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But I’m barreling forward anyway.
Chapter 7
Angelo
“This might be a bad idea,” Sara says as she stares out the window of the car at the rundown rancher across the street. “Where’d you get this address, anyway?”
“Unlike you, I talk to people,” I say and kill the engine.
“I talk to people too.”
“No, you glare at them like you’re waiting for them to shut up.”
“I’m charming.” She turns and jabs a finger at me. “People like me.”
“People are terrified of you, but don’t worry, my frigid princess. I can do the talking.”
“Absolutely not.” She sits up straight. “This isn’t some street interrogation. We’re here on official business, which means we follow the law, got it?”
“Street interrogation?” I shake my head. “You really don’t get out much.”
“Don’t start that.” She pushes the door open and steps onto the street. “You coming?”
I follow her to the end of the driveway. We pause for a second and look around. The neighborhood is a rundown working-class place on the edge of the city with more weeds than grass and lots of chain-link fences. It’s a place I recognize, even if there aren’t many like it in Philadelphia. I know the kind of people that live in these houses, people existing paycheck to paycheck, always one mistake or bad turn away from total disaster. I know them because I’ve been them, because I grew up with them. It’s something Sara will never understand.
“Seriously, let me talk our way inside. Once we’re sitting down, you can go in on the lawyer bullshit, but let me get it started.”
“I don’t know why you’re so convinced that you can do this better than me.”
“Because—look at you.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
I run a hand through my hair and turn away, looking at the rundown rancher and the beat-up sedan in the driveway. “You look like your clothes are worth more than that car. No, don’t get me wrong, you look gorgeous. I can’t keep my eyes off you when you’re wearing those tight skirts.”
“Stop it,” she says through her teeth.
“You scream money. You look like a fucking lawyer, and yeah, I know, that’s the point, but that’s not a good thing out here.”
“Why are you so convinced that I’m rich?”
I glance back at her. “Tell me you’re not.”
“I’m not rich.”
“You ever miss an electricity payment? You ever have to choose between paying your phone bill or canceling cable for a month? You ever put back a loaf of bread because you couldn’t afford it?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know.” I walk slowly up the drive toward the front door. “I’m not playing some fucking pity party. I have plenty of money now. But when I was growing up, I had to make those decisions. I had to struggle, and life kicked my fucking ass day and night. You don’t know what that’s like.”
She says nothing as I step up to the door. I try the bell, but nothing happens. I give it a second before I knock on the door, pounding a few times before stepping back.
“I do know what it’s like to struggle,” she says softly as a dog starts barking inside. “You think my life’s been easy because I had money growing up, but you’re wrong about that.”
I look back at her and stare into her hard eyes, and she glares back at me daring me to question her. Instead, I only shake my head. “Tell me about it sometime.”
“Shut the fuck up!” someone inside shouts. It’s an older woman’s voice, rough from smoking. “Stop barking, you stupid fucking—” The door yanks open and she looks out at me with a cigarette dangling between her lips. Dark hair going gray and frizzy, dark red dress, pale skin lined with age. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”
She starts to slam the door but I talk fast. “We’re not selling anything. I fucking hate door-to-door salespeople. Scum of the fucking earth.”
That makes her pause. Her eyes narrow. “You political? I don’t vote.”
“No politics. My name’s Angelo and this is my associate, Sara. We’re here to talk to you about your job. You’re Sheila Vasquez?”
She gives me a long look and takes a drag. “What’s a nice-looking boy like you want to talk to me about that stupid motel for?”
“I’ve just got a few questions, that’s all. If it’s a total waste of your time, I’ll mow your lawn for a week, how’s that sound?”
She barks a rough laugh. “You’ve got a deal, but only if you do it without a shirt on. Gets hot out there, you know.”
“Deal.”
“Come in then, watch the dog, he’s a real piece of shit. Back off, Burger! Back off!” She pulls open the door, and Sara looks at me like I’m absolutely insane, but I don’t feel bad about lying to this toughened piece of shoe leather. She’s probably done worse.
