Floating City (15 page)

Reluctantly, the three women agreed. I rode back with them and got them settled in with some hard-earned vodka-and-Cokes. Out on the street again, drained and hammer-eyed, I went looking for a cab.

•   •   •

T
he hospital discharged Carla two days later and she returned to her parents' house. When the other three women and I dropped by that afternoon to see how she was doing, the cuts on her face were still stitched and covered with bandages and the bruises on her arms had ripened to an eggplant purple. “I used that knife just like y'all told me,” she said. “Cut him
real
good.”

But her bravado had a brittle quality. We could tell she was still scared. Anxiety and fatigue covered her like an invisible film.

At the hospital, she said, she'd told the nurses she'd been beat up by her boyfriend and begged them not to call the police. But they did. If it hadn't been for Father Madrigal, the cops would have spread the story all over the neighborhood. At least he convinced them to be discreet.

Not that it would do any good. “He's going to come after me,” she said.

No, he won't, we all assured her. The police would catch him first.

“I've been getting calls . . .” Carla said, trailing off. When the women dug it out of her, it turned out she had given the guy her number. He was calling and hanging up. It had to be him. And he knew about the apartment too. The one thing Vonnie had feared had now come true.

“You told him?!”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, 'not exactly'?” Vonnie demanded, suddenly furious.

“I didn't give him the
address.
I just said, you know, it was down at this end of the street.”

Angela looked devastated. “He knows the street?”

I couldn't help thinking about how different things could be for women in the sex trade. A regular escort service required some information from clients, a real telephone number at the very least, and the legal pretense of being an “escort” made working with the police more possible. But most of those women were white. For minorities and immigrants working on the streets or on their own, few such protections existed. The devastated expression on Angela's face came from realizing that the apartment didn't give them much safety either. I knew that the psychological toll of trying to change their lives and failing would be even heavier than just accepting their immigrant plight, and I wondered how long it would be before Angela just gave up—on the apartment, on their dreams, on everything. The problem was that there were now many others depending on her courage.

Carla looked up. “Um, do you think I could stay there? While I'm recovering, I mean?”

She was afraid to stay with her parents. They had just found out that she'd been selling her body and she was afraid of what they might do—especially her father, who could get violent.

•   •   •

B
ack at the apartment, the women debated. “That guy has our address,” Vonnie said. “I know this girl. I'm sure she bragged about how nice it was.”

“Word's going to get out this place ain't safe,” Cincy said. “We got people who tell other people. Like, we have twenty people just from that factory over near the bridge. If one of them comes up
here and that man breaks in, then it's over! He goes back and tells everyone, 'Hey, I was fucking one of them and some boyfriend came by, all jealous and shit.' Won't nobody come around here no more.”

Vonnie steered the conversation back to Carla's request. “She knows the rules,” Vonnie said. “And we're not breaking them because she got herself into this stupid mess. No one hangs out here unless they're making money.”

Not only that, but having Carla recover at the apartment would make it impossible to bring clients there. She would have to stay with her parents, regardless of the risks.

By the end of the week, though, they were missing Carla's income. Despite all her difficulties, she was the best earner among them. And she was always good for her share of the rent and expenses. To keep her slot open, they would have to work seven days a week, and there was still laundry, shopping, cleaning, and all the rest. They would have to find somebody new, at least for a while—but who?

“Gloria?”

“Maria?”

“I like Kusha, that Russian girl. Doesn't even drink.”

A knock on the door announced Father Madrigal, come to make a somber announcement. I took his hat and coat. He agreed, after much persuasion, to sit down at the table and accept a plate of pork, rice, beans, and plantains, but he didn't pick up his fork. “I want you to think seriously about what happened,” he told them.

The women stopped moving and looked at him. With his elbows on the arms of his chair, he rubbed his hands over and over, gathering his thoughts between his palms.

“You came into each other's lives for a reason,” he continued. “Not just for your needs, for money and shelter. You came because you were
called
to each other. I want you to think about that.”

He paused. The women looked from one to another and then back at him.

“And I want you to think about your obligation to Carla,” he added.

Vonnie moved her chair suddenly. She lit a cigarette and walked over to the window, shaking her head. “Father, I know where this is going, but I can't do it.”

Angela, Cincy, and I sat quietly.

Father Madrigal began rubbing his hands again. “Well, I realize you are all under many pressures. You may not be able to do anything, and I understand why Carla can't stay here. But she was hurt badly. She is your partner and your friend. And she's in a dangerous situation at home.”

No one said anything. There was nothing anyone could say. It was all true.

There was a shelter for victims of domestic abuse, Father Madrigal explained. He had spoken to the manager already. But it would cost some money.

“How much, Father?” Vonnie said, looking miserable and furious at the same time. “
How much?”

This was the first time anyone had ever used a harsh tone with Father Madrigal. He looked at her, more puzzled than offended.

“I'm sorry, Father,” Vonnie said softly.

Father Madrigal raised his hand. “This is hard on you. I know. But her needs will not be permanent needs. The room is $350 and the church will cover her meals.”

Angela spoke quickly to take the floor from Vonnie. “Father, we'd be happy to pay. It's just that we are also struggling.” She looked at Vonnie, then at Cincy, then back at Father Madrigal. “But we will find a way,” she said.

Father Madrigal nodded. Without another word about it, we ate, talking of Carla's recovery and events in the neighborhood. Then Father Madrigal rose and said he would like to say a blessing.
We all lowered our heads. “Holy Father, I call on you in the name of Jesus to bless each of these women and to guide them in their struggle. Give them healing, and the love that every child of God deserves.”

I heard a sniffle but didn't want to raise my head. I think it was Vonnie.

“I'll return in a few days to see how you are doing,” the priest said, taking his hat and coat. “Be safe.”

When his steps had faded, Cincy let out a sigh of relief and Vonnie poured herself another drink. “I don't know how we're going to do this, Angela.”

Angela didn't reply. She moved the fork around her half-eaten plate of food.

Cincy said what was on everyone's mind. “We have to find somebody else.”

Vonnie opened the window and lit another cigarette. “I'm worried about that man,” she said softly. “I mean, right now he could be in one of the cars down there.”

Angela looked up. “Please! Like we don't have enough to worry about.”

“I'm worried,” Vonnie said. “I am. If she really cut him . . .”

They were always nervous about their safety around white men. Wasn't the law always on their side?

•   •   •

A
few weeks later, I dropped by again. The women had been trying some of Carla's tactics. They visited local bars in pairs so they didn't look so much like hookers. They almost never approached men directly, using Carla's contacts with bartenders and security guards.

“Some of these young boys look like they just left home,” Vonnie said. “You can't come on to them like whores.”

Angela laughed. “We just spend hours with them, drinking.”

“They ask, 'Do you know any gang members?'”

No luck. Not one of them wanted to come back to the apartment with them. Angela sighed.

“Carla could get these boys. She's got the look they like. When they see her, it's like going to the jungle or something. It's dangerous, so they take a bite. But I look like their cleaning lady. They don't want to fuck their cleaning lady.”

By the time another month had passed, they arrived at a crossroads. They had interviewed at least twenty women in their old neighborhood, but none of them had Carla's ability to cross boundaries. All were intimidated by the white hipsters. Finally they decided to try a white woman, even though Vonnie had reservations about “going white.”

“A white woman might take over and start running everything,” she said. “Then we'll be working for her.”

But they narrowed it down to a Bulgarian who was living down near Coney Island. She was thrilled to move closer to the center of town.

Then they went to tell Carla. But she had news for them.

“I'm joining an escort service. In Manhattan.”

She'd appreciated all their help, she said, and she would pay them back. They were stunned. For the first time, Angela seemed defeated. She was going to have to bring in strangers. They might help bring in the income, but could they be trusted? And what about Carla? Would Carla be okay without Angela to keep her under some sort of gentle control? But Angela couldn't answer these questions. She had to move on. The rent had to be paid. What was she going to do?

A few weeks later, I met up with Carla and got her side of the story. I had to remind myself to stay neutral. She admitted that she didn't have anything lined up yet in Manhattan, but said she was determined to try. That's what the attack had taught her. “You know what? I'm beautiful and I'm young and I can do better than
getting my ass fucked by some cheap-ass guy in that cheap-ass apartment. I need to get out there and make some real money. This is my chance—maybe my only chance—and I'm going to take it.”

•   •   •

F
rom one world I flew to another like a shuttle through a loom. This night it was Shine again, picking me up near Columbia University in his sleek black sedan. We drove south to the heart of Midtown, parked in a paid parking lot, and went to an expensive hotel bar.

Inside, Shine and I both noticed the same thing right away. We were the only people of color in the place—among the clientele, that is. The busboys circling the tables and lounge area were Latino, and there was a black man behind the bar. Shine nodded at him and received a discreet nod in return.

We shrugged at each other as we took a seat. There was nothing to be said, so we just laughed.

The barman came up to Shine. “Good to see you again,” he said.

I shook my head and chuckled. All his talk about needing a wingman and the staff already recognized him. I half expected him to say “the usual,” but instead he ordered a whiskey on the rocks.

Work was getting out for the day, and the corporate crowd was starting to stroll through the doors. These weren't bankers. They were entertainment, media, publishing, a little younger and hipper but still with money. A few men had suits with no ties, but most wore cleanly pressed pants and trim-fit collared shirts. They drank to manufactured drumbeats and synthesizer melodies.

Shine was wearing a soft purplish linen shirt, untucked and spread widely over his dark blue Diesel jeans, and a smart Rolex
dangled off his wrist—not exactly corporate, but not quite “street” either.

“You win the bet?” the barman asked, cleaning a few glasses.

“Knicks lost,” Shine said. “Again.”

“Man, you don't learn, do you?”

There was a pause and then the barman said quietly, “I'll be on a break in about twenty if you want to grab a smoke.”

Shine nodded. Although he showed no expression, just the usual somber ghetto warrior face, I knew he was growing a little depressed about his inability to find customers. He knew he had to be patient, but the days without revenue were starting to pile up. So far the staff of this bar had been perfectly happy to “grab a smoke,” but hadn't introduced him to any potential customers. He knew he had to take the time to build relationships, but how much time?

“Hey, man. You're back,” a voice said. A young man with shiny black hair combed tightly back over his head (with a liberal dose of gel) came over and patted Shine on the back. “Michael. Remember me?”

The young man made a motion to the bartender for another round and gave Shine another pat. “Come over—join us. I'm getting killed in this game. You should take over.”

We looked over at a group of young white men and women, all standing with beers or pool cues in their hands, all fresh and new to the city, their youth contrasting with the stained wood and stained-glass lamps.

Shine hesitated and for once I could see through his armor. He was nervous.
Welcome to the club
, I thought.

“Yo, Chris! You want to play?”

Shine looked blank for a moment, then snapped alert. “Shit, that's me.”

I'd wondered what name Shine was using in his life outside the
ghetto. Now I knew. “Laugh at their jokes, Chris,” I suggested. “White people like that.”

“Fuck you,” he said, punching me on the arm and stepping past me toward the pool table. I swiveled my seat to watch him. He towered over the others around him, not just because he was taller. His presence simply took up more space. He was silent, they were chatty. He was still, they were jumpy. His black skin shone.