Drama City

'Very good,' said Rachel. 'Recibi los resultados de tu prueba de drogras.'

'The clinic?'

Rachel nodded. 'You dropped a negative. Esta limpio.'

'I no use the drug.'

'Keep it up. You're doing fine.'

Maybe, thought Rachel Lopez, you'll make it this time. Velasco, named Nixon by his father in honor of the man revered by many Hispanics, had seen plenty of trouble in his youth. A member of the old Brown Union gang in Columbia Heights, he had done a stretch for multiple drug offenses, been paroled, and gone back in on an aggravated assault conviction, which had been pled down. By the time he had returned to the street, his former gang members were gone, erased by death, prison, or deportation. Newer, more violent Hispanic gangs like 1-5 Amigos, STC, La Raza, MS-13, La Mara R, and Vatos Locos had since come to prominence around the city and made headlines for their brazen, murderous acts. At thirty-one, Nixon Velasco was too old to survive the new game. Age and maturity, more than jail time, remorse, or conscience, had reformed him. He knew he could not compete, and he was too tired to try.

'Donde este tu jefe?'

Velasco pointed at the trailer. 'Ramos in the offi'.'

'Until next time, Nixon.' Rachel looked him in the eye and shook his hand.

On the way to the trailer, Rachel passed another of her offenders, Rafael Salamanca, also out after back-to- back jolts. Rachel had used Salamanca as a contact to help find Nixon this job. Rachel greeted him in Spanish, but he only nodded grimly in return and kept his eyes on the hole into which he was thrusting his shovel.

She knew Salamanca was having problems with the straight life. Stress in his home environment, not pressure from old peers, was the main cause. A veteran of a defunct Latino gang himself, Salamanca had returned from prison to find that his daughter, a recent high school dropout, had joined Vatos Locos at sixteen years of age. In that particular gang, one of the initiation rites for females was submission to group rape. Salamanca, normally a quiet, brooding man, had recently confessed to Rachel that he craved drugs as a means of escape from the harsh reality of what his life had become. During that conversation, he had also called his wife a puta and a drunk, and her mother, who lived with them in their apartment, a 'filthy old pig.' Rachel was awaiting the report from Salamanca's latest urine test and was not optimistic about the results.

Rachel handled forty cases at any given time. Of those offenders, the majority worked in day labor, construction, landscaping, and house painting jobs. They found these jobs through other offenders and through employers who were sympathetic to the problems facing ex-cons, either because they had relatives who had been incarcerated or because they had done time themselves. Still others actively sought out offenders for employment, from shelters, halfway houses, and bulletin boards, because they felt it was the Christian thing to do. Every day, hopeful offenders stood before dawn at pickup points like University Boulevard and Piney Branch Road in Maryland, and Georgia and Eastern avenues in the District. If they did good work, and if they were dependable, this day-to- day struggle could often lead to steady employment.

In the air-conditioned trailer, Rachel found Nixon's boss, a good-looking, gray-templed man named Ramos, who had done a federal jolt in Lewisburg many years ago, behind a desk. He told her that Nixon Velasco was a good worker and, in his opinion, on the straight. This particular job would probably last for another three months. Ramos planned to keep Velasco on the payroll, if possible, for the duration of the build. After that, he couldn't be sure. If Nixon kept working the way he was now, maybe he'd take him along to the next job.

'How about Rafael Salamanca?' said Rachel. 'How's he doing?'

'Okay.'

'Just okay?'

'He's missed a few days. He needs a little encouragement sometimes.'

'Let me know if you need me to jump in.'

'How will I get in touch with you?'

'What's that?'

'Do I have your number?'

'You have it. I gave you my card the last time I came through.'

'But that's just the work number, eh?'

Ramos tented his hands and smiled. The muscles in his tan forearms bunched with the action. He looked Rachel over in a manner that was not about business, and he smiled.

'You ever go out for a beer, something, when the day's done?'

'No.' Rachel shook her head and tried to keep his eyes. 'I guess I'm all about work.'

'You should enjoy yourself more. Good-looking woman like you.'

Rachel glanced at her wristwatch.

'Even with no makeup,' said Ramos.

'I've got to get going.'

'Okay,' said Ramos, amusement in his eyes. 'You go ahead.'

In her car, Rachel smoked a cigarette, her hand out the open window. She thought no further of Ramos, but rather of Nixon Velasco and Rafael Salamanca. It looked as if Nixon was going to make it and Rafael was not. No matter what she did, no matter how diligent and tough she was, she felt she had little control. That was during the day. It could be different at night.

She had a few more stops on her schedule: Eddie, whom she always enjoyed visiting, and a couple of others, whom she did not. She could put all of these appointments off until tomorrow, she supposed. It would set her back