A week later… “’Ey, Freddie!” The stout woman looked up from chopping vegetables on a dirty wooden table and pointed the knife at him. “Grab that tray of food o’er there and take it to room seven! Josie and her client are ’ungry!” “’Ow’d you know they’re finished?” Freddie grumbled, putting aside his mop. He could scrub the floor until Judgment Day and it wouldn’t help none. Years of grease coated the floor, sticking to the worn bottoms of his shoes. The same grease caked the lone window in the brothel’s kitchen, but there was no way Freddie was cleaning that. Working here provided him with meals and a few coins, and the money would help buy his ticket to Scotland. Just a few more weeks and he should have enough. “’Cause I knows they like to fuck three or four times ’fore they sends for food,” the woman retorted. “And most times it takes a couple of hours. He’s one of Josie’s regulars so I know his habits.” She wiped the knife on her soiled apron.
