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Two easels, one empty, the other with a half-completed painting on it, are set up on one side of the room. Most of the other side is overtaken by a collection of what I’m tempted to call junk. Plastic milk crates overflow with metal objects of all shapes and sizes, random chunks of wood, pieces of broken glass, bins of twisted wire, and assorted other materials.
On the long worktable sits an abstract sculpture made from many of those items. Its form is both disturbing for its many jagged edges and sharp protrusions, yet sublimely elegant in the way all of its pieces somehow combine to create a thing of beauty.
“I try to keep everything pretty chill around here,” Lita informs me, catching me looking at her work. “This is my studio, but I lease out space on a short-term basis to other artists to help cover my rent, which is ridiculous, even for this section of town. Normally I only let people I know do this, but since my mom and Rosa are friends, I told her I’m willing to make an exception with you. I guess.”
I glance at Mrs. Vargas in question. “When you said you were calling in a favor to get me an appointment today—”
She lifts her shoulder. “My niece adores you and she said you needed help finding someplace to work. That’s what favors are for.”
“I charge two-eighty a month cash, plus a month’s deposit for a copy of my key,” Lita says. “If that sounds good, we’ll settle things up, then you can come in whenever you want, set up your shit, and work here as often as you like.”
It does sound good. It sounds pretty great to me.
“I’ll take it.”
I can’t tell if the quirk of her pierced eyebrow means she’s happy or disappointed. I hand over most of the cash I tucked into my cross-body bag before I left the penthouse, and she hands me a tarnished key for the door.
As I slip it into my pocket and Mrs. Vargas steps away to respond to an incoming text, Lita points a tattooed finger under my face, then delivers some terse instructions for how she expects me to conduct myself when I’m using her studio.
“No squatting in here. No screwing in here either. And absolutely no fucking stealing. Clear?”
I nod. “Yeah, of course. Has that been a problem for you before?”
She narrows her eyes at me, and I clear my throat before she decides to change her mind about this whole thing.
“Right. You don’t have to worry about any of that with me. I promise.”
Without responding, she pulls her phone out of the back pocket of her shredded black jeans and starts tapping the screen. “Cell?”
As I rattle off my phone number, her colorful head tilts up at me.
“Pennsylvania area code? I grew up in Philly.”
“Ah.” I force a smile at the mention of my home state. “Small world.”
For what isn’t the first time, I wish I’d have had the forethought to get a New York number as soon as I moved here. I wanted to make it easy on my mom, so I kept the old number she knew by heart. The one I also registered with the prison on the day she was processed and locked away.
“Okay, all set.” Lita gives me a faint nod, then taps something on her phone. Mine immediately buzzes with an incoming text. “That’s the code for the building access. Half the time, my asshole neighbors leave it open, but just in case you ever come here and it’s locked, punch 9-3-2-7 to get in.”
“All right. Thanks.”
Mrs. Vargas and I head out a few minutes later, pausing to say our goodbyes down at the street.
“Can I give you a ride somewhere, Avery? I’ve got a client meeting across town in a few minutes, but I’ll be happy to drop you at the subway station.”
I glance up at the clear afternoon sky and shake my head. “No, thanks. It’s right up t
he street and it’s such a nice day, I prefer to walk. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to see what’s around.”
After she waves and heads off for the parking garage a couple of blocks away, I set out on a leisurely stroll for the subway station. This Spanish Harlem neighborhood seems a world away from the upscale blocks of the Upper East Side, but the change of scenery is refreshing. These sidewalks are lined with modest mom-and-pop retail shops and local eateries that tempt with everything from tacos to teriyaki.
Up ahead on the next block, a small grocery with fresh fruit and produce on display outside catches my eye. I walk that way, and pause under the red awnings to peruse the containers of ripe strawberries and aromatic oranges. It all looks so good, I can’t resist picking up a few things to take home with me.
I’m not in the store more than ten minutes when my phone rings. Juggling my hand basket of groceries in one arm, I glance down at the display. Private number. I rarely ever answer them. Everything in me urges me to ignore this one too.
But it could be Lita. It could be someone from the prison infirmary calling about my mom. It could be anyone. Yet down to my marrow, I know it isn’t just anyone, even as I swipe the lock screen and bring the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
