late.”
“It’s barely,” I glanced at my wristwatch, “eight o’clock. Civilized people are just sitting down to dinner.”
***
But Carisa’s neighborhood silenced me—blocks of sad, dilapidated buildings, seedy, ill kept. I’d glimpsed New York’s Bowery over the years, shook my head over the vacant-eyed winos bundled in mission-house overcoats. But this Skid Row was numbing, block after block of what looked like sagging flophouses, shanty hotels, pawnshops with weathered signs. As Mercy’s car cruised into the area, I observed panhandlers, hookers, lost souls leaning against walls, or hunched over. “It’s really called Skid Row, this area,” Mercy told me. “Or the Nickel, because much of it centers on Fifth Street. Los Angelinos avoid the area—notorious for crime, drugs. Look.” She pointed to a man staggering off a sidewalk. “It’s like a big stereotype,” she said. “A Warner backlot for a James Cagney movie. Angels with dirty faces.”
I frowned. “A stereotype is sometimes nothing more than the redundancy of truth.” Mercy looked at me. Third Street. Fourth Street. Street after street, fading daylight, shadows settling in.
Flickering neon sign on a corner bar: H RRYs, the A missing. That alarmed me. A cardboard sidewalk shelter, a man’s feet visible. Eight-thirty at night, the streets eerily still, souls shuffling along, trancelike; yet the night seemed noisy, violent. The echoey tintinnabulation of jukebox music from deep inside a tavern. Then, as we idled at a light, snatches of a fierce husband-wife spat filtered through thin walls. The sobbing of a child—or maybe it was an alley cat in heat, hidden behind a shabby fence. The clamoring of a distant late-night freight train; a truck bumping over a broken street, headed to the warehouse district. Mercy parked her car in front of a three-story building, and we sat there. An old man staggered by, bumped into her fender, and I started. Not the brightest of ideas, this.
Gathering my voice, “You’ve been here before, right?”
“In daylight,” Mercy said, faltering. “High noon.”
“It must look better then.”
“Well, it looked safer, shops open, traffic, you know, cops.”
“This is what Tansi warned me about?”
Mercy frowned. “Tansi wasn’t built for this patch of God’s earth.”
“And we are?”
I surveyed the adjacent buildings. A pawnshop with oversized signs: CALL ME LARRY! RADIOS & TOOLS HIGH PRICES PAID! BUY & SELL. PH. MI 2021. A storefront window cluttered with motley goods. LUCKY BOY HAMBURGERS. RUTH’S GRILL COCKTAILS.
“Well, what should we do?” Mercy asked.
I caught my breath. “Which apartment?”
Mercy pointed up. “In front. The second floor. The one with the lights on. She’s home.”
“How do we know she’s alone?”
“God, I never thought about that. I just hope Jimmy’s not there.” Mercy looked at me. “You want to leave?”
I shook my head, resolute. “I’m never coming back to this neighborhood after tonight.”
Mercy smiled. “It’s not, I suppose, dangerous. It’s just…poor.”
“Not much consolation, I fear. And we’re really not dressed for this.” We looked at our fancy dresses, the jewelry. “We look all wrong.”
“Maybe they’ll think we’re working girls.”
“We are working girls.” I grinned. “I look like an aged madam out on the town.” A pause. “Let’s go.”
“You want to stay in the car?”
“No, I wouldn’t miss this conversation. Carisa Krausse has loomed a little too large in my imagination these past couple days. I need to place a face to—to the madness.”
The building was quiet. On the first floor, a radio blared from a back apartment. A Spanish station, a soap opera perhaps, with slammed doors and breaking glass. Then a male voice, a tenant’s gruff baritone. But I was confused by the interior: the hardswept foyer, the polished but discolored old ceramic tile, with long-abused art-nouveau designs; the nicely
“It’s barely,” I glanced at my wristwatch, “eight o’clock. Civilized people are just sitting down to dinner.”
***
But Carisa’s neighborhood silenced me—blocks of sad, dilapidated buildings, seedy, ill kept. I’d glimpsed New York’s Bowery over the years, shook my head over the vacant-eyed winos bundled in mission-house overcoats. But this Skid Row was numbing, block after block of what looked like sagging flophouses, shanty hotels, pawnshops with weathered signs. As Mercy’s car cruised into the area, I observed panhandlers, hookers, lost souls leaning against walls, or hunched over. “It’s really called Skid Row, this area,” Mercy told me. “Or the Nickel, because much of it centers on Fifth Street. Los Angelinos avoid the area—notorious for crime, drugs. Look.” She pointed to a man staggering off a sidewalk. “It’s like a big stereotype,” she said. “A Warner backlot for a James Cagney movie. Angels with dirty faces.”
I frowned. “A stereotype is sometimes nothing more than the redundancy of truth.” Mercy looked at me. Third Street. Fourth Street. Street after street, fading daylight, shadows settling in.
Flickering neon sign on a corner bar: H RRYs, the A missing. That alarmed me. A cardboard sidewalk shelter, a man’s feet visible. Eight-thirty at night, the streets eerily still, souls shuffling along, trancelike; yet the night seemed noisy, violent. The echoey tintinnabulation of jukebox music from deep inside a tavern. Then, as we idled at a light, snatches of a fierce husband-wife spat filtered through thin walls. The sobbing of a child—or maybe it was an alley cat in heat, hidden behind a shabby fence. The clamoring of a distant late-night freight train; a truck bumping over a broken street, headed to the warehouse district. Mercy parked her car in front of a three-story building, and we sat there. An old man staggered by, bumped into her fender, and I started. Not the brightest of ideas, this.
Gathering my voice, “You’ve been here before, right?”
“In daylight,” Mercy said, faltering. “High noon.”
“It must look better then.”
“Well, it looked safer, shops open, traffic, you know, cops.”
“This is what Tansi warned me about?”
Mercy frowned. “Tansi wasn’t built for this patch of God’s earth.”
“And we are?”
I surveyed the adjacent buildings. A pawnshop with oversized signs: CALL ME LARRY! RADIOS & TOOLS HIGH PRICES PAID! BUY & SELL. PH. MI 2021. A storefront window cluttered with motley goods. LUCKY BOY HAMBURGERS. RUTH’S GRILL COCKTAILS.
“Well, what should we do?” Mercy asked.
I caught my breath. “Which apartment?”
Mercy pointed up. “In front. The second floor. The one with the lights on. She’s home.”
“How do we know she’s alone?”
“God, I never thought about that. I just hope Jimmy’s not there.” Mercy looked at me. “You want to leave?”
I shook my head, resolute. “I’m never coming back to this neighborhood after tonight.”
Mercy smiled. “It’s not, I suppose, dangerous. It’s just…poor.”
“Not much consolation, I fear. And we’re really not dressed for this.” We looked at our fancy dresses, the jewelry. “We look all wrong.”
“Maybe they’ll think we’re working girls.”
“We are working girls.” I grinned. “I look like an aged madam out on the town.” A pause. “Let’s go.”
“You want to stay in the car?”
“No, I wouldn’t miss this conversation. Carisa Krausse has loomed a little too large in my imagination these past couple days. I need to place a face to—to the madness.”
The building was quiet. On the first floor, a radio blared from a back apartment. A Spanish station, a soap opera perhaps, with slammed doors and breaking glass. Then a male voice, a tenant’s gruff baritone. But I was confused by the interior: the hardswept foyer, the polished but discolored old ceramic tile, with long-abused art-nouveau designs; the nicely
Similar Books
