Regarding the girl's request, Izzy wasn't exactly surprised-- sute, the girl was pushing her luck, but it was in tune with the initial assumptions she'd made about the girl.  She had a spark.<br/><br/>Suddenly, she felt a faint pang of guilt.  Was she following in the footsteps of a dozen pushers and pimps in this neighborhood... finding a young girl, luring her with a promise?  Sure, it was genuine, in this instance-- Izzy would gladly part with the two hundred.  She had been where this girl stood-- freezing in the rain, content with a few stolen scraps and even proud-- yeah, proud-- of what she had done one a given night.  She'd also been caught, and she knew the sting of consequence all too well.<br/><br/>Was it attraction?  Of course, that had to be part of it-- petite, spunky, street-tough and vulnerable, all the things that got Izzy warm and fuzzy also got her oiled and ready.  Maybe that was the source of the knot of guilt in her stomach... that her motives weren't entirely pure, or entirely practical.  In the shadows of that alley, the girl looked like a living doll, bedraggled and soaking after a housefire's end, with eyes as old as Izzy's own.<br/><br/>"Okay then," she said quietly in reply.  She stooped over to create a small shelter from the rain and lit a cigarette from her inner pocket, then cupped her hand protectively over it as she straightened and zipped her coat.  "There's a cafe a couple blocks from here, they make decent<i>migas</i>."  She smiled, a smokey, languid gesture that was crooked on her full lips.  "Might even stop raining by then."<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>She had led the way quietly, her boots splashing at the edges of puddles on the smooth concrete, her walk confident and unobtrusive, with just a hint of a feminine sway thta seemed to creep in out of habit.  And sure enough, by the time the reached the Dime Cafe, the rain had slowed on its metal awnings from a rapid-fire prattle to a staccato patter, punctuated by the little metal bell over the door as Izzy held it wide.<br/><br/>"Sit where you like," she said-- beyond the glass storefront, which was accentuated by local artist's stained-glass works like the cathedral windows of LA's "new bohemian" church, amber light spilled out over a few empty tables, a couple booths with home-patched vinyl padding, and a soda-shop bar of polished wood.  The proprietor, a man who looked like a mutton-chopped Tommy Lee Jones, glanced up with recognition at the tall woman in the doorway and gave a curt nod.  The awning light shed colors through the stained glass onto the floor within in a soft mosaic of greens, blues, and golds, where late night club-goers were sobering up on scrambled eggs and salsa, steaming cups of black coffee, and fresh-fried potatoes.  Izzy entered alongside Ashleigh, waiting for her choice, her questions, or her acceptance.