The rain stopped a while ago, but the clouds still linger like ebony puffs of smoke from a chimney—making everything darker. Lights from Skyscrapers flicker against them and they’re as close to stars as we’ll get. It’s a colder evening than the night before, forcing me to hug my hoodie tight while walking to the BART station. I almost forgot I was waiting for Angie to call when my pocket buzzes.
Psycho Killer, run away, illuminates the screen and I take a deep breath before answering.
“Angie.”
“Hey, handsome.”
“So what’s the word?”
“Take a look to your left,” she says, and my stomach twists.
Sure enough, when I glance in that direction, she’s waving at me from inside an orange Volkswagen Bug. I skip around a few puddles on the sidewalk, then jog across Market Street, weaving through cars. How she managed to find parking on such a busy road is beyond me. Cars are honking when I realize she’s double-parked—blocking traffic. She seems to give zero shits as her fingers fly across her phone. I jump into the passenger seat, but she doesn’t glance up. Her focus is on whoever she’s texting.
“Sweet ride.”
“Thanks. It was my father’s.”
“Shouldn’t we get moving?”
“Just a sec...” She holds up a finger. “I’m talking to my source. We’re gonna meet in Hunters Point.”
“Why there?”
“Scared?” She cocks a brow. “The area is pretty much gentrified now, so no need to worry about getting shanked. Plus, that’s where my source lives. You cool with that?”
“I’m not a chicken shit. I was just wondering why there of all places.”
“Right.” The honking continues, so Angie cranks her window down, extends her hand, and flips everyone the bird. “Let’s blow this taco stand, handsome.”
Shifting the Bug into gear, we get rolling.
∆∆∆
The building we’re standing in front of looks as if it’s survived an apocalypse. What’s worse is the apartments beside it probably rent for three thousand a month. At least.
Hunter’s Point was once the most dangerous place for a Black man in San Francisco, maybe even Oakland, but with the tech boom, every nook and cranny has gentrified the fuck out. This is why there’s a trendy coffee shop across the street while dated cars bumping local hip hop zip past, and the faint scent of marijuana carries on the wind.
Angie presses her index finger on the intercom attached to the building, and her nail polish is still chipped. She’s the only woman I know who doesn’t have a fresh manicure every week.
“What?” She glares.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “Just wondering why your nails look like shit.”
“And I thought I was shallow...”
“Just saying.” I shrug again. “Most women like their hands to look nice.”
“Most women? Then you haven’t been around many. Having perfect nails is the least of our worries, and if it is a huge worry, then that woman needs to reexamine her priorities.”
“I meant no off—” But Angie holds up her hand, cutting me off when the intercom crackles. A voice carries through the speaker, but it’s hard to tell what they’re saying. “Frank, just buzz us in for fucks sake!”
The door whirs and Angie barrels her shoulder into it. We step inside the building and my eyes go wide. I’m thinking the shitty exterior is to ward off riff-raff because the lobby has glossy marble flooring, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a gold elevator. Angie hits the letter P on the buttons, so it’s safe to say this Frank person lives in the penthouse.
It’s a short ride to the top, with the building only having five levels. The elevator jolts when we land at our destination and the doors slide apart, but a gate is blocking our path. Impatient as ever, Angie starts banging on the metal.
“Franky, let us in!”
There’s a loud clink-clank before it rolls open and then a woman almost as tall as me is standing there with arms crossed.
“I was feeding my cats. Have some patience, Angie,” she says and adjusts her black-rimmed glasses.
Tattoos cover her arms and I’m digging the horror shirt she’s wearing. She must be this Frank person’s girlfriend, which makes me wonder when he’ll make his appearance.
“Who’s your friend?” She nods towards me.
“Franky, this is Miguel. The guy I was telling you about.” Angie motions to me and holy shit, consider me surprised.
Franky isn’t a dude!
“Oh. The guy, guy.” She spins on her heels, a cascade of brunette hair swaying behind her. “Follow me.”
We step out of the elevator onto polished stained cement resembling marble with veins of golden color. The space is huge. Definitely triple the size of my apartment and I’m only in the living room. It’s dark as fuck too, with midnight blue walls and black and white accents everywhere. Countless candles flicker on flat surfaces in a honey glow.
Is this Batman’s lair?
There’s an open concept kitchen to my right and a gigantic flat-screen TV hanging to my left above a black fireplace with glass rocks blazing in the pit. At the moment, the tv is being used as a security camera displaying several building angles.
Franky escorts us to a huge U-shaped sectional parked in the center of the room with a shaggy white area rug. If I were her, I’d fuck on that thing every chance I get. My eyes sweep over her body—yep, I’d bang her.
“Sit,” she says—no, orders.
However, Angie doesn’t seem to mind as she sprawls on the chaise part of the sectional as if she’s waiting for one of us to have our way with her. My spine shivers. Because the things she did in bed last night...
I'm honestly surprised my drunk brain could keep up and I didn't suffer from whiskey dick.
“This is what I’ve got.” Franky slides a folder across the glass coffee table and I realize, I still don’t know why we’re here. “I just hope you know the price is double since Richie Reddy is high profile.”
“High profile?” I perk up.
“He’s third down on the heroin totem pole. So yeah, high profile,” Franky answers, her face unamused. “You’re lucky I’m good at what I do. Anyone else is too clumsy and would get caught.”
“Right.” Angie nods and slides stacks of green bills across the table. “That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”
“Wait.” I whip my hand out. “I’m paying.”
“No, my piece of shit ex-husband is paying. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Franky snags the money before we change our minds and leans back, her slender shoulders sinking into the pillowy, gray, micro-suede couch. City lights twinkle through the wall of windows across from us, reminding me we’re in a bad neighborhood and it’s gloomy out.
“I’m surprised I don’t hear any of the outside noise.”
“I paid for bulletproof glass,” Franky mumbles, counting the bills.
“What made you want to live here?”
“I needed a warehouse, it was for sale, and cheap.”
“You own this building?”
“Yep!” she says, placing the stacks of cash on the coffee table as if it’s a deck of cards. “Everything I need for my line of work is right below us.”
“Like a sexy secret lair.” Angie bobs a brow and then turns to me. “So, handsome, gonna take a look or what?”
Blowing out a breath, I roll my shoulders back and flip open the file. These brown eyes of mine land on a glossy photo and immediately turn red. Fire blazes in my stomach.
What the actual fuck?
A tear-stained face stares at me. It’s Mindy’s beautiful brown complexion, bloodied and bruised. Attached to the photo is a police report. I scroll over the details and I’m not surprised to learn that Richie did it to her. According to the date, it was two years ago and the charges were dropped.
Releasing the folder, I rake my hands down the stubble on my cheeks as if it’ll erase the image of Mindy’s beaten face.
“Why would she drop the charges?”
“Richie is a powerful man” Franky replies. “Probably threatened her to drop it or...” She circles her finger over the folder. “Keep reading.”
Flipping the page, I stare at the photo of Richie Reddy in a shiny Lexus, dark aviator sunglasses, and a giant diamond-encrusted watch as he grips the steering wheel. He’s parked in an alley with a man dressed in a cheap suit leaning into the window. The hot pink Post-it note off to the side says, Detective Ramsey, with several underlines.
“Holy shit. Does Richie pay off SFPD?”
“I wouldn’t say the entire department, but Ramsey is definitely caught in Richie’s web. He’s a dirty cop. I dug through his history, and he’s got an impressive list of civilian complaints against him.”
“Yet he’s still employed?”
“He’s not the only dirty one. There’s a gang of them. Just keep reading.”
“Ok...” I scroll over the rest of the page and there are at least five cop names that stand out. According to Franky’s report, they help move heroin around the neighborhoods.
“So...” she leans forward. “What do you plan on doing with all of this juicy information?”
“Cut Richie’s dick off.” Angie shrugs.
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Oh come on. You know me better than that,” Angie tuts, her fingers gliding over the furry dome of Franky’s cat.
“Let me guess, you want to talk to Reina next?”
“Yes.”
“Who is Reina?” I glance between them.
Angie lifts the cat in the air and begins talking in a baby voice while nuzzling his nose with hers, “We’re gonna buy weapons. Oh yes, we are! Isn’t that right my little pussy? Yes, it is!”
“Weapons?”
“Of course.” Angie pulls the cat into a hug, the animal purring against her cheek. “How else did you plan on killing these fuckers?”