and like every poor kid on the block he was desperate to get out of Detroit.
‘I said leave me the fuck alone,’ Dionne growled, bending down towards him and unintentionally flashing eye-popping amounts of cleavage.
Mikey shrugged. ‘Hey, doll, if you want a good time, you know where I live,’ he quipped, before flipping her the bird and pedalling off.
Dionne laughed in disbelief. The kid was twelve, for chrissakes!
But today she had more important things to consider than the growing pains of pre-teen wannabes. She had a meeting about a modelling job – no, a casting, that was the right word. After all, if she was going to walk the walk she ought to learn how to talk the talk, Dionne grinned to herself.
Dash Ramón had set it up for her. The burly Colombian was a powerhouse in Dionne’s neighbourhood, a guy who made a formidable ally and a deadly enemy, and now he had a soft spot for Dionne, thanks to all the effort she’d put in over the last few weeks. She’d spent evenings at his favourite club, bringing him his favourite drink, looking fabulous and saying little before he finally agreed to do her this favour and organize a meeting with Luis Fernandez.
Luis Fernandez.
Just saying his name sent a thrill right through Dionne. She’d never heard of him, but Dash assured her he was the best and Dionne wanted to believe it. He could get her a spot in W or Harper’s – maybe even European Vogue, Dash had told her. He’d slipped her Fernandez’s card, told her to be there Monday afternoon.
‘I’ve got school,’ she blurted out stupidly. She was still only sixteen.
Dash raised an eyebrow as the intimidating crowd of black-clad heavies who were never far from his side laughed patronizingly. ‘Skip it,’ he told her, menacingly.
Dionne bit her lip nervously, but didn’t argue. If there was one thing you didn’t do, it was piss off Dash Ramón.
So that morning she’d remained huddled under her sheets while her younger sisters got ready around her.
‘Are you sick, honey?’ asked her mother, running a cursory hand over Dionne’s forehead.
‘I don’t feel too good, Momma,’ Dionne swallowed weakly. She knew her mom would be in too much of a rush to argue – her shift at the local deli started at seven a.m., and she couldn’t afford to be late.
‘I really can’t stay home …’ Natalie Summers looked torn.
‘I’ll be fine. I just need to rest. You get off to work, Mom.’
Dionne lay immobile, waiting until the sounds in the house had died down and the front door had banged half a dozen times, signalling that everyone had left. Well, almost everyone. Her daddy would still be in bed but Dionne wasn’t worried about him. He’d be out cold until he dragged himself up around midday, slumping in front of the TV and working his way through a bottle of Jack until her mother came home from her gruelling twelve-hour shift to fix him some dinner. Earl Summers hadn’t had a job since he’d been let go from General Motors more than five years ago, and since then it had been down to Dionne, as the eldest of the six kids, to help her momma keep everything together.
As soon as she’d turned sixteen, she’d found herself a Saturday job, working as a salesgirl in Macy’s over at Oakland Mall. It was a prestigious job, one which wouldn’t normally have been given to a young, black kid from the wrong side of the tracks, but Dionne was possessed of a natural charm and a disarming beauty, and she’d persuaded the manager to give her a chance. He hadn’t regretted it: Dionne was a born saleswoman and had no trouble persuading the rich suburban housewives to part with their husbands’ hard-earned cash. She gave her basic salary straight to her momma for housekeeping, but the commission she made was all hers. She’d opened up a savings account, and already there was almost a thousand dollars in there.
But if Luis Fernandez liked her, she’d be made for life, Dionne thought, offering up a quick, silent prayer that Ramón’s contact would give her the break she needed.
She knew she looked a million dollars. She’d spent yesterday in the African Princess salon, having her luxurious afro relaxed so that it hung straight and sleek down her back. She’d had her legs and bush waxed, her nail acrylics reapplied and decorated with small crystals.
And now she was tottering along Twelfth in tight, plastic heels that were already hurting her feet, her tiny skirt leaving little to the imagination. She’d made herself up carefully, applying fake eyelashes and clear lip gloss that made her bee-stung lips even more enormous. Dash had once told her that the first thing a man thought of when he saw her was what it would be like to be sucked off by those lips. Dionne had simply smiled and blown him a kiss. She hadn’t been blessed with much in life; she figured she might as well make the most of what she did have.
Dionne stopped, searching through her purse and checking the address she’d been given. She studied the badly printed card on its cheap paper, then glanced up at the house in front of her. It didn’t look anything special. In fact, it was a typical example of the houses in downtown Detroit – sprawling, ramshackle and falling to pieces, so the rent was dirt-cheap. The place looked as if it hadn’t been painted since the ’67 riots, and the garden was a jungle.
Taking a deep breath, Dionne pressed the buzzer firmly. Then she thought better of it and knocked; the buzzer looked like it had long since been disconnected.
‘Yeah?’ A small, wiry Hispanic guy opened the door just a crack and peered suspiciously at Dionne.
‘Mr Fernandez?’ she asked, trying to sound confident.
‘Depends who’s askin’.’
‘I’m Dionne Summers. Dash Ramón sent me. For the casting?’
‘Diane, hi!’ His lips crawled back over his teeth as he smiled charmlessly, his gaze flickering over her appraisingly. Dionne could tell he liked what he saw.
She smiled politely as she followed him into the house. It was a pigsty. Discarded takeaway cartons with their half-eaten contents rotting inside littered the floor, barely covered by the old newspaper cuttings and torn magazine articles that were strewn carelessly around the lounge. A couple of twists of foil lay on the stained coffee table, surrounded by crumpled beer cans. Fernandez didn’t even seem to notice the mess.
As he pushed open the door to one of the back rooms, Dionne began to feel a little calmer. It was set up with professional-looking equipment; a couple of large studio lights on adjustable stands, a silver reflector lying in a corner and a neutral-coloured backdrop hanging from a rail.
There was a camera mounted on a tripod that looked like an antique. Fernandez didn’t touch it. He simply picked up a cheap, digital camera and told her, ‘I’m gonna take a few test shots first.’
Dionne stepped tentatively into the centre of the room, trying to look as if she knew what she was doing. ‘What do you want me to wear?’ she asked, hoping that Fernandez might suddenly produce a selection of beautiful designer gowns.
He didn’t even look up. ‘What you’re wearing’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’
Dionne nodded, pouting self-consciously and jutting out her hips in what she hoped was a provocative pose.
Fernandez fired off a few shots and checked
