Keith took a long look at Jazmin; slowly, taking it all in.

"Oh shit, we can't go with you dressed like that" he grunted. She looked at him with a blank stare.

"What's wrong with my clothes?" she inquired in a young, naive voice that only the most experienced street smart would be able to detect the dripping sarcasm.

"Fuck, I have to deal with something serious, and I can't have you trailing behind me looking like a goddamn streetwalker. Don't you have something you can cover up with?"

"Sorry, dahling" she purred, "but I left in such a rush this morning, I barely had time to powder my nose; and the butler has yet to pick up my dry cleaning, silly old man, I may just give him a piece of my mind when I return." Jazmin fretted her rght hand in a dismissive movement for just a second before continuing. "And really, dahling, If I'd have known you would come a calling this morn, I wouldn't have left my Kavalli's at home."

For a split second, Keith wanted to hit her; but there was no time for that now. He had too much on his mind, the least of which was listening to the wayward stories of a loose woman of the evening. As intrigued as he was by her, business was business and he needed his wallet back and to get to Clara's house to figure out what was going on.

"I don't have time to play with you. Either find something to cover up with, give me my wallet back, or get the fuck out of the cab", he barked.

"Fine. Stop here", she directed shortly to the cabbie.

As the cab abruptly stopped on the curb next to two rusty garbage dumpsters, Jazmin reached for the door handle, but Keith was quick to snatch her wrist.

"You're not leaving until I get back my wallet", he commanded as his dark gaze penetrated into her very being.

"I'm not going anywhere, I have a bag of clothes behind that dumpster. You said you wanted me to cover up, that's what I'm trying to do", she retorted, brushing off his uneasy stare.

Still clutching her wrist, Keith wondered for a split second if he let go would he ever see her, or his wallet again. What choice did he have? Clara needed him. He didn't have time to waste.

"Fine", he said, and dropped her wrist. She looked him straight in the eye, and then turned to step out of the cab. When she did, she stood up straight, smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, and and walked with her head held high directly to the back corner of the right trash container. She swiveled her head back and forth with a quickness that was almost unnoticeable, and then swiftly bent down and snatched what looked like an old black duffle bag from behind the dumpster. Double checking both ways again, she walked briskly back to the awaiting cab.

"Well I'll be damn", Keith muttered under his breath. Where did she get off acting like that, like she was some glorified heir to billions, and then at the neck moment a swivel necked prostitute?

She slipped silently back into the cab, and Keith ordered the driver to continue on. Jazmin began rummaging through the duffle bag, and Keith watched with more curiousity and intense fascination than he cared to admit. His gaze waned as she pushed aside various sparkly tops and spandex skirts, until one thing caught his eye.

He reached his hand into the bag and pulled out a black and white Donna Karen tennis shoe and swung it in front of her by his pinky.

"Not exactly your style is it?" he sneered.

She snatched it back and shoved it deep into the bag.

"My feet hurt sometimes, thank you very much", she retorted.

What kind of a hooker carries around a pair of sneakers, much less a pair that costs a couple hundred dollars, he wondered. This was one strange hooker in deed.

Jazmin continued fishing in the bag until she came up with what she considered to be a fairly conservative black sweater, and slipped it on over her top. It came down a little too much in the front for Keith's taste, considering where he was taking her, but it was long enough to go below the bottom of her skirt and ended about mid-thigh. She then pulled out a thin brown belt from the bag, and cinched it around her waist.

"Very stylish", he said, and then plucked at her fishnets. "But these have to go".

Jazmin peeled off her hose without complaint, and stuffed them into the duffle bag.

"I guess the shoes will have to do", he said, as the cab came to rest in front of a pristine high rise.

"Where did you say we were going?", she asked as she turned to look outside. As her eyes scanned up the building to read the words printed on the marquee, Keith didn't even notice that her face fell. He was too busy sizing her up, and thinking how if she wasn't a streetwalker, she would actually fit in with the crowd he was about to introduce her to.

Keith paid the cab and walked around to the other side to let Jazmin out.

"Look, let's just say you're the sister of my pub's owner, and I'm just showing you around town", he said as he reached into the cab to pull her out.

Jazmin just sat there stubbornly with her face planted down.

Without looking up, she said softly, "I can't go in there".

Keith was beyond the end of his frustration level, and had now moved beyond wanting to hit her to just about to strangle her and dump her body in the river for the fishes to eat.

"What now, you'll be fine, come one we have to go", he started yanking her by the arm to force her out of the cab.

Jazmin just sat there like a stone. "I can't go in there", she repeatedly softly, still averting her gaze.

"Fine, then just wait here, I don't have time to deal with this", and with that, he slammed the cab door shut, turned on his heel, and walked straightforth towards the looming highrise.

"You fucking bitch!" Keith blurted.

Jazmin smirked. "Is that any way to treat your guardian angel?"

Keith was somewhat intrigued at her cool attitude. Normally when he was pissed at someone they ran for it. Her response had an immediate effect of dropping his anger level a few notches. "I hadn't realized my guardian angel was a pickpocket or maybe I would've passed on the ride," Keith said.

Jazmin came closer and brushed her hand across Keith's face. "Now handsome, what makes you think I took your wallet? A guy like you gets banged around and you blame the innocent girl who tries to help?"

The hurt face Jazmin made should've won her an Oscar. She was certainly doing a number on his mind and it had been a pretty screwed up week. "I'm sorry, doll," Keith appologized. "It's been a rough week. What brings you out here?"

Jazmin smiled warmly. "Would you believe I was coming to see you? I've got a problem and I'm hoping you can give me a hand."

Just then Keith remembered the phone call from Clara that had brought him out on the street. "I got a problem of my own to deal with, but you can tell me your problem on the way if you want to tag along." Keith reached out his hand and flagged down a cab.

"It's a deal," Jazmin responded. She hopped into the cab with Keith and began her story.

A hooker named Jazmin was standing at the street corner. Keith spotted her and sneared. They'd met before.

About a week earlier, Keith was stumbling home from Mickey's Pub with a swollen left eye, a dislocated right pinky finger, and bruised a rib cage. He'd made it about a third of the way home before kneeling down on the pavement to spit out more blood and vomit.

"Jesus, look at you," a strange woman said, standing over this vulnerable beast of man. "How the hell did someone kick your ass?

"There were five of them," he said. "Or maybe three. I can't remember."

"Who the hell were they?" she asked.

Keith shook his head.

"Look, let's get you a taxi. You can't spend the night out here like this."

Keith tilted his head up, but he couldn't make out her face through his swollen left eye. Besides, he was getting sick again, and he was about to puke up more of those Irish Car Bombs he had split with Jack earlier in the evening. Where the hell did Jack go, come to think of it? He had gotten up to take a piss right before that fucker Vince hit him across the face with a pool cue. Jack became a distant memory somewhere between getting kicked in the ribs with a leather wingtip and running away from Porky in his '50s style squad car.

No matter. This strange woman's high heels starting clicking across the blacktop as she let out a wailing whistle. Tires squeeled as a car circled and came to a halt next to Keith's kneeling, massive torso. The mystery woman came to his side, grabbed him around the ribs, and pulled him up with all her might. She rested his slumping body against the side of the cab as she flung open the backseat door. She came around and led Keith by the arm to sit down in the backseat and shut the door.

The woman, then, walked around to the other side of the vehicle, opened the other backseat door and climbed inside, next to Keith.

"Tell him where you live," she asked Keith.

Keith complied and got his first real took at the mystery woman. She was beautiful - long black hair, dark brown eyes, full lips, nice soft skin. But, she was a working girl. Her leather jacket, fishnet stockings, and bright red purse gave it away like a nervous tick at a poker game.

"What's your name?" he asked her with his head slumped against the backseat window.

"Just think of me as your gaurdian angel."

Keith refrained from snorting at the comment.

"No really. What's your name?"

"It's Jazmin. And who are you?"

"Keith Harden. . . former linebacker for the Nebraska Cornhuskers, former Wall Street hot shot, former Metropolitan Magazine Top 30 under 30. . ."

"And," she smiled. "What happened. . ."

"Oh, it'd take a lifetime to tell you."

Keith smiled back at her. It had been one of those kinds of nights. Sleeping with a prostitute was something Keith had never done and swore he would never do, but if ever there was a night for firsts and breaking promises. . . No, he had to refrain himself. He had stooped to many new lows since the accident, but this one he couldn't stomach.

Yet, this one was decent. She had helped him. Hell, she'd gone beyond that. She was riding in the cab along with him to make sure that he made it home safely. She wasn't throwing herself at him; she hadn't even mentioned her line of work. If he had met her at a bar earlier in the night and she was wearing normal clothes, he would have been interested. Maybe he'd just try to strike a little conversation with her. . .

Before he could, the cab came to a halt.

"That'll be $11.82."

Keith looked out the window. They had arrived. Keith made a motion to pay for the ride, but Jazmin told him 'no'.

"Sir, just keep the meter running. I need a ride back."

"Here," Keith protested. "Let me pay for your cab ride..."

"No!" Jazmin said with such force that it alarmed him. "You've had a rough night."

Keith paused for a moment, as if he didn't know what to do next. It was now or never to see if this was going to be a night of firsts and broken promises.

"Do you want to come inside for a bit. Have a drink?" he mustered the courage to ask, his heart racing away.

"Maybe another time, Keith. Get some rest."

Keith nodded and opened the taxi door. Immediately, he was relieved that she had turned down his offer. She had saved whatever remaining dignity he had that night. He watched the taxi drive away and wondered if he'd ever really see Jazmin again.

Keith looked up at Nick's window. The light was turned out. Nick was known for burning the candle at both edges. If he was home, the light would have been on. Keith climbed the staircase to the door of his apartment building. He reached in his coat pocket for his keys, but they weren't there. An alarm went off in his brain. He searched the pockets of his jeans and his keys weren't there either. He checked every pocket again. No keys.

Dammit!!! He'd left his keys on the counter at Mickey's!!

A second alarm, even louder than the first one, went off in his brain. Where the hell is my wallet? Keith checked every pocket again. He stripped his coat off and checked every inside and outside pocket. He patted his jeans and still no wallet. Finally, he came to a grim but real conclusion:

"That bitch just stole my fuckin' wallet."

Fast-forward, one week. Keith spots Jazmin standing on the street corner right after receiving an alarming phone call about Clara's brother. For a moment, all he sees is red. He clinches his fist and walks toward Jazmin.

Keith was only asleep two minutes before the phone rang. It was Clara, his sometimes, sorta, halfway girlfriend. She was hysterical. Words were coming out of her mouth in gasps and hiccups. “Marvin…dead... cops… blood … EVERYWHERE!!!!” Keith assembled the pieces of the verbal puzzle thrown at him and stepped back to take a look at the picture. “Marvin…fuck not Marvin” his groggy mind swirled in disbelief. “Why would anyone want to kill Marvin?” Sure, he was a thief and a junkie and a part time pimp, but he was also Clara's brother. “I’ll am on my way”, Keith grunted into the phone and once again he was on the street.

Keith Harden had a bad day. This was not because he was unemployed. Yes, frustration had set in and he feared he would never again be free from his financial bonds, but that was his life. Nor was it that he was now sitting alone on the street in south Brooklyn in the middle of the night. In fact, Keith found a deep solace at night in the big city. The street was damp from an earlier rainshower and the gentle splashing as cars drove by soothed him. Even the horns and sirens off in the distance were calming.

Keith stood up and brushed off his jeans. He pulled his coat tight around him and began walking up the street towards his apartment. It was an unusually cold night for September and the promise of an early winter did not brighten his mood. As he walked he thought about the interview he had been to that morning. It wasn't anything special. A local club, The Garnet Lounge, was looking for a bouncer. Keith had a good build for a man in his late thirties. At 6'2" and 240 lbs. he could be an imposing presence. Unfortunatly the interview didn't go quite the way he wanted.

"You must be Keith," the club manager said. "My name's Gus. Have a seat and let's talk about you. I'm looking for a guy who can handle himself in a crowd. We get at lot of people come in this joint and that includes some riff raff. What kind of experience have you got?"

Experience was something Keith had in abundance. As soon as he hit eighteen he struck out on his own. What started out as a dream to make it big fizzled into trying to get by. By twenty-five Keith had more experience than he wanted. After failing on Wall Street, if losing 20 million of your company's money on a risky stock scheme could be considered as nice as failing, Keith had gone through job after job. The list included The Spotted Donkey, a local male strip club, and some private amateur gigs for a sleazy porn director. Keith decided to stick with some relevant experience. "I used to work over at Ted's keeping people in line. Unfortunately the place went under. I've also done construction and handyman type jobs. So if you need somebody to do a little other work I can do that too."

Gus was one of those guys who was always squinting. Did he need glasses or was he just an intense person? One thing was clear, he could size up a guy quick. He leaned in and laid it down. "Here's how it's gonna be. You want this job you're gonna have to do more than keep the place on the level. You'll do the dishes and clean out the bathrooms each night. I'll pay you minimum wage, cause that's the law, but you'll kick back thirty percent to me. That's the deal."

There was a time when only ex-cons got treated like this. Corrupt parole officers made a living off blackmailing parolees. Times were tough and the bosses knew it. Keith still had his pride. He jumped out of his chair. "Fuck you, Gus. Your deal stinks."

Gus smirked. "You ain't got no choice and you know it."

Keith didn't hesitate. "Hell yes I do! You can take that job and shove it where the sun don't shine!"

Keith stormed out of the place and could hear Gus yelling "you'll be back!" as he did. Now as he walked down the street he knew that Gus was right, and he hated him for it -- well, more than he hated him already. The bills were piling up and he couldn't keep mooching off his roommate Nick. They'd been at each others throats for awhile over rent money, but recently it had been really bad. Keith was sure he'd be out on the street if he didn't offer up some money soon. He crept quietly into the apartment and dropped straight on his bed. He didn't even bother to take off his coat. It was going to be a long week.