Page 45

1998

Orchid led Star down the stinking alleyway, past bodies slumped in doorways and collapsed against dumpsters, the results of Mal’s Oxy and a recent delivery of heroin hitting the streets. Vermin scuttled out of sight as the women moved with speed and purpose, no sign of the trepidation that filled them both. Star was new to the streets, a sapling trying to thrive in the harshest conditions. Orchid was twenty-one: seasoned, hardened, inured to much of the violence and pain in this environment. But this mission was always dangerous. If the cops caught on to Orchid’s racket, she’d be put away. And not to juvie this time.

Lucy usually did these pickups. At seventeen, she was still a child in the eyes of the law, but after three years on skid row, she was tougher than a full-grown man, fiercer and more ruthless. She was quick and savvy and unlikely to get nabbed, but if she did, she’d spend a few months in youth detention, basically summer camp. And Lucy would never turn Orchid in. Her loyalty was without question. But she was aging out of the role soon and needed to be replaced. By Star, who was just fifteen.

Orchid insisted on handling the training, making the introductions. There was no room for sloppiness, no room for nerves or poor judgment. She couldn’t trust Star to protect her like Lucy would. If the cops got her, she’d crack eventually. She’d turn Orchid in to save herself.

At a battered metal door, they stopped. Orchid knocked, a staccato series of five taps. She and Star stepped back and waited. The door swung open, and Allan appeared. He’d grown heavier since Orchid first met him, scowl lines etched deeper into his doughy face.

“This is Star,” Orchid said. “She’ll be doing pickups from now on.” They exchanged nods, and then Allan thrust a white paper bag into Orchid’s hands.

“What have you got?” she asked.

“Expired antibiotics, antifungals, some blood pressure meds.”

“Nice.”

Star took the paper bag and tucked it under her jean jacket. Orchid reached into her front pocket for a wad of crumpled bills, but Allan stopped her.

“No money,” he said. “I need a favor.”

“What?”

Allan peered up and down the alley. No one was there, no one conscious anyway. “I need to get rid of someone.”

There was no need for explanation. “Who?”

“My wife.”

Orchid glanced at his wedding ring, tarnished with the years. Allan presented as a husband, a father, a grandfather. Not exactly a happy man, but a stoic one. He didn’t seem like the type to have an affair or to kill his partner out of jealousy or hatred. But Allan was filling Oxy scripts and selling contraband out the back of his pharmacy. He had layers.

“I can find you someone,” Orchid said. “What can you pay?”

“Ten grand. But it has to look like an accident.”

“Let me ask around.”

And then Star, with her tiny body, her courageous heart, stepped forward.

“I’ll do it,” she said.