I pull out my wallet and show her my badge. She smiles kindly and hands me one of her grocery bags, then unlocks the door for me.
I hold it open for her to enter and once inside I hand her grocery bag back.
“Gracias,” I say.
She smiles kindly and walks toward the elevators.
I decide on the stairs, taking two steps at a time to the second floor.
When I get to the apartment door, I unholster my .38 and pound on it with a closed fist. When no one answers, I pound harder.
I’m about to kick the door in when I hear, “?Espera un momento! ?Un momento!” from a lady on the other side of it.
The door opens. She’s old and wearing an apron. I smell something good from the kitchen. It’s a small unit—open door to the kitchen, a living room area that opens up to a little dining area, and a small hall with two doors that I can see.
She’s startled at the sight of the gun and backs up, murmuring something that sounds like a prayer. I start to think that Playboy either gave me the wrong unit number or just made up some shit. A young Latina girl wearing men’s boxer shorts and a white T-shirt enters from another room. It takes a second, but then I recognize her as the girl who was walking with Miriam and had her hand in her purse like she was threatening me with something.
“?No, Abuela! No!” she screams, and runs over to try to shut the door on me, but I shove it open, throwing the girl back and almost on her ass.
I aim the gun at her.
Grandma shrieks.
“Anyone else here I should worry about?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
“I’m not playing, girl. Do something stupid and I’ll shoot.” And then I say, a little louder, “And anyone else who’s in the apartment.”
“There’s no one else here,” the girl says.
Grandma’s hands are across her chest.
“Have your grandma take a seat before she keels over.”
“Sentarse, Abuela,” she says softly, and helps her to sit on the couch, then puts her arm around her shoulder to comfort her. “No te preocupes, Abuela.”
“Where’s Miriam?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Fucking don’t move,” I say, and then go to search the apartment.
“I told you, she’s not here.”
I tuck my gun and sidestep so I can see in the kitchen. It’s clear.
“Please go. Please, mister,” she pleads.
“Get up,” I tell her.
“Please.”
“Get the fuck up,” I demand.
She stands. I grab her by the left arm and tug her toward me. Grandma stands like she’s going to defend her.
“Tell her to sit the fuck down before she gets hurt.”
“Siéntase. Siéntase, Abuela. Está bien.”
Grandma hesitates, but sits.
“Por favor, se?or,” Grandma begs.
“Cálmarse, Abuela,” I say.
I push the girl in front of me and walk toward the hall.
“Miriam,” I call.
No answer.
I pass one open door. It’s a bathroom. There’s another door to the right of that. It’s partially open, so I kick it softly with my foot to open it all the way. I look in. It looks like Grandma’s room. The sliding door for the closet is open and the bed is neatly made, but the covers hang all the way to the floor.
“You go in there and lift the covers so I can see under the bed.”
She obeys. I look down, but there are just a bunch of shoe boxes.
“Get the fuck back here.”
I grab her arm again and start moving toward the bedroom.
“You’re going to get us killed,” she says. “Please, mister.”
I walk to the other room. It has two single beds. On one of them is a girl on her side, tucked under the covers.
Seventy-eight
I have the Latina girl sit on the other bed, and then I walk over to the side of the bed where the other girl is facing.
I know it’s Miriam, but her face is pale and sickly. There’s caked vomit on the pillow by her mouth and on the sheet.
I gently nudge her by the shoulder.
“Miriam. Wake up, girl.”
She doesn’t move.
“What’d they do to her?” I ask, pulling the covers back. She’s in a nightgown. I gently pull the gown up to expose her upper right thigh. She has a birthmark that looks like Australia.
“They gave her some heroin, said that it would calm her down, but she’s doesn’t do that stuff. I think she’s OD’ing.”
“No fucking shit.”
I keep a hand on my gun just in case, but I lean down, and with my free hand I brush her hair from her face and lift her eyelid. After that, I check for a pulse. She still has one, but barely.
“Why didn’t you call a fucking ambulance?”
“I can’t. They said I can’t. She just needs to sleep it off.”
Man, drugs make people stupid as shit. I should know because I’m tempted to search her apartment to find her stash and take it for myself.
“You don’t let someone OD’ing sleep it off, you dumb twat.”