She wasstanding naked in an elevator car with the president of the wholefucking studio? Such a situation was more than simply absurd; it wasimpossible--and, yet, here she was."And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" Charlie prompted her.She felt herself blush, the heat of her blood rushing through herreddening cheeks. "Siren, sir." Siren Sir," he repeated, as if the title with which she'd addressed himwere her surname. "That's an odd name." Siren Call," she corrected him. She rolled her eyes at the silliness ofthe appellation. "That's my stage name," she explained. "It was mymanager's idea." I like it." Do you, sir? Really?"His smile widened. "Really," he confirmed. "As much as I like my ownname. Please. Call me 'Charlie.'" Yes, sir--I mean, Charlie."He surveyed her nudity. His eyes moved from her breasts to her prick andback. The nipples, unlike the penis, were erect. He supposed it was fromthe coolness of the air-conditioning. Without her gown, she must bechilled.He offered. He told me he had an older uncle, Robert, who was a handyman and junk collector in the neighborhood. He cruised the area with his mule and wagon and made part of his living making deliveries or picking up used tires, refrigerators, sinks, or whatever refuse could be sold or rebuilt. The local shopping area had a small supermarket, a liquor store, a cleaners, and a restaurant and beer hall on the corner of Linden Street. My dad's relatives owned that property and ran the businesses. The area was a decaying part of Memphis built in the 1890's. The old two story houses that were still standing were populated by whites, many of them either closely or distantly related to me. The other side of the area was literally a shantytown populated by poor negro families who lived in houses little better than shacks.Stepper became my indispensable guide to many of the dangers I had somehow avoided downtown. Standing on a street corner one day he pointed out a very large lady shopper who was.
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