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“Good,” said Angel. “Them earrings, those are nice.”
“Thanks. Deebo got ‘em for me. Gold-plated, but they nice.”
“Take care,” Angel said. She wondered how it felt to fuck men for money. She didn’t really want to find out.This is life. You a hood bitch with nowhere to go, accept it.
“You better be here when I get back, bitch,” Shoney warned her. “If you run off Poboy’s gonna break my neck.”
“I’ll be here.” While it would be easy to run off and disappear across enemy lines, Shoney was right that Poboy would have her ass as punishment. Angel didn’t want to get her friend into trouble. Besides, if the opps saw her across the boundary, that meant death or worse.
Besides-besides, there was nowhere to go.
Women’s shelters, yeah.
She’d been to those with her Mama once upon a time.
Leave, leave…Then what?
Get a job…She’d have to leave Saturn Heights. Everybody she knew. Start over with nothing. The wage out there was fucking trash, and the rent these days was out the window. That’s what everybody said. That’s what Poboy said. But could she do it? She should do it. She was twenty-two. Her life was just passing by. Maybe fucking a man for money wasn’t the worst that could happen.
Angel began to draw a bird in a cage. She thought hard as her fingers made long, sure strokes in the sketchbook. Of course the real enemy was herself. The idea of walking out alone in the streets scared her worse than Poboy’s rages. Facts. She knew women who went missing, women who turned up around the strip with their bodies torn and their faces messed up. Shoney risked it every day, but she was right about the money. Paid better than Starbucks, no doubt…
Maybe…
A man came into the shop. Before going up to the counter he passed and glanced down at what she was drawing. Angel kept going without looking up. She got the idea of him from the corner of her eye, a skill you developed growing up in the hood. He was white, corporate, and obviously not from these parts. Nice watch. He should be careful walking around like that. She saw his car parked outside and her eyebrows went up a little. Fuck was Mark Zuckerburg doing on 39th?
The man went up to the counter and ordered a two-piece of fried chicken, a honey biscuit, fries, and a tall cup of sweet iced tea. Renee glanced at Angel as if to silently say, “You seeing this?”
Renee went to get the food. The man didn’t stand there waiting. He doubled back to where Angel was sitting.
“Hey, Miss. ’Scuse me.”
She looked up, unfriendly. “What?”
He was tall and blonde, shaped like a stork.
The accent wasn’t L.A.
Southern?
“Nice drawing,” he said. “How much?”
“Aw, um, what?”
“I want to buy that drawing from you.”
“Huh?” She said.
“You speak English?” He repeated the question in perfect Spanish. This close Angel could size him up better, and she swiftly judged he wasn’t no mark. He spoke like somebody used to getting his way— like a CEO or some shit. It threw her off and she found herself actually replying shyly, “I ain’t selling it, Mister.”
He smirked. “Come on. My food’s about done. Take it or leave it.”
“You serious?”
“How much, darling? Name your price.”
“A hundred,” she said boldly.
He handed her a hundred dollar bill. Angel glanced back quickly to see if Renee was watching. She wasn’t. A little breathlessly Angel said, “Uh, that ain’t a good one…I got better. See?” She showed him a couple other drawings. He studied them each intently before stopping her. “That one. I like that one the best.”
