I haven't written anything in a good long while, but the prompt about
Maxwell hit me just right. This isn't weird unless you consider the
fact that I have been reading Elmore Leonard and couldn't resist
trying his style weird.

Leonard clumps thoughts together in his prose, just like his
characters do in their dialogue. He makes sparse use of attribution
(he said, she said) leaving the well developed voice of his characters
to tell the reader who is speaking.

Maxwell Gets His Due
By
L. S. Russell

Maxwell Sandwich pushed a lock of blood-matted hair up away from the
thin blond girl's forehead; it made a sick ripping noise, like when
you peel masking tape away from a freshly painted wall, and the girl
squeezed her eyes tight--bit her lip--to fight off the pain and surprise.

"Maybe I shouldn'a said nothin'."

Max dug in his breast pocket for a handkerchief, dabbed it on his
tongue, and swabbed the gash above her ocean colored eyes. "Maybe."

"Maybe I shoulda just kept wigglin' my ass at twenty bucks an hour."
She slid her wet eyes toward him. "Worst thing ever happened some guy
grabbed my tit."

Max had to look away—concentrate on the job—or get sucked in. He
didn't want to cover old ground, like who he was, or why he was here,
and he didn't like the way her expression made him feel like he needed
to take a shower in battery acid.

He shoved the wad of stained linen into his pocket, grabbed her under
the arms, and dragged her up with him. He could almost wrap his hands
around her; just a little more and his thumbs would touch. He had
always wondered why Nate kept her around; no tits, too skinny; but
seeing her in the harsh light of the back alley, the way she looked up
at him, not just with her eyes, but with the whole of her tiny round
face he knew the reason—she was Nate's little piece of heaven, an
angel who could dance.

He slung her in the crook of one arm, bent and scooped up her purse,
then cradled her down the alley toward Front Street. Her feet hardly
touched the concrete--she was still a little shaken up from that right
hook Nate had popped her--but Max didn't mind wagging her around. She
smelled sweet.

"Nate told me to drive you home…"

"You got a really deep voice anybody ever tell you that? Like Barry
White."

Max peered down at the china-doll face, her eyes droopy, and the cut
in her scalp beginning to bleed again. "But maybe I oughta take you to
a hospital."

She tried to shake her self loose from his grasp, but he wasn't ready
to let go. She kicked and scraped the toes of her shoes against the
wet pavement.

"Lemme down. Lemme walk. I can walk. Don't need no hospital."

She shoved her words together close, like a bum asking for change. He
stopped, turned her face toward him, and started ticking off the signs
in his head. Her pupils were wide dark spots, he could see himself
reflected there, but in this light they would be. She wasn't
complaining about being dizzy, and she hadn't thrown up; still, you
never could be sure. That crack Nate had given her sounded hard enough
to crack a brick, and Nate was a big guy.

"You been drinkin'?"

She pushed her hands against him, and strained. Max almost laughed at
the expression on her face; her eyes squinted together, her small
white teeth digging into her bottom lip, but he didn't. Instead he
loosened his grip a little so that she was just far enough away that
she had no leverage to push away.

"Course I been drinkin'. All those dickheads wanna do is buy ya a
drink smell yer panties." She sniggered, ratcheting air in through her
nose. "Had this guy tonight, gave me his number, wants to buy `em off
me. You fuckin' believe that?"

"Watch yer mouth ok."

She peeled her eyelids back, and her eyeballs tracked toward his face.
She put on the pout that most dancers use when they are talking
customers into a lap dance. "Yes daddy."

"Don't call me that."

"Nate likes when I call him daddy."

Max's face flushed. His ears grew hot, and he, for once, was glad that
most of his work took place in the darkness behind buildings.

"Well I ain't Nate."

She snaked her slender arms around his waist and pressed her tiny body
against his. She slid one knee up his leg, then back down, so slow
that it didn't register with his brain--although other parts of him
noticed. Her sweet smell, roses or some other flower, crept up over
his face—not over powering or strong, but consuming—and, unable to
help himself, he drank in a thick tendril of it. It made him dizzy
being this close to her.

"That's right, you ain't Nate."

"I gotta get you home."

Max covered her frail shoulder with his tree trunk arm, and swept her
along with him to the long black car waiting at the mouth of the alley.

"Why you work for a dickhead like Nate anyway?" She said. "You could
do better. Hell we all could do better."

"I make good money."

"Is that all it takes? You go where the money's good?"

Max dug a key out of his pocket and poked it in the car door. He swung
the girl out of the way as he pulled the ponderous door wide, and,
placing his hand behind her head, tucked her in the front seat. She
lolled to one side and grinned at him, all traces of professional pole
dancer gone, as he pulled the safety belt over her bare shoulder and
across her hips.

"Daddy," she said as she spread her knees apart. "Can you pull my
skirt back down? I'm getting' a little cold."

"Last time I'm gonna tell you—don't call me that." Max stood and
grabbed the door, checking to make sure she was all in. "You can pull
your own skirt down."

He slammed the door and walked around the front of the car. He checked
up and down the street in both directions before stepping around to
the driver's side door. The seat creaked a little, and the car tipped
toward him, as he settled in. He didn't bother buckling in--the belt
wouldn't fit around him anyway.

"Whaddam supposed to call you?"

Max fumbled with the key ring, found the right one, and turned the
massive Chevy's engine over on the first try. Normally the starter
would laugh at him a few times before realizing that he really did
mean for it to crank, but maybe this time it was too interested in the
passenger to mock the driver.

"Whadda you care what my name is? All I gotta do is make sure you get
home."

"That case, I just stick to Daddy."

He sighed pushing a great gust of air out through his nose. "Max.
People call me Max."

The girl twisted in the seat and pulled her knees up onto the bench
pointing toward Max. Her dress was a knot around her hips. Max pulled
his eyes away from the triangle of sequin covered panties peaking at
him, and pulled the car away from the curb.

"Well Max." She tried a sly grin on. "I got a proposition for you. And
I think I can make ya a better deal than Nate."