Carmel Marco pulled into a vacant spot at a one-story row of studio and one-bedroom apartments. She could feel eyes on her as she shut off the engine and turned to the boy in the backseat.
“You stay in the car,” she said. “And don’t open the door for anyone.”
Alberto Marco slumped in the seat, casting his eyes down to the floorboard. “Yes, Mama.”
Carmel got out and locked the doors. She looked back at the boy for a moment, then turned and followed the sidewalk along the left side of the water-stained, concrete block building. She’d only be a few minutes; then she’d drop Alberto off at a friend’s so she could work the streets.
At the door to apartment six, she knocked twice, then twice more. There was a faint blue light coming from a gap in the heavy curtains, which was quickly extinguished. She heard movement inside.
Finally, she heard the sound of the locks clicking and the rattle of the security chain. Then the door opened slightly, revealing a lean Hispanic man, shirtless, with gang tattoos from the neck down.
“What choo want?”
“The usual,” Carmel replied. “Just enough to get me through the night.”
The man, known on the streets as Razor, grinned lasciviously at her, revealing a gold-capped front tooth. He stepped back and waved her in.
“You know I don’t like doing small sales, Car.”
“I need it, Enrique,” she replied, stepping into the darkened room. “I didn’t see Bones out on the street.”
Razor was a member of the ruthless MS-13 gang, which had chapters all over the globe. He sold drugs, and Bones was his street dealer. He and Carmel had known one another a long time and he didn’t mind her using his given name when they were alone.
The television came back on, but no other light emanated from anywhere in the apartment.
“How much cash you got?”
“Well, see—”
“You don’t got no varos?” Razor said, flopping down into a worn out recliner. “This ain’t no charity I’m runnin’ here.”
“I’ll get money, man,” Carmel pleaded. “But I gotta pay the sitter so I can.”
“We did this a few times before,” Razor said. “And I had to hunt you down to get my money more’n once.”
“She won’t let me leave Alberto unless I pay her up front,” Carmel said, eyeing the crack pipe on the table with a hunger that bordered on lust. “You know I’m good for it.”
Razor looked her up and down. They’d known each other since high school. Back then, she was buenota, a hard body, but now, at twenty-five, she looked twice her age, weary and worn out. Having a kid at sixteen would do that. Dropping out, living on the streets, and getting strung out on crack cocaine before eighteen would accelerate it and make a girl do things she never thought she’d do.
Razor took a small rock from his little sample bag and put it in the pipe. Then he handed the pipe to Carmel along with a lighter. “A little cloud to get your night started.”
She took it greedily and fired the end of the pipe with his miniature torch. The clouds swirled in the glass tube and she inhaled deeply.
The change was instantaneous. Her nerves settled and the light and low sound coming from the TV seemed different, as if she could see and hear it better. Even Enrique’s grin seemed inviting.
“Just leave the boy here,” he told her. “Then you can buy more.”
Carmel, her mind now swimming from the huge release of dopamine in her brain, thought that was an excellent idea. Alberto wouldn’t be in the way; he’d just curl up somewhere and go to sleep. She could come back two or three times throughout the night to check on him.
Later that night, after Carmel had turned a couple of quick tricks, she felt as if things were looking up. She’d gone back to check on Alberto around midnight. And to buy more crack.
Carmel knew that eventually the sun would come up and she’d crash. Then the miserable feeling would return, the desperate despair. But if she could keep it at bay long enough, if she rationed the crack wisely, she’d have enough money by morning to feed her son for another day.
She stood in the shadow of a telephone pole, waiting. Occasionally a cop would pass by. Carmel was always careful to keep the thick, wooden pole between her and their prying eyes.
Other cars whisked past, drivers intent on getting home from work, or to a bar to meet a friend. She didn’t hide from them, knowing they had other things on their minds. She stayed in the open. They might remember later.
Then a car came slowly down Cleveland Avenue. The driver was obviously looking for something. Or someone. It was an older model Chevrolet, nothing like what the unmarked cop cars usually looked like.
Carmel stepped out of the shadow.
The car slowed and came to a stop.
“Wanna party?” a young black man asked, smiling at her.
“I’m working,” she replied back.
“Twenty bucks says your mouth can do more than talk, chica.”
Carmel stepped over to the open window and looked inside, checking the backseat. “Are you a cop?”
“What the fuck you mean am I a cop?” the man said. “I’m a horny muthafucka is what I am. You getting’ in or what?”
She opened the door and got in the car.
“Name’s Tavarius,” he said, taking a hit from a joint and offering it to her. “Tavarius Carter.”
She took the joint and pulled on it, inhaling deeply. She didn’t like weed, but it was sort of a custom on the streets. By sharing it, they both knew that the other wasn’t a cop. Besides, he was offering twice what she usually charged for a blowjob and unlike the last two, this guy
