Francois, indeed, gave them trouble when he saw three of his girls march down the stairs in street clothes with the three boys who’d paid him a dollar.
“Where the hell do you three tramps think you’re going?” he demanded in French. “Get back up to your rooms and dress for business. You have customers waiting to get between your legs.”
Caroline marched up to him, spit in his face, and then slapped him hard enough to bounce his bowler hat from his head. “We’re not your damned whores any longer, you jacked-up ass.”
Francois grabbed her arm. “You’ll be whatever I tell you to be, b***h,” he screamed and drew back his balled-up fist.
Dace grabbed the man’s arm before he could deliver the blow. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, mister.”
“And why the hell not?” Francois demanded, releasing C
