Page 42 of Antihero

Wanting to leave no trail even under an assumed name, Evan asked to be dropped off a half mile from Anca’s apartment. It was hard to draw a full breath in the Bronx. Few public spaces, heavy concentrations of projects and run-down mid-rises, dark red brick buildings rising block after block, uniform as Legos. But the night streets burst with vibrancy and anything-goes possibility that made Evan feel at home. Food stalls flaunted gourmet opulence that could outclass any trendy SoHo brasserie—jerk chicken and Jamaican patties, rice and beans, empanadas and arepas. Body shops and coin laundries, bucket drumming and three-card monte, the pleasing duet of Puerto Rican Spanish harmonizing with Dominican patois.

A worn but stately walnut front door served as the exhausted gatekeeper for the five stories of crumbling brick that composed Anca Dumitrescu’s building. The lock guard had been jimmied and remounted so many times that a half-inch gap exposed the dead bolt. Evan could have gotten through with a flathead screwdriver, but there was no need. He punched a random button on the call box, announced himself as a Solventry delivery man, and was buzzed through without a query.

The dusty transom leaked streetlight amber across the chipped tile foyer. Rickety doors guarded a tiny elevator that looked retrofitted to the building, a taped sign reading CIRCUIT BREAKER OUT. WILL FIX IN A.M. To the right, a blocky wooden staircase rose through L turns and square landings, the banister polished by a century of hands. Evan made his way up, blading his body at intervals to let residents pass—a babushka with a kerchief framing her wizened face, a storm of boys with baseball gloves, a woman in an electric-blue bodycon latex dress hauling a folded shopping cart.

Reaching the third floor, he moved down the dim hall. A few of the apartments had doormats; others displayed plastic plants. Number 33 had a simple wooden cross mounted above the peephole.

He knocked.

No answer.

Setting his ear to the door, he listened for signs of life within. Not even a vibration.

In his cargo pocket, the RoamZone gave its distinctive chime, caller ID showing Joey.

He answered: “Go.”

“Okay, there’s an incoming request for Devine and you put me and Rawlings in charge, so we’re calling you.”

“What is it?”

“Some plan afoot to short-sell the rial.”

“Why are you bothering me with this?”

“Because supposedly it’s a big deal. Something about undercutting Tehran? Looks like”—a rustle of paper—“the State Department is involved without being, like, involved-involved. And a bunch of Polish oligarchs want Devine to back it.”

“What’s Rawlings say?”

“Doesn’t know. And we don’t want to ask Devine obviously since he needs to, like, chillax and get his brain back online so he doesn’t destroy the known universe.”

“Then no.”

“But it’s supposed to counterbalance terrorism in the—”

“Joey. I’m busy. Let’s not worry about the rial. Let’s worry about Ms. Dumitrescu.”

Movement at the far end of the hall drew his attention. Hanging up, he flattened to the door, an instinct to diminish profile.

Backlighting threw a stooped shadow forward from the landing, a distorted form stretching across the worn carpet of the corridor.

And then she stepped into view.

Anca Dumitrescu stumbled off the top step and leaned against a wall, clutching her lower stomach. She was missing one shoe, the exposed foot swollen, her shredded dress haphazardly shifted around her torso, barely covering her. One shoulder was bare, her elbow pinning the fabric to hide her breast. Left eye swollen nearly shut, scrapes and bruises marring her legs and arms, hazel-brown hair a matted tangle.

Had she walked here from Harlem?

Shouldering into the wall for support, she staggered up the corridor toward Evan, not seeming to note his presence. As she drew nearer, he could make out a word penned in Magic Marker across the abraded skin of her cheek.

WHORE.

Stepping away from the door, he faced her, showing his hands out in front of him, the least threatening posture he knew how to assume. Only the moment before she reached him did she register his presence.

Her head tilted back to take him in, cracked lips parting but making no sound.

She collapsed and he caught her as she fell, striking the door with his shoulder, the cross falling off its mount and coming apart on the floor.

20Just the World