The Divorcee Murder Club

Nueve ~ 9

               The rain stopped a while ago, but the clouds still linger like ebony puffs of smoke from a chimney—making everything darker. Lights from Skyscrapers flicker against them and they’re as close to stars as we’ll get. It’s a colder evening than the night before, forcing me to hug my hoodie tight while walking to the BART station. I almost forgot I was waiting for Angie to call when my pocket buzzes. 

Psycho Killer, run away, illuminates the screen and I take a deep breath before answering.

“Angie.”

“Hey, handsome.”

“So what’s the word?”

“Take a look to your left,” she says, and my stomach twists. 

Sure enough, when I glance in that direction, she’s waving at me from inside an orange Volkswagen Bug. I skip around a few puddles on the sidewalk, then jog across Market Street, weaving through cars. How she managed to find parking on such a busy road is beyond me. Cars are honking when I realize she’s double-parked—blocking traffic. She seems to give zero shits as her fingers fly across her phone. I jump into the passenger seat, but she doesn’t glance up. Her focus is on whoever she’s texting.

“Sweet ride.”

“Thanks. It was my father’s.”

“Shouldn’t we get moving?”

“Just a sec...” She holds up a finger. “I’m talking to my source. We’re gonna meet in Hunters Point.” 

“Why there?”

“Scared?” She cocks a brow. “The area is pretty much gentrified now, so no need to worry about getting shanked. Plus, that’s where my source lives. You cool with that?”

“I’m not a chicken shit. I was just wondering why there of all places.”

“Right.” The honking continues, so Angie cranks her window down, extends her hand, and flips everyone the bird. “Let’s blow this taco stand, handsome.”

Shifting the Bug into gear, we get rolling. 

∆∆∆

The building we’re standing in front of looks as if it’s survived an apocalypse. What’s worse is the apartments beside it probably rent for three thousand a month. At least. 

Hunter’s Point was once the most dangerous place for a Black man in San Francisco, maybe even Oakland, but with the tech boom, every nook and cranny has gentrified the fuck out. This is why there’s a trendy coffee shop across the street while dated cars bumping local hip hop zip past, and the faint scent of marijuana carries on the wind.

Angie presses her index finger on the intercom attached to the building, and her nail polish is still chipped. She’s the only woman I know who doesn’t have a fresh manicure every week.

 “What?” She glares.

“Nothing.” I shrug. “Just wondering why your nails look like shit.”

“And I thought I was shallow...” 

“Just saying.” I shrug again. “Most women like their hands to look nice.”

“Most women? Then you haven’t been around many. Having perfect nails is the least of our worries, and if it is a huge worry, then that woman needs to reexamine her priorities.”

“I meant no off—” But Angie holds up her hand, cutting me off when the intercom crackles. A voice carries through the speaker, but it’s hard to tell what they’re saying. “Frank, just buzz us in for fucks sake!”