Sacrifices by Jamie Schultz

point, though, she thought. This area was renowned as one of the roughest neighborhoods in Los Angeles, six square miles with over twenty different regions of overlapping gang turf. You could see the gleaming towers of downtown across the 5, but it might as well have been on another planet. She shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun and scoped out the graffiti on a crumbling block wall. Deadeye Flats. Krazy Eights, crossed out. Del Street, crossed out. A big number 7 somebody had drawn a giant dick over. R. I. P. Banana. More of the same. Gangs and sets, the names of dead kids.
    â€œI still think we ought to just hit the church.”
    â€œNo way.” She pointed at the graffiti. “This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where you want to be a stranger snooping around.”
    â€œThis is your hood, right?”
    â€œAre you serious? I don’t come down here no more.” She tried on a smile that felt thin and phony. “Ain’t shit worth stealing. Don’t worry. I just want to check things out, get the lay of the land a little bit. The guy I’m thinking of knows everything worth knowing down here. If he’s still around, he’ll know what’s up. Probably save us a ton of pain.”
    Nail nodded, but there wasn’t a lot of conviction in the gesture. Anna understood. She felt the same way about being here at all. She’d spent the first eight years of her life in this neighborhood, before winding up in the foster care system. Didn’t look like it had changed much. Three in the afternoon, and there were kids hanging out on stoops and hassling each other on corners. Not a lot of adult supervision. The meatpacking plant and the garment factory had closed down even before Anna had been moved out, taking most of the neighborhood’s jobs with them, and from the look of things, those jobs hadn’t come back. Everybody who could afford to leave had left. The remaining parents—moms, mostly—lucky enough to have work were probably over in the city or up in the Hills, cleaning houses or working the counters, and the rest were inside out of the sun, a healthy chunk of them pretending their sons and daughters were coming straight home from school.
    The place was a wasteland of cracked concrete and old brick, making a bad joke of the name. Doyle Gardens indeed.
    Anna looked Nail over one more time. Black tank top, army surplus cargo pants. No colors that would get him shot, so that was all good. He might get his ass beat anyway, if his luck was out. Not too many black guys around here, and some of the cholos might take exception to him. He’d said he was cool with that risk. Wouldn’t be the first time, he’d said.
    â€œHey, you carrying?”
    He shook his head. “Startin’ to wish I was, though.”
    She didn’t even know what to tell him. If things went to shit, it would likely be many against two, and a gun wouldn’t save them, but a little deterrent in case of a single punk might go a long way. Or escalate a situation that could have been calmed down. Or change a beatdown into a murder. She supposed he’d made the right call, but she still didn’t feel great about it.
    â€œWell, we’re here now. Let’s go.” She started across the street, and Nail followed. Eyes were on them the wholeway. This was the kind of place where everybody knew everybody. Unfamiliar faces were marked.
    A couple of guys under a lamppost shouted catcalls after her. Anger would have been close at hand anyway, but with the demon’s presence, it leaped forward like a huge animal.
    â€œFuck off!” she yelled back.
    Laughter followed, but they didn’t hassle her anymore. It didn’t matter. She wanted to waste every one of them, then go over and kick the bloody holes.
    I need to get this under control.
    There was nothing to do about it now, though. This whole stupid exercise was supposed to get it under control, or at least head