Here’s my entry for the New York Time’s 150-word pulp fiction intro contest:

She prowled Atlantic Avenue, that desperate artery: booze gobblers, jerks, sex junkies. They deserved of nothing, absolutely nothing.

And that’s exactly what she gave them.

It began with the pout. Head forward, eyes down. Her uniform: ochre dress, cut and coordinated in all the shapely places. Nylons. Red pearls, red dress.

Red heels.

A drunk insurance man caught on early one night. He squealed: Watch the red heels! Watch the red heels!

But his apartment’s thick plaster walls muffled the epitaph.

Later, she’d come home to Danny and empty that handbag: crumpled Jacksons, social security cards, a note a graveyard’s address. A gold watch. A gold ring. A gold tooth.

If the cops or junkies ever figured it out, she didn’t know. At least, not yet.

Until then, take each day like the last. She slipped on her nylons, bit her lip and wondered about her next man.