Puff piece reporter, Brandy Alexander is determined to win the battle of self improvement.  She is eating better (or at least telling people she is) working out (if sparring with a guy who fishes doughnuts out of the gutter and eats them counts) and checking her impulsive behavior at the door.  But it's hard to stay on track when her own therapist gives her up as a lost cause.  What's even harder for Brandy is turning down someone in trouble. 

Enter Crystal, a young teenage runaway whose friend, Star, has gone missing.  Star was last  seen getting into a mysterious stranger’s car.  In her efforts to reunite Crystal with Star, Brandy quickly becomes immersed in the dangerous subculture of homeless youth. 

As Brandy gets in over her head with hostile street gangs, pimps and others who prey upon the young teens, she looks to the tough and savvy Nicholas Santiago to help her navigate the mean streets. 

Soon, Brandy realizes that there is more behind Star's mysterious disappearance than she thought, and enlists the aid of ex -boyfriend Detective Bobby DiCarlo to help her solve an ever-growing tale of intrigue. Add to an already full plate planning her best friend’s baby shower and nursing a broken heart, courtesy of Nick, and you’ve got the makings for the latest BRANDY ALEXANDER MYSTERY.

No Such Thing As A Free Ride by Shelly Fredman

Prologue

My name is Brandy Alexander and I have just flunked Psychology 101. Not the college course, the life course. More specifically, my life course. I’d been seeing a therapist once a week for a little over two months (seems I have “issues” stemming from some scary stuff that’s happened to me lately) but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

Now I’m willing to admit I may have been a tad resistant to the whole idea of talking to a stranger about my deepest fears. Okay, maybe more than a tad. But still, it kind of hurt my feelings when Dr. Sullivan asked me not to come back.

Oh, she was nice about it and all. I mean she didn’t exactly ban me from the building. She just suggested that perhaps I wasn’t quite ready to commit to digging deep into the bowels of my psyche. Wow, I was just hoping to learn how to sleep without a nightlight.

“But everyone will be so disappointed in me,” I told her, thinking of my best friends, Johnny Marchiano and the DiAngelo twins, Fran and Janine. (Just because a couple of people have tried to kill me on three separate occasions within the past few months, they thought I needed professional counseling. Sheesh, what worry warts.) “Can’t you give me some sort of Graduation Certificate or at least a note saying I’m not as crazy as they think I am?”

“Brandy,” Dr. Sullivan said, as I stared down at her Birkenstock sandals and “ethnic” jewelry, the wearing of which, I’m convinced, are pre-requisites to becoming a certified head shrinker, “therapy isn’t for everyone. Granted,” she added, “it is for most people,” the implication being that somehow I wasn’t normal, which was why I thought I was there in the first place.

Dr. Sullivan smiled. “Your anxiety is understandable given the things you’ve been involved with lately. Having gotten to know you these past few months, I have every faith that you will continue to put yourself in jeopardy without giving it a second thought, if it means helping someone who needs you. I suggest you put therapy on hold and invest in a really good self defense course.” She stood, signaling both the end of the session and my foray into self enlightenment. To tell you the truth, I was relieved.

Chapter One

Contrary to popular belief, the fastest way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach or even his genitalia. The way to truly earn a guy’s devotion is to buy him a hot new car.

I was standing on the curb outside my brother Paul’s South Philly apartment, holding the keys to a fully restored 1972, black Alpha Romeo Spider. I’d bought it off a guy named Ditto, who, miraculously had agreed to an installment plan, as I’m a little short on cash. Ditto even offered to throw in a couple of dates “to sweeten the deal,” but I told him he was far too generous as it was and I respectfully declined.

Paul stood beside me now, blindfolded and cranky in the June heat, little beads of sweat dripping off his nose and onto his mustache. My brother’s got an ’80’s retro look going. He thinks his mustache looks cool. I think he has a man-crush on Magnum P.I.

“Okay, Paulie, you can take off the blindfold.”

Paul whistled. “Nice set of wheels sis.”

“It’s for you.”

“What? W-w-what?” Paul is adorable, smart and sweet, but even without the remains of a childhood stutter he’s not always the most scintillating conversationalist.

“I got it for you,” I explained. “Look, I owe you a bar mitzvah present and I did sort of total your Mercedes. Just take it, okay?” I told him, handing him the keys.

“B-but, you can’t afford this,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “And besides, what are you going to drive? You said every time you get behind the wheel of mom’s old Le Sabre, it makes you crave Barry Manilow music.”

“Nick loaned me his truck while he’s away.” On Paul’s skeptical look I shrugged. “It’s a free ride.”

Paul dove deep into big brother mode. “There’s no such thing as a free ride, Bran. Nicholas Santiago is dangerous. Sooner or later it’s gonna cost you.”

I would’ve said, “It already has—my heart,” but that was waaay too corny. Instead, I said, “You’ve been talking to DiCarlo, haven’t you?”

Robert Anthony DiCarlo, Irish-Italian stud and former boyfriend was currently employed as a plainclothes homicide detective with the Philadelphia Police Department. We didn’t see eye to eye on the subject of Nick Santiago, sinner, saint and all around chick magnet.

Paul did an exasperated sigh. “So how’s therapy going?” he asked.

“Great! I passed with flying colors. Doctor Sullivan says I’m her best patient ever! I am the poster girl for sane living.”

“You quit going, right?”

“Something like that,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got to run. I’m late for class.”

Last week I’d signed up for boxing lessons at my Uncle Frankie’s gym. I’d told everyone it was in preparation for my upcoming bout with a wallaby at a petting zoo out in Pottstown. (I’m a puff piece reporter for a local news station and this was one of the many truly ridiculous stunts I perform to entertain viewers between “traffic on the Betsy Ross” and “weather on the nines.”)

The truth is I’d really taken to heart what Dr. Sullivan said when she gave me my walking papers. I have a slight tendency to act on impulse, which has gotten me in a little over my head with some pretty creepy characters. So far I’ve managed to survive on luck and instinct, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to add something tangible, like a roundhouse to my repertoire.

My cell phone rang just as I pulled into a staff-only parking spot at the South Street Gym. Being the manager’s niece has some perks. I climbed out of the granny-mobile (my pet name for the Le Sabre) and checked caller I.D. It was Franny.

I love Fran to pieces, but frankly, she’s been a little scary lately. Fran is eight and a half months pregnant, and her hormonal mood swings could be the subject for the next Stephen King novel. I put on my “happy voice” and said hello.

“Eddie wants to name the baby, ‘Caesar,’ she said in a tone that told me she didn’t exactly embrace the idea.

“And?”

“And I’m not naming my kid after a salad dressing. Besides, I just know I’m having a girl. A mother knows these things.”

I gave myself points for not gagging and grunted something non-committal.

“Oh, before I forget,” she continued, “My mom wants to talk to you about the baby shower. She figured since you’re my best friend you’d want to help her organize it.”

The baby shower. Damn, I’d forgotten. An entire afternoon devoted to playing those dopey games like “Find the Dirty Diaper and “Guess the Baby Mush.”

“Um, yeah, about that. I’d love to Franny. I really would. Only wouldn’t it be better if she asked Janine instead? Your mom has never exactly been my biggest fan.” All through high school Mrs. DiAngelo referred to me as “the bad influence,” until, after one particularly unfortunate incident involving the vice principal and a water balloon, when she upgraded me to “that damn Alexander kid.”

“If you don’t want to, Bran, just say so.”

Oh, jeez. This never would have been an issue with the old Franny. The old Franny would have made fun of any attempts to organize such a traditional, sexist party. But impending motherhood does funny things to the female brain. And not in a good way.

“I’ll call your mom tonight, hon. Man, I am totally looking forward to this.”

And on that happy note we hung up. I hiked my gym bag over my shoulder and entered the building.

Uncle Frankie is twelve years my senior, and up until I discovered, at the tender of fourteen, the charms of Bobby DiCarlo, I considered him to be the handsomest man on the planet. At forty, Frankie still manages to turn heads, which is why the South Street Boxing Gym is popular with the ladies.

I have always felt that my uncle (who had a few missteps along the way to becoming a productive member of society) and I were kindred spirits. The guy just “gets” me.

I found him at the back of the gym, standing in the doorway that leads to the rear parking lot. The lot was cordoned off. A two-inch thick blue mat covered a twenty by twenty area of the asphalt, where a martial arts class was in progress.

A group of teenage girls, dressed in various forms of workout attire, watched as the instructor, his back to me, demonstrated moves.

One girl, small and blond, with multiple piercings hung back against the gate, taking in the instruction with complete focus. She was dressed all in black—not the best choice for a sultry summer afternoon, but who am I to judge people on their fashion sense? My entire wardrobe consists of jeans and a tee shirts.

I walked toward Frankie and waved. He waved back at me and cut across the room to greet me.

“Yo, midget brat,” he said, settling his arm across my shoulders. “C’mere for a minute. I want you to meet somebody.”

The instructor glanced our way as we approached. I recognized him and my jaw dropped. Tall, dark and muscular, with Chanel 6006 sunglasses resting on top of his head, Alphonso Jackson looked every inch the bad-ass operator he was.

I’d first met Alphonso a few months ago. He rides shotgun for Santiago, and he’s bailed me out of a jam or two at Nick’s request.

Alphonso really likes me. I can tell by the way he pretends I’m a pain in his behind.

He sauntered over to us and grinned, settling his shades over his eyes.

“You’d better run while you can, bro,” he advised Frankie. “She may not look it, but this one is trouble.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Frankie laughed. “She’s my niece.”

“Ooh, my condolences.”

“Uh, fellas, if you can’t say something nice…” I interjected, “can you at least wait until I’ve left the room?”

I was surprised to find Alphonso teaching a class at the gym, especially since Nick owns a martial arts studio on Spring Garden. Turns out my uncle and Alphonso have been friends for years. They met at what my mom used to refer to as a “social club” (when Paul and I were within earshot) but in actuality was the clink.

“Your uncle asked me to do him a favor,” Alphonso told me. He’s one of those civic minded do-gooders.”

Well, at least one of them learned the error of his ways. The jury’s still out on Alphonso.

Although the gym is technically for boxing, Frankie’s “significant other,” Carla, talked him into offering a free self defense class geared toward local teenage girls. She said she thought it was important for them to know how to take care of themselves, and, judging by the hormonal gymnastics of local teenage boys, it seemed like a good idea.

I went off to spar with a kid from the neighborhood named Jimmy the Rat, an unfortunate moniker he picked up last year after he dropped a doughnut down the sewer, fished it out and ate it. I wasn’t really crazy about sparring with Jimmy, but there aren’t many boxers out there who’re short enough for me to pair up with. I’m five feet two if tip toes count.

Alphonso was just finishing up his class when I got through. I was sweaty, slightly smelly and my hair, mouse brown and poker straight on a good day looked like I’d tangled with an electrical outlet and lost. He took the opportunity to comment on how nice I looked. I just prayed he didn’t snap a picture on his cell phone to send to Nick, wherever the hell that was.

Nick took off for parts unknown, about three months ago, under mysterious circumstances. As virtually everything about Nick is a mystery, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. What did surprise me is how much it hurt. How much it still did.

The girl in black was just leaving. I looked over at her and smiled. She slid her eyes downward and took off, a grimy backpack hanging from her shoulder. As she turned, I caught a glimpse of a tattoo nestled under her left ear. I think it was some sort of bird. It was hard to tell, as it looked like it had been drawn by a singularly untalented six-year old.

Frankie came up next to me and caught me staring at her.

“She’s been to every class,” he said, “but she never gets any closer than the gate. I tried to talk to her once and she told me to ‘fuck off.’ Nice, huh?”

I laughed. “Well, what did you say to her?”

My uncle shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Something really offensive like, ‘The class is free and you’re welcome to join in.’”

“Maybe she was just having a bad day.” I stared at her retreating back. By the looks of her, I bet she’d had a lot of them.

Alphonso walked me to my car. “How come you’re not using Nick’s truck?” he asked.

“I told you when you dropped it off, I don’t need it. I’ve got a perfectly good set of wheels right here.” I patted the hood for emphasis and the side view mirror fell off. Crap.

I caught the mirror before it hit the asphalt and stuffed it into my pocketbook. “So, how is Nick, anyway? Where’d you say he was again?”

“I didn’t.” Alphonso grinned.

I sighed and he cut me a look that bordered on pity.

“You’re jonesin’ for him, Alexander.”

“I am not!” Oh god, I so am!

Alphonso peered at me over the tops of his sun glasses and shook his head. “Whatever you say, chica.”

Unhh!

Having worked out at the gym for an hour—okay, technically, it was only forty minutes, the last twenty were spent faking an ankle injury to get out of doing “reps”—I decided I deserved a treat, so I stopped at the Acme on the way home and picked up a couple of pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. I guess I could’ve bought just one, but they were on sale, and I figured it would have been fiscally irresponsible of me not to take advantage of a bargain. As an American, I feel it’s my duty to stimulate the economy.

I got home just in time to grab the only available parking space on my street. My house is the last one on a block of rowhomes built in the ‘50’s. I live in a mostly Italian neighborhood where kids grow up being able to spell the word “macaroni” before they can utter “mama.”

My mother was born and raised in South Philly in a Roman Catholic household.

My Jewish father grew up a few blocks away. They met one Yom Kippur when my dad sneaked out of my Bubbie Heiki’s house to stuff his face at a local bakery. My mom was there buying dessert for her family’s dinner that evening and they met over the cannoli counter. The rest, as they say, is history.

My octogenarian neighbor, Mrs. Gentile, was waiting for me on the porch as I got out of the car with the ice cream. She had just finished hanging a moth-eaten five foot wide American flag from her front door. Smaller flags graced either side of her azalea bush. That was going to pose a problem for my dog, Adrian, who liked to pee there when Mrs. Gentile wasn’t looking.

Philadelphians are big on ornamental holiday displays. Valentine’s Day is greeted with the same fanfare as Christmas or Halloween. My neighbor considers it a mortal sin (or at the very least an affront to the neighborhood) not to participate in the festivities. I felt a fight coming on, as I had not yet decorated my side of the porch with the requisite Fourth of July adornments.

“Hey. Girlie.” It’s a little game we play. Mrs. Gentile acts like she’s forgotten my name and I pretend I don’t want to push her down the porch steps.

I sighed deeply and smiled. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Gentile.” I held out the ice cream to illustrate the terrible rush I was in to get it into the house before it melted, only Mrs. Gentile thought I was offering it to her and she made a grab for it. I wasn’t quick enough and she latched on for dear life.

“I prefer pistachio,” she grunted, and before I could think of a snarky response, she turned and walked back into the house taking Ben and Jerry with her. Unhh!

I hopped back into the car and drove down to the 7-Eleven. They were out of everything except Drumsticks, and, while I’m not all that picky, I do have some standards. I ended up driving practically into town before I could find another two for one special.

On the way back to my car, I spied a group of white teenagers hanging out in the parking lot. They ranged in age from about fourteen to twenty, mostly boys, with a smattering of girls, all with enough metal facial piercings to shut down an airport. They all had backpacks, jammed full of unimagined crap. One girl carried a pitbull puppy in her arms. They were loud and obnoxious, hassling people for spare change as they went into the store.

A few people stopped and dug into their pockets for change. Most got that fixed stare in their eyes, acting as if the teens were invisible, and kept on walking.

Pretty soon the store manager came out and yelled at the kids to “get the hell out of there,” but I guess they didn’t want to get the hell out of there, because no one made a move to leave. Well, no one except the manager, who apparently had anger control issues. He disappeared back into the store, returning thirty seconds later with a .38 caliber pistol and a mouthful of curse words that would make a drunken sailor blush.

My first instincts were to “get the hell out of there” myself, reasoning that this was a good time to learn to stop sticking my nose into other people’s business. But I seldom listen to reason—one of my many imperfections. I punched in 911 on my cell phone and then headed back toward the manager.

“Hi there,” I said, ignoring the gun he held tightly in his hand. “Do you have any TASTYKAKES? I didn’t see any on the shelves.”

“I just got a new shipment. Haven’t had time to restock yet. Look, I’m a little busy here.” He waved the gun in the air in case I missed it the first time around.

I looked over at the teenagers and sighed. “Y’know, guys, this man is just trying to run a business, and I’m sure getting shot wasn’t on your agenda today. How about you just—go?”

“This is public property,” challenged a tall kid in leather. “We’re the public. We have every right to be here. Do you have any spare change?” he added.

I probably shouldn’t have laughed, but it was funny. I slipped my hand in my pocket, extracted a buck and handed it to him.

“Listen, the cops will be here any minute. Why not save yourselves some trouble and just leave before someone gets hurt.”

A blond haired girl came up behind Leather Boy and began tugging on his sleeve. She looked younger than the others, pale and vulnerable. I knew her. It was the girl from the gym.

“Let’s go,” she whispered.

A cop car pulled into the parking lot and two officers got out, one in uniform, the other dressed in faded jeans and a tee shirt. The one in full cop attire was Mike Mahoe, a six foot four transplanted Hawaiian with an easy smile and congenial disposition. He headed toward the manager while the other one hung back, eyeing me and doing a slow shake of his beautiful, Black Irish-Italian head.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” he muttered, and since it was rhetorical I didn’t bother to explain.

“Yo, nice to see you too, DiCarlo. By the way, I was the one who called 911. I should at least get some credit for that.”

Bobby’s face broke out in a slow grin. “Well, that is an improvement. It’s good to hear you’re using some common sense for a change.”

I smiled back. “I think I’ve exercised a great deal of common sense lately. I dumped your sorry butt, didn’t I?” Well, technically, he dumped mine, but that was ages ago. Recently, we’d had a reunion, of sorts, but we both realized that the timing or whatever wasn’t right and we agreed to keep it strictly platonic, at least until the dust settled in our mutually crazy lives. That didn’t mean we stopped caring about each other though. I loved Bobby. I always would. And I knew in my heart he felt the same way about me.

“So what started all of this?” DiCarlo asked, jerking his head sideways as the manager handed his gun to Mike. Slowly, the teens began to disperse.

I filled him in, looking over at the small blond girl. She caught me staring at her and quickly moved away.

“Bobby, those kids seem so…I don’t know …lost. Are they homeless?” Philly has more than its fair share of runaway youth. Some are locals, but a lot of them end up here from various places like small farm communities in the Midwest. Coming from a loving if somewhat neurotic family, I couldn’t conceive of anyone choosing the streets over a home with three square meals a day and a roof over their heads.

Bobby frowned and I could feel his concern. Maybe he was thinking of his own little girl, a sweet little two-year old named Sophia. “I’d say most of them. A few might be weekend warriors—y’know, posers who like to hang with the really hardcore street kids.” He rubbed his hands roughly over his face. DiCarlo had seen too many of these kids face down in the gutter, victims of abuse and neglect.

“Well, why don’t the cops pick them up and find foster homes for them? Or at least take them to the shelters. Isn’t there one on Callowhill Street?”

Bobby grinned again, only this time there was no mirth behind his eyes. “You’re asking for simple answers to complicated questions, sweetheart. I wish it were that easy.”

On the ride back to my house I thought about what Bobby had said. Why wasn’t it that easy? Some of those kids were mere babies. Surely, they’d be better off back with their families or in foster care than out on the streets. How bad must their home lives be to choose a dumpster over their own beds? The thought stuck in my brain and wouldn’t let go.

When I got home, I headed into the kitchen to grab something to eat and found my kitten, Rocky, sitting on top of the counter, swiping tomatoes off the window ledge. She looked up when she saw me, gave me the once-over as only a feline can and knocked another tomato onto the floor. It landed with a splat. My dog, Adrian, a twenty pound furball with a water fountain tail, appeared out of nowhere and began lapping up the tomato goop. I thought about stopping him, but then I’d have to clean it up myself.

Well, now that all the tomatoes were gone, I guessed I didn’t have to make a salad with my dinner. I’m trying to eat healthier these days, only all the stuff I really like comes wrapped in foil with the word Hershey imprinted on it. Self improvement is hard work. It involves a lot of exercise and denial and… leafy greens.

My mother called while I was eating. She and my dad live in Florida, and ever since she discovered the joys of “rollover minutes,” she’s been burning up the airwaves with free long distance calling.

“I’m worried about you,” she announced, my mother’s signature way of saying hello.

“Why are you worried? I’m fine.” My signature way of saying, “Hi back at’cha.”

My mother exhaled a long suffering sigh. “Brandy, it’s a Saturday night and most single women your age are out on dates. Doesn’t Janine know any nice unattached men she can hook you up with?”

I assumed she meant the 1960’s version of the term “hooking up” and not the X-rated one of the new millennium. Either way, Janine didn’t know any nice men, period.

“Mom, I’d love to talk now, but I’m right in the middle of cooking dinner.”

“You’re cooking?” she asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice.

“Yes, I’m cooking. As a matter of fact, I made a lovely meal. Roasted chicken, baby new potatoes, steamed asparagus and peach cobbler for dessert.” Okay, that was a lie. I nuked a Lean Cuisine.

“Listen, Mom, Paul is thinking about signing up for “J Date.” He’s dying to talk to you about it. You should give him a call.” (I know. I’m a terrible sister. Even buying him a car won’t square me away on this one.)

My mother pondered this a moment. Isn’t that a Jewish dating service?” Devout Catholic, Lorraine Alexander was none the less thrilled to hear that at least one of her children wouldn’t die alone. She hung up on me and called Paul.

Fran sat on the floor and leaned forward. Her feet were planted on the ground, legs spread, knees up. I sat behind her, supporting her considerable weight. Swelled beyond all reasonable proportion, Fran’s normally slender five foot nine-inch body looked like she’d swallowed a zeppelin. I held her steady while she exhaled.

The Lamaze instructor, a serene, soft spoken woman in her early thirties walked around the room bestowing smiles of encouragement upon poor, unsuspecting mothers- to-be. I counted the breaths between imagined contractions and sighed. “Are you sure you want to go “natural,” Fran? My mom tells me it really hurts.”

The instructor cut me a dirty look and patted Fran on the shoulder.

Fran grunted as she struggled to turn and look at me. “Brandy, I want my baby to come into this world knowing her mother suffered horribly for her, so that I can throw it back in her face when she’s an adolescent and she’s going through those obnoxious teen years.” The ever efficient Franny always planning ahead.

“Do you know what really pisses me off?” she added, and being on a roll she didn’t bother to wait for a response. “While I’m here, spending my Sunday afternoon preparing to bring precious life into the world, where’s my husband? Off having a great time camping with his buddies!”

“Uh, Fran, Eddie’s in the Reserves. I don’t think—”

She cut me off. “How much did your mom say it hurts?”

“Well, it’s been twenty-eight years and she’s still talking about it.”

Fran pondered this. “I’m hungry,” she said at last. “Let’s go get pancakes.”

“Fine by me,” I shrugged. I stood and helped her to her feet. “Um, we’ll be right back,” I told the instructor.

“No, we won’t.” Franny interjected. “I’m getting an epidural and don’t anyone try and stop me.” We left amid a chorus of “Take me with you’s,” punctuated by an “Amen to that, sistah!”

I drove us over to the IHOP, but Franny couldn’t fit in the booth, so we ordered the breakfast special “to go”and scarfed our food down in the car. In an effort to eat healthy, I’d traded in my hash browns for fruit and then picked the crispy ones out of Franny’s container.

“I love breakfast food,” Franny announced, stuffing a strip of bacon into her mouth.

“Me too,” I agreed. “That’s what’s so great about being an adult. We can eat pancakes for dinner and our mothers can’t tell us not to.”

“Bran,” Fran said, suddenly, a note of panic in her voice. “What if after the baby comes, I turn into my mother?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Bran. I love my mom. But I can’t help but think that she was once young and fun, and then she had me and Janine and suddenly she became this thoroughly responsible person who would never dream of allowing her kids to eat pancakes at eight o’clock at night. Is that going to happen to me too?”

“Franny, stop worrying. You’re going to make a wonderful mom.”

Fran eyed me seriously. Well, as seriously as she could with maple syrup dribbling down her chin. “How do you know, Bran? Eddie and I didn’t plan this pregnancy. What if I totally screw it up and my kid ends up hating me?”

“That’s never going to happen, Franny.” But as the words came out of my mouth I flashed on the teens at the 7-Eleven. Had their parents worried about this too?

I dropped Fran off at Eddie’s mom’s house and headed over to Carla’s beauty salon. I’d gotten gum stuck in my hair earlier in the day, and I was hoping Carla had some magic formula to remove it without taking half my scalp with it.

The salon is located on Ritner, next door to a funeral parlor. Upon occasion, Mr. Kang, the funeral director will ask Carla to pinch hit for their hairdresser. Carla says it always makes her queasy, but just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still look your best.

Cars were already parked two-deep in front of the salon, so I’d pulled the La Sabre around back and left it alongside a chain link fence. Trash, blown by the wind, clung to the fence like prisoners attempting a jail break, reminding me that I wasn’t exactly in the classiest part of town.

It was almost closing time. I could see Carla’s retro-do beehive silhouetted in the window as she pulled down the shades. I knocked softly and called her name.

“Hey, hon,” she called out, opening the door for me. What brings you here?”

I pointed to the wad of gum. “Can you get it out?”

Carla’s magic formula turned out to be an ice cube. She rubbed it on my head and five minutes later I was Juicy Fruit free.

“Oh, thank you, Carla.

“No problem. Listen, hon, I’m glad you stopped by. I heard something the other day I thought you should know.” She tapped an inch long hot pink nail against her front tooth and expelled a reluctant breath. “Bobby had a date last night.”

“My Bobby?” I squeaked. “I mean, our Bobby?” Alright, I knew he couldn’t stay celibate forever. Just because things didn’t work out between us, didn’t mean he was through with romance. “So, who is she?” I asked, and hoped those were the words that came out of my mouth instead of, “I hate the bitch, whoever she is.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

I nodded, not sure at all.

“Tina Delvechione.”

“I hate that bitch!” Unhh. “What I meant was I’m very happy for them.”

“Honey, it was only one date, and anyway, John says you’ve been pining after Nick Santiago for the past three months.” So? I’m an equal opportunity piner.

“I know it doesn’t make any sense, Carla.”

Carla hugged me to her. “It makes all the sense in the world, sweetie. Bobby was your first love. The first is pretty special.

Carla was right, I reasoned. It was natural to feel a little bit jealous. Only—Tina Delvechione? Puhleeze! She’s been trying to get her meat hooks into DiCarlo since high school. It may have been just one date, like Carla said, but who knew where it could lead? By the time I left Carla’s, I had Bobby and Tina married with children. Well, I hope they’re not holding their breath for a wedding present.

I walked back to the car armed with a mini flashlight and a can of pepper spray—my constant companions when traveling alone after dark. Following the thin blue light, I groped the chain-link fence as I maneuvered around piles of urban rubble.

I reached my car, put the key in the lock and listened while a cat mewed softly in the distance. A trash can toppled over with a reverberating clang and I jumped a mile. And then the crying grew louder, more guttural, more human, and I froze, fear beating a pathway to my heart. I ripped open the car door and locked myself safely inside.

“It’s only a cat.” I breathed, cursing myself for letting my imagination run wild. I turned on the engine and hit the high beams, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the light.

Then I glanced over my shoulder to bust a u-ie, looked back and slammed on the brakes as a young, teenage girl staggered toward the car and collapsed in a crumpled heap on the asphalt.

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