His apartment was tiny, especially by the standards of these old buildings, which dated back to the mid-twentieth century. Anthemic rock posters, Van Halen, Rolling Stones, U2, circled the rectangular living room, also doubling as a bedroom; a sheet peeked out of the pull-out couch.
But the floors gleamed and the windows sparkled onto the courtyard.
“That’s about it.” Diego grinned as she soaked in the room. “Unless you need to inspect the bathroom.”
“Maybe later.” She smiled back. They stood awkwardly for a moment. Diego ushered her toward the couch. She swallowed a deep mouthful of wine.
“Yes, cheers.” He clinked his glass.
“Sorry. Thirsty.”
“Steps are a bitch. But you’re getting better. A couple days ago you only made it to the fourth floor.”
Zelda flushed.
“My neighbor Mr. Genado saw you. Strangers stand out in the DV.”
“I remember.”
“That why you never came up?”
Direct, blunt. Zelda filled her mouth with cheese and crackers, buying time. His steady look gave her no room for calm.
“I grew up in a place like this.”
“You said.”
“Just like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the same couch. My parents lived in a large closet off that way.” She gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “I mean, really a large closet, but they rented it as a one bedroom.”
Diego absently rubbed the stem of the wine glass. “Pleasant memories.”
“Not here.” Zelda took a quick sip; she didn’t want to get loaded. “Memories with friends. Funny how for all the emphasis on the family, the DV is the worst place for that. All that stress and pressure and fear. Who can ever relax when you look at your parents and hate them for putting you there, and they look at you, wondering if you’re just the same. How about you?”
He shrugged. “Four sisters.”
“Regs now?”
Diego held up a couple fingers. “One fell off a bridge. The other under a truck.”
“Shit…”
He waved her off. “Didn’t make it.”
“You will.” She squeezed his wrist.
Diego leaned away, surprising her. “No guarantees. I could flunk the Navy test.”
“You’re going into the Navy?”
“Just covering myself in case the private boats don’t work. I’m studying for the ocean fishing license now.”
She crossed her knees. “I just don’t see you as a sailor.”
“How do you see me?”
Zelda didn’t answer quickly enough and he darkened.
“As just a DV?”
“No guarantees. As you just said.” Zelda took a longer sip. “You invited me here.”
“If you didn’t want to be here, then you shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m not sure I want to be here. Big difference.”
Diego’s eyes narrowed. “I want you here.”
“I’m glad.”
“But not if you don’t want to.” He hoped that was the balance Puppy had mentioned.
“I just said I don’t know. You live here, I don’t. You might get out. What if you don’t?”
“The Navy’s a lock. They’ll take almost anyone.”
“And what does the Navy do anymore?”
“Patrol.”
“What? Connecticut?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t taken the test yet.”
They sipped their wine, exchanging sour glances.
“I’m making spaghetti,” he finally said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“We can eat out.”
“If I’m not hungry for spaghetti here, why would I be hungry for spaghetti outside?”
“Because it’s not a fucking DV apartment,” he exploded.
Zelda stood up, stopping by the door. “You’re a nice kid, Diego. Stay with someone your own age. Similar life cycle, both starting out. I’m past all that. Thirty-seven isn’t young.”
“That’s not old.”
“It can be.” Zelda smiled shakily.
She took a ‘bot cab to Daffy’s up on 210th Street; she was too embarrassed to go to Monroe’s after she’d told Jimmy the bartender she finally met someone.
16
Clary hobbled forward, landing hard on her knee. Pain ran from toe to hip, distracting her from the perro from the orphanage chasing her.
“Puta, puta, puta.” The vile stinking breath wafted forward. The perro laughed. “Puta, puta, puta.”
She shimmied up the tree, tearing her black lingerie. A thin strand hooked onto the branch. She slid up a little higher. Now her thighs were bleeding.
“Madre de dios,” she whispered, crossing herself. “Save me.”
The Allah stood beneath the tree, sniffing like the perro he was. He had tried her before. Three times.
“Come, puta,” Hazma cupped his hands on the sides of his matted beard and called out in Spanish in all directions. “No one will hurt you.”
They’d chased her for miles. She didn’t know where she was. North, south, east, west. Her home was in the east. Tierre del Bueno. She’d had a nice home with lots of dolls and a good father and a good mother. Then a bridge was blown up outside town, killing many Allah soldiers. They blamed the Crusaders. The Allahs came and made her watch as her parents were beheaded. All the children had watched, sitting in the stands at the gymnasium, the mats laid out along the wood floor. Mats where she had practiced. Where she had won awards for gymnastics.
She was glad her father was blindfolded so she didn’t have to see his eyes. She had seen her mother’s before they dragged her away. Shaking her bruised cheeks, lips swollen, Clary’s mother lifted her neck up almost out of her body, pleading with her daughter.
Pleading what? Live. That was Clary’s belief.
“Come on, puta. Little Clary.” Hazma looked up, but it was too dark. He wandered away.
Go. Go. Please, go.
He sniffed and suddenly stopped, turning back to the tree. Even in the blackness, she could see the yellow rotting teeth flash in a smile. Clary held her breath.
“Little Clary,” he said, holding up his hands. “Come down, little darling. Otherwise I will burn the tree. And then that pretty little skin will be all blistered and scarred. Even the slavers won’t want you. Maybe just the wolves.”
She held still. He flicked his lighter and a flame danced on a branch. He suddenly shoved the smoking ember into the bottom of her bare foot. She screamed.
“Yes, little Clary. Think how much it will hurt all over your body.” His voice hardened. “Now get your puta ass down. I am fucking tired. Doin’t worry. I’m not too tired.”
Her vision was good from hiding so often in the attic. She saw him spreading
