Chapter Six
Beautiful girls die in Vegas, and I’m thinking that as Ginger walks in and I internally gasp. She looks ravaged, strung out, blue welt kissing one closing eye. Her lip is cut, she’s about thirty-something, meaning she’s pressing a cold, hard sixty, in Vegas dog years.
Youth evaporates real-quick here. You know, like one a those leaf mulcher eating tree limbs you see those Mexican gardener’s using all the time on the street.
She thin, not like a healthy thin like moi. She’s emaciated, more like a meth thin, you know, sunken eyes, black circles, dirty blond disheveled hair, once pretty white like mine, but not anymore. Her clothes don’t look right, blue jeans stained with something, flip flops, dirty feet and spindle arms struck out of an old lime green tank top. Her hands are
