Chapter 1

He hurried along the busy street as night took hold of the city, stopping in every familiar storefront and building entrance to ask about her, if anyone had seen her, knew where she was. Jimmy Martinez, dark and handsome, cursed himself time and again for allowing the one good thing in his life to get away. He knew why, but even now he felt the urge, always present, beginning to rise so that, despite his urgent mission, he stopped at the corner tavern, walked to the deserted end of the bar and motioned for the bartender.

"Hey, Jimmy, where you been? Haven't seen you in almost a week."

"I been busy Manny. Uh, what's the spread on the Blazers?"

"Six and a half."

The dark haired young man rubbed his chin. "Okay, two bills on the Blazers."

"Sure you want to do that? I mean, the last time..."

"And I paid up didn't I?" he responded painfully.

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Just place the bet okay."

"Okay, Jimmy, but you know I'll have to clear it with Mr. Alverez."

The young man winced. Alverez, his bookie -- then that damned poker game. The start of all his problems.

That wasn't exactly true. In fact it wasn't true at all. Jimmy had become obsessed with gambling when but a young boy, running numbers for the local syndicate. Impressed with the easy money, he began shooting craps with the other kids at school, laying down bets on sporting events and eventually weaseled his way into some weekend poker games where he had his clock cleaned on more than one occasion. But he never lost the fascination, in fact as he grew older the obsession had tightened its hold on him. He was constantly gambling away his rent money and often going hungry to pay off his wagering debts.

"Okay, okay," he replied, "just do it, all right Manny?"

"Sure kid just as soon as Mr. Alverez gives me the go ahead," said the balding bartender reaching for the phone.

Jimmy glanced around the bar as Manny punched in the number. The usual riffraff, for Manny's was not exactly an upscale establishment. He noted the two men in the back, a white and a black, keeping their voices low and their eyes on the door, obviously a drug buy going on, he thought. There was a couple, young punks, both with lips and eyebrows pierced, dark makeup and spiked hair watching everyone derisively, totally unaware they were the oddballs, even in a place like this. And finally, the hooker. It had started to rain so she had, no doubt, stepped in for temporary shelter. It was almost as if they wore uniforms, he thought, shiny leather boots almost to the knees, fishnet stockings torn down one thigh, the inevitable micro mini skirt, this one a second skin stretch material, bright yellow. The top had at one time been a pretty peasant blouse, but wear and tear had taken their toll and it now hung formlessly, a button missing from both front and sleeve.