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.