27. Messiah

"Shoe lady is still on our block," Constance tells me.

Shaking my head, I press the phone closer to my ear and sigh. "Well, at least you have some form of entertainment."

"It isn't entertaining when she screams about her blankets being too cold at one in the morning. Anyways, what about Boopie?"

"Nothing about Boopie. Same old shit as always."

"What about that girl?"

"Angel." I forgot I had told my sister about her. "Things are coming along."

"Ah, is she seeing how sweet you are under that scowl?"

"A bit," I smile. "She even stayed the night."

"Were you nice?"

I recall seeing the way my come splashed against Angel's cheek last night. That stuffie I had taken from her apartment smelled like her when I fell asleep with it. But I am not about to tell my sister that her thirty-six year old brother snuggle a stuffed bear all night and got a hard on because of it.

"Yes," I answer. "Even made her breakfast and dinner."

"She was there that long? You must not of spoke. If you did, she would realize you suck."

"Haha," I deadpan. "I do have something to ask you though."

"Shoot."

I glance around. There aren't many other visitors today. The room is nearly empty on my side, and I can't see how many people are on her side. I know there is likely a guard somewhere behind the glass and there is a camera watching behind me.

"I think she got hurt," I explain. "On the streets. I am not sure which ones. Since you have some experience–"

"Did she have a CEO?"

"I don't think so. Does the name River Morch ring a bell?"

She sucks on her bottom lip as she thinks. At only thirty-two, I can already see the crow's feet growing around her eyes. She has the same pale hair as me, but she is starting to show just as many gray hairs as me. This kind of life ages you pretty fast.

"No," she says. "Then again, not everyone on the street uses their real name."

I nod. Maybe I should do some more digging on River. Maybe I could strong arm Kevin into giving me some information about Angel's sister.

"If she was on the streets for any amount of time, I know someone who may have heard of her."

My sister leads me into her old stomping ground. I haven't visited these streets since I picked Constance up off them and we locked ourselves in rehab. The nostalgia that hits me is unexpected. I don't know the faces of the people walking around, but I know their lives. I know the kids sitting on a worn stoop likely have homes where the adults are either never around, only yelling when they are, and likely strung out when they are quiet. I am guessing a few have weapons of some description on them. I was twelve when I started carrying around a knife I found in my mother's room. By fourteen, I had my first piece on me whenever I left the house.

It is still early enough in the day that I don't see many women walking around. Constance told me I would likely find the woman – another bottom girl – at her place. I drive up to the worn looking house. Its shingles are patched and the once white door is now muddled with dirt and age. There is an old couch sitting on the front porch and a few loaded ash trays scattered around the railings. If there is a John in this house, I am likely about to be shot. I keep my hands out of my pockets to try and look less threatening as I knock on the door and take a step back.

A young girl answers the door, maybe only fourteen. She has a cigarette between her fingers and the smudges of old eyeliner around her eyes. She looks me up and down as she cocks a brow then shakes her head to silently ask what the fuck I want.

"I am looking for Tullia," I tell her. "She here?"

"Why?" she snaps.

"An old friend sent me."

The girl rolls her eyes and turns back into the house calling for Tullia. I see a woman cross through the den but she pays me no mind before flopping down on the couch. My instincts stay alert as I keep looking at the people around the street. They aren't paying me any attention which is a good thing.

"What?"

The woman that appears at the door is older than Constance. She has age spots forming on her wrinkled skin and her skinny arms are tanned from long days outside in the sun. She too has old makeup lingering on her face and her hair is tied up in a messy bun.

"Good day," I say. "I just had a few questions for you. Cons – Marigold sent me. I am her brother."

I know this woman likely wouldn't know my sister by her government name. They called her Marigold on the streets since she was a teenager. It was due to the honey shade of her hair.

"Marigold?" She looks me up and down and narrows her eyes. "Ain't seen her around in a while."

I nod, taking a step closer. "She is working on herself right now. She said you might know about someone that was on the streets for a while."

She stares at me through the screen door for a moment before opening it up and nodding her head for me to come in.