Stan shook his head. “I don’t like it. And you know Aleisha’s going to like it even less.”
I shrugged. “Nothing says you have to tell her.”
“Ha. You try keeping a secret from that woman.”
I smirked. If only he knew how many secrets I still kept from them both.
“Go home to your wife, Stan. Give her a hug and let her see that you’re okay. She’s worried about you.”
I tapped the roof and walked away before he could object. A couple seconds later, I heard the engine rumble as he drove out of the Wienerschnitzel parking lot and pulled into traffic. Stan knew I was right. When push came to shove, he always put Aleisha first.
The scent of hot grease invaded my nostrils and made my stomach clench. I hadn’t eaten since the night before, and the window posters of chili dogs and pastrami chili cheese fries tempted me more than they should. I considered a quick lunch, but I didn’t have the time. Instead, I retrieved one of several protein bars I kept in my cycling backpack. The dense nutrients wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as cheesy, greasy, pseudo-meat on fries, but it would give me the energy I needed to track down Emma. When I turned onto the empty sidewalk of Long Beach Boulevard, I realized my mistake—noon was not a hot time for plying the sex trade, at least, not on the north end of The Blade.
I shouldered my pack and ran.
A few thousand feet later, I saw the first sign of action, on the other side of Compton Avenue—two black girls, barely out of high school, smoking cigarettes and eying the traffic. They wore t-shirts, denim shorts, and rubber thongs One had space buns, and the other had pulled her short hair up into a puff. They could have been idling outside of school or wasting time on a summer day, except for the intensity with which they watched the passing cars.
Eventually, a green sedan slowed beside the curb. The girls went to meet it. But instead of getting in, they turned away with dismissive waves, sneering back at the driver until he had driven out of sight. I could only imagine what offense he had offered or requested. Then again, maybe I couldn’t.
When the traffic lulled, I sprinted across the street and ambled up behind them.
Space Buns must have heard or sensed my presence because she stopped to see who had approached. She sucked in and exhaled a gust of smoke out her nose. “This ain’t your spot.”
I held out my hands. “I’m not staying. I’m just looking for someone.”
“Not here you ain’t.”
The skinnier girl with the puff flicked her cigarette onto the sidewalk and checked the street, repeatedly, in both directions.
“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” I said. “I’m just looking for a friend. Maybe you’ve seen her? Tall, white, long red hair?”
Space Buns snorted out a laugh. “You for real?” She shook her head, making the balls bounce, then flicked her fake glitter nails in dismissal. “The fuck outta my face. We don’t got nothing for you.”
She grabbed her partner by the arm and yanked her away from me.
“Wait,” I said. “Please? She works for Manolo. Do you know him?”
Skinny girl freaked. “Make her go. If Cash sees us talking to her, he’ll think—”
Space Buns backhanded the girl’s arm. “What am I, stupid? I know what he’ll think.” She glared at me. “Bye, bitch.”
Skinny Girl hurried down the sidewalk, unwilling to wait for me to leave. Mentioning Manolo had unnerved her. Did he have a reputation for poaching girls? Or was Cash dangerously possessive?
I let them go. There was nothing to gain by chasing them, and I was drawing unwanted attention. Cars slowed. Drivers and passengers—all men—craned their necks to examine me like meat in a grocery store display case. I gritted my teeth. In this neighborhood, women only lingered on sidewalks for one reason. If I didn’t want to get harassed, I needed to keep moving. But where? I had no idea which way to go or how to find Emma.
A flame-orange, low-riding Impala slowed beside me. Chicano rap blared from the speakers. The bass pulsated. The car bounced on its hydraulics. Then the music quieted and passenger winked. “Hey, girl, you new? Come over and talk to us. We won’t bite—much.”
They laughed.
I raised my hand to flip them off and stopped. Was I new? They’d have to be locals, or at least frequent patrons, to recognize a new girl on the tracks.
I sauntered over and stopped a couple feet from the Impala. The chassis stopped bouncing and settled a few inches above the pavement. I kept my distance. Although the other girls had leaned against that green sedan, I wouldn’t put myself in that position—too easy to get grabbed or stuck with a needle. Heck, a girl my size and weight could get yanked into a car through an open window and whisked away before anyone even noticed.
“What’s up fellas?” I said, keeping my distance and doing my best to show off the goods. Fat chance of that. Dressed in boy clothes—as Ma would have called them—and compacted by the sports bra and Lycra shorts I wore underneath, I looked as soft and curvy as a tank.
The passenger chuckled. “You hear that, Two Guns, she called us fellas.”
The driver leaned over for a better look and offered me the same opportunity. He was larger than his buddy in height and weight but not personality. He grunted, noncommittally, and settled back in his seat.
If these guys cruised The Blade, they might know Emma. I didn’t want to lose their attention before I had a chance to pick their brains.
“You like Asians?” I said, turning this way and that. “We’re so small and delicate, right? Something new to break up the monotony?”
“Listen to that, homie. We got an educated girl, here. Monotony and shit.”
I laughed. “Oh, I’m educated. Went to the best schools with all the rich white girls. You know the types, right? Good girls with bad habits.”
I leaned forward. Close. But still not close enough to reach.
“You like that? Doing your thing to girls too good for you? Educated Asians and snobby white girls?”
“White girls? Around here? You tripping, ho.”
“Huh.” I straightened up and flicked my fingers as I had seen Space Buns do. “In that case, I got no time for you.”
I strolled down the sidewalk, against traffic so they couldn’t follow—but they did.
Cars honked as the Impala backed up along the curb. “Hey. Don’t disrespect us, puta. You know who we are?”
He stuck his arm out the open window and flexed, displaying an ink sleeve that started abruptly at the edge of his heavy plaid vest. It must have taken several days in a chair to tattoo those intricate black and gray patterns. They were beautiful. But what caught my breath was the name embedded into the design.
Sleeves laughed at my surprise. “That’s right, ho. You should be honored we even stopped to look at your sorry ass.”
He turned to Two Guns, exchanged some words in Spanish, then glared back at me. “You don’t belong here,” Sleeves said, scrutinizing my face and body. “In fact, you look pretty fit for a girl who works on her back.”