He laughed at his own pun.
"Get your hands off her."