Chances by Jackie Collins

using her as a receptacle for anything at hand they could shove into her. Zoftik Redhead sat astride her and masturbated as a final act. When they left they were laughing. It had been a good morning’s entertainment.
    Carrie didn’t move. She lay and stared at the dripping shower above her and mumbled about death under her breath. It was enough. Her life was over. She was
ready
for it to be over.
    Matron found her two hours later stretched out in the same position, blue with cold, congealing blood decorating her thighs. “Good God almighty! Who did this to you?”
    Carrie did not reply. In fact she did not speak at all for two weeks. She lay listlessly on a cot in the sick ward. It was better than being up and about.
    When she was released she went silently back among the other girls. They avoided meeting her eyes, and still they did not speak to her. She didn’t care. She was developing a new quality. Hate. It was a good powerful feeling, and her vibrations silently warned the other girls to keep away.
    One day she made a decision. When she got out she was going to look out for herself for a change. She was going to become the toughest, sharpest, meanest, most successful nigger whore in the business.
    Winter was cold on the ground when Carrie was finally released. She had been on the island six months, twice the length of her original sentence, but bookkeeping was not one of the high points of life on Welfare Island. She was eighteen pounds thinner, which meant she was real skinny. Her hair was cropped short on account of the lice, and she shivered in a thin summer dress as the ferry took her across the East River to the docks.
    She had exactly ten dollars to her name, but she was hopeful that Florence Williams still had her possessions, including a small box holding her six hundred dollars savings.
    A line of pimps waited dockside, ready and anxious to inspect the girls. They looked them over like so much beef and approached the ones they felt looked promising. It was a situation the authorities were aware of, but no one seemed prepared to do much about it. After all, once a whore, always a whore. Even the police turned a blind eye.
    What chance did the girls have? Who was going to turn down a comfortable bed, some new clothes, a hot meal, and the opportunity to start making money immediately?
    Carrie knew what was going on. A running joke on Welfare Island was which pimp would get lucky. The girls all sent their little messages. “If Rag Bags is there, y’all give him the clap for me!” or “Go with the ratty spook with the yellow car and stick
another
knife in him! That mean bastard sure ’nuff deserves it!”
    Carrie looked around. She wasn’t attracting much attention; she knew she must look a mess. She took a deep breath and stuck out her chest. The result was a swarthy white man who sidled over and muttered, “Wanna job, darkie?”
    She didn’t like the “darkie.” She shook her head.
    “Come on,” the man said nastily. “Ain’t no one else gonna ask
you.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “If you saw what I had between my legs you wouldn’t talk like that, whitey!” She turned her back on him and saw the pimp she was looking for. He was unmistakable. Tall. Black. Totally bald. White-suited. Fur-caped. Carrie had heard all about him on the island. His name was Whitejack, and he pimped for Mae Lee, the hottest black madam in Harlem.
    Whitejack leaned against the side of a shiny new automobile, chewing on a long thin stogie. His attention had not been caught by any of the girls. It was understandable because they were a sorry-looking bunch.
    Carrie approached him with as much flash as she could muster. “S’cuse me, mister,” she said boldly, “I’m lookin’ for a ride.”
    His eyes flicked over her. A lazy head-to-toe inspection. Twice over just in case he missed something the first time.
    “You best look elsewhere, honey,” he drawled, totally disinterested.
    “I just turned sweet sixteen last