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  She lifts her hand, unfurling her tiny fingers one by one until they are splayed like a starfish.

  “Five, huh?”

  There’s a hesitation followed by a small nod. I get it. She’s not sure. I’m not either. When you’re born on the street, the days and months and years all blur together.

  “Okay. Do you shower? Cuz I can’t remember if I knew how to shower when I was five.”

  Her shoulders lift.

  “Bath?”

  After a second of hesitation, her head bobs. I reach behind her and plug the tub drain. I wonder how much water she needs.

  “You like a lot of water?”

  She looks uncertain but still won’t talk.

  “Do you know how to talk?”

  Another tiny nod and then, “yeah,” comes out in a whisper.

  “So shower or bath.”

  “Bath,” she says.

  “Got a name?”

  She rubs the tip of her toe into the tile. A word swooshes out of her mouth, but I don’t catch it. Not fully. New chance? Noosance. Oh hell no. Nuisance? I’m not calling her that.

  “Yeah, I can’t pronounce that,” I lie. “You got a nickname?”

  “Noosance,” she repeats.

  I rub a hand across my forehead. We’ll have to think of another name because I’m sure as hell not calling her a nuisance.

  “My name is Leka, but everyone calls me Monkey.”

  This time she shakes her head.

  “No? You don’t like that?”

  “No,” she says.

  “You don’t like that?”

  She shakes her head more vigorously. “It’s not nice. You’re nice.”

  I rock back on my heels. She doesn’t like Monkey? “I don’t love it either, but you’re called what you’re called. It’s not a fight I want to take on.”

  She presses her lips together as if she wants to say something but is afraid to.

  “What?” I prod.

  We stare at each other, but she doesn’t utter another peep. I shut off the water.

  “Hop in. And don’t drown.”

  I run into my bedroom and pull out a towel that I pilfered two apartments ago. That one was all furnished with towels and shit. No clothes, though. The towels were just for show. Afterward, I heard the mark complain on the phone that a prospective buyer must’ve lifted those.

  I’ve taken a few other things. Food, if I could find it. Towels, a couple of pans, plates, forks and spoons. I can’t have too many belongings because I’m carting this shit from place to place, but enough so it’s not like I’m living on the street. I hate that feeling.

  When I return to the bathroom, the little bit is in the tub. The too-big clothes I stole for her in a neat pile on the floor. She can’t really fold, but she’s tidy. I like that.

  I place the towel and a bar of soap on the toilet. “Sorry. I don’t have shampoo and shit. I just use the soap.”

  “Is okay,” she says, like I need reassuring.

  “Great.” I head out. At the door, I call over my shoulder. “I’m going to make some soup.” Cans of tomato soup and a couple of pieces of bread is all I’ve got here. I can’t keep much around in case someone wants to come and see the place. “Wash up and when you’re done come out.”

  I’ve barely got the can of soup dumped into the pot before she appears behind me wearing the oversized sweatshirt. Water drips down behind her.

  “Shit, girl, you scared me.” I peer down at the top of her dark hair, lying in little waves around her head. “You wash already?”

  She nods vigorously and points to the stove. I don’t have to ask what she wants. Her belly grumbles loudly. She claps her hands around her waist and folds over, embarrassed by the sound. Eating is more important to her than being clean.

  I rub my forehead. This poor girl is fucked up. The brief image I glimpsed of her scrawny body in the tub is seared into my head. I could count each individual rib. She needs more than me taking care of her. What do I know about little girls?

  I pour the half-heated soup into a mug and pull out a loaf of bread. I break the loaf in half and place both the bread and the soup on the floor in front of her.

  “Sorry I don’t have a table.”

  Surprisingly, she doesn’t fall on her food right away. Instead, she sits down cross-legged and gives me an expectant look.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I reassure her. “I’m eating the same thing.” I grab a spoon and the remainder of the bread and join her on the floor.

  I don’t waste my breath talking to her. Even if she was a talker, she wouldn’t be able to say a word. She’s too busy shoving food into her mouth.

  As I eat, I run through the few options I have for her. Beefer is the guy I report to. He’s got two little ones and is probably the best suited to taking care of this girl. But Beefer’s not happy with the two he has. He’s always complaining about how they’re greedy animals who’d bite off his hand if it didn’t hold the checkbook. That’s why he always has to fuck one of the girls from the stable.

  He still has to pay for the girls. It’s just at a discount. Everyone in the organization has to pay for their use of the girls except for the big guy. At least, that’s what the birds chirp about when they get together.

  I’ve never spoken to the boss. I don’t know that he knows I work for him. I’m too far down on the food chain. For now, that’s a good thing. But I know if I am going to stick around, I need to be good at something. I have to offer the big guy value. From what I’ve seen, if you want to wear the suit and eat at the table with the boss, you need to be good with money or good with a gun.

  I’m not good with money. I don’t have much, and at the rate I’m saving it up, I doubt I’ll ever have enough to buy my way to the table. But I can be good with the gun. I can be violent and cruel and harsh. It’s the only way to stay alive in this world.

  I consider the girl. She’s so fragile that a strong breeze would tear her apart. She’s not going to survive with Beefer. Stinky Steve’s kids are older than me. None of the other families that work for Steve would want to take her in either. They’d see her as baggage. Another expensive mouth to feed.

  Sensing my attention, she pauses, a piece of bread in her mouth. Haltingly, she pulls the uneaten portion out of her mouth and offers it to me. Yeah, there’s no way I can give her to Beefer.

  Besides, why does she need to go anywhere? I’ve kept myself alive since I was her age. I was on the streets since I was barely older than she is. If there’s anything I know how to do, it’s survive. I can teach that to her, right?

  She offers me the bread again.

  “Nah, I’m good.” I hold up my end of the loaf. “I got half, remember. And there’s more where that came from.” I swallow the rest of my soup and pick up her empty cup. After washing the dishes, I stick them in the drawer under the stove. It’s the one place most people don’t pull open.

  “Look, I’ve got to go and meet someone and get us more food.”

  She stands immediately. A bunch of crumbs tumble out of her sweatshirt onto the floor, crunching under her feet as she turns to run. I catch her frail, matchstick-thin arm. “Wait. You can’t come with me.”

  Her eyes widen and pool with water.

  Oh shit.

  “I’m coming back,” I declare. Her upper lip trembles. I crouch down. “I’m going to leave all my shit here with you, and I need you to protect it for me. Can you do that?”

  The trembling lip gets sucked in and she gives me a brave jerk of her head.

  With a sigh of relief, I stand. “I’m going to make a bed for you. Try to sleep while I’m gone.” I doubt she will, though.

  I lead her into a small bedroom—the one Mike says is for guests. I’ve got all my shit stuffed into a closet. The blanket will make a nice bed for her. I rearrange a few things and pat the bed of clothes with my hand. “Climb in. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay here and be quiet.”

  She gives me another of those tiny nods before
settling in. I close one of the closet doors, leaving the other one slightly ajar. Before I leave, I make a sweep of the apartment, cleaning up all signs that we were here—just in case there’s a surprise showing. I doubt there will be. This place hasn’t had any takers for a while. She should be safe.

  * * *

  It takes me twenty minutes to get over to Marjory’s Cafe where Beefer is. He’s sitting in a back booth with a girl who doesn’t look much older than me tucked under his arm. Her hands are under the table and Beefer’s face is flushed red. Could be the booze but could be the girl’s hands on his dick. Could be both.

  “Hey there, Monkey. You did good.” He slides a few bills across the table with one hand. The other is busy under the girl’s halter, fondling her tit. Close up, I now see that the girl is a little older, wearing a fuckton of makeup to disguise the marks of her drug use.

  I count out the twenties. There are five of them. I stuff the bills in my back pocket. Not much money, but I didn’t do much work either. Just standing around watching and then planting the listening device. That said, there’s no way I’m supporting myself, the girl, and putting any green away for the future doing these small jobs. Complaining about how much he’s paying me won’t get me a raise. He’ll slap me across my face and then withhold work until I come crawling back.

  He did that to a kid a month ago.

  “How do I make more?”

  “More what?” He pauses his fondling.

  “More money.”

  “A hundred isn’t good enough for you?” He pinches the girl’s nipple. “You keep working,” he tells her before turning his attention back to me. “I’ll have another job for you. Come back next week.”

  I pretend to think it over. “Okay. Maybe Rod has work.”

  Beefer sits upright, jolting the girl next to him. “You’re my kid,” he protests. Rod is Stinky Steve’s idiot cousin. The guy couldn’t hit a target five feet in front of him, bolted to the floor. Still, Beefer worries that Rod’s going to be promoted and then it’ll be Rod in this booth at Marjory’s getting hand jobs from drug-addled girls too young to know better.

  I remain silent. Better to look disinterested. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl lean over the table and take a snort. I hadn’t even seen the drugs when I walked in.

  With an internal sigh, I realize I could deal. There are kids my age that are trafficking in pills and meth. The turnover rate is high. In the past, it seemed like a good way to get shivved in some back alley, but I’m bigger now and the product doesn’t tempt me. I know it’s good money.

  “You.” He taps the girl on the shoulder. “Get gone.”

  She swoops down for another snort and then hustles off. I keep standing.

  Beefer waves a hand at the left-over drugs. “Want some?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Good kid. Keeping your nose clean is half the battle.” He laughs a little at his own joke. He jerks his head toward the seat opposite him. “Sit down.”

  I do as I’m told.

  “How old are you?”

  I try to recall whether I told him how old I was before. I don’t think I did. Still, best to hedge here. “Old enough.”

  He snorts. “That’s a politician’s answer. I’m guessing you aren’t more than twelve because you don’t sound like your balls have dropped yet, but Christ, you’re big for your age.”

  I remain silent.

  “Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.” He motions for me to lean in which I do. “Here’s the deal. We listened to the cop, and the boss doesn’t like what he heard. He wants the cop gone. You get rid of him and I’ll pay you five large.”

  My heart thumps madly and I’m glad my shaking hands are on my lap under the table where Beefer can’t see them. As coolly as possible, I say, “Is the boss hurting for money?”

  “No. Fuck no,” Beefer exclaims. “We’re the biggest operation on this coast. We’re rolling in it.”

  Then why the fuck are you offering me five Gs? Of course, I don’t hit him with that. Instead, I go for the ego again. “I heard the Tong gang pays a half million for one hit.”

  “A half mil—” He cuts himself off. “Look, kid, you want this job, the most I can pay is fifteen.”

  Fifteen thousand? I dig my nails into my palms to keep the surprise off my face. “I guess. If that’s all the boss can afford. How should it be done?” I ask, as if I’ve done this a thousand times before.

  “Execution-style.”

  I clench my back teeth to keep the dismay off my face. “When?”

  “Tonight.” He leans back, spreading his arm across the back of the bench. His expression says he thinks I’m going to fail.

  I slide out of my chair. “I’ll see you later.”

  3

  Leka

  “You’re wet,” she says when I creep into the spare room.

  I’m too tired to be shocked that she’s decided to talk.

  “Yeah, I took a shower.” Shooting someone in the face is surprisingly messy. I wasn’t prepared for the splatter. I will be next time. My stomach clenches. Next time.

  I rub a hand across my forehead and toss the sleeping bags I picked up onto the floor.

  “Hey, come on out. I got us some different shi—stuff to sleep on.” I’m too weary to wait for her to come out of the closet. Instead, I unroll the bags and place a couple towels under hers. Tomorrow I’ll get a pillow.

  I drop to my ass and wriggle down into the tube of nylon. The minute my head hits the floor, my eyes float shut.

  A few moments later, I feel the weight of her stare. I twist around and find her standing inches from my head.

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you—” She points toward my body. “Should I—” She wrings her small hands together. It’s weird hearing her talk. She must really need something.

  I prop myself up on an elbow. “You need to go to the bathroom? Hungry?”

  When she doesn’t say anything, I drop back to the bag. Little people are kinda freaky, I decide. My eyes drift shut again. I’m so fucking worn out. Pulling that trigger wasn’t easy tonight. I thought it would be. Don’t know why. It’s not like I thought it was going to be movie-like, but I didn’t think I’d still be tasting the copper of the man’s blood on my tongue hours later. I shudder a little and pull the corner of the bag up higher so the kid can’t see me. I don’t like looking weak in front of anyone. Not even a five-year-old.

  I sense, more than hear, her shuffle near. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her little ankles. Then her knees as she bends down. Then her— I lunge forward, grab her arms and jerk her into a sitting position. Bile shoots up my throat.

  “What the fuck?” I yell.

  She jerks back, stumbling and tripping over the sleeping bag I’d laid out for her. She draws her knees up, close to her chest, until all I can see is her little peanut head sticking out the top of the large sweatshirt, like a round jack-in-the box. Her body starts shaking.

  I crawl over to her, unsure of what to do. I run a light hand down her back.

  “Shit. I didn’t mean to shout at you,” I say. She trembles even harder, so I shift away. “I’m not mad. You just caught me off-guard.” Still nothing. “Can I get you something? Like a water?”

  I run a hand over my face. What in the hell do I do now? I probably scared the shit out of her. But to be fair, she scared the shit out of me. If this is the shit she was doing, no wonder she ran away.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I ask. Maybe I make her uncomfortable. She’s obviously been abused in ways that I don’t even want to think about.

  I’m about to take off when she turns and throws herself at me. Just launches herself like a rocket and all I can do is catch her. I stagger and then drop to my knees. She clings to me like a scared kitten I just saved from drowning.

  I pat her lightly on the back, getting angrier and angrier with each passing moment. Yeah, a lot of kids out there are abused. Most of the girls that walk
the streets probably were raped or assaulted or beaten at some point. I’ve got a couple scars on my back, but holding this tiny human as she sobs, part from fear and part from relief, makes me want to fish the gun I tossed into the river and put a bullet into every dick that I see.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I assure her.

  I’m not sure she hears me, but her head digs into my chin as she nestles close. I don’t know how long we sit there, but eventually her heaves turn to sniffles and then to snores. My legs are numb by then. I lift her up and stretch out. I try to lay her onto the sleeping bag, but she’s velcroed herself tight against me, even in sleep. I give up trying to separate us.

  Since she doesn’t weigh more than a bag of flour, it’s easy enough to hold her with one arm and unzip the two bags. I lie down on one and throw the other on top of us. She remains asleep the entire time.

  I’m out of my element. I haven’t had to care for someone other than myself for years. I don’t remember my parents. I assume I had a mom, but I don’t remember her. Some of the other kids that work for Steve talk about their shitty parents—often with a confusing hint of longing. Take Gerry Lester, for example. One minute the ginger is moaning about how he misses his ma and the next he’s whining about how she’d burn his arm with her cigs if he didn’t move fast enough to get her a beer.

  I drift off to sleep. I’d gotten sick after the cop killing, and as I was coming home, I wondered how I’d get the stomach to make my second kill, but I’m thinking it won’t be hard if I imagine it’s the person that hurt this girl. She’s a pure and innocent thing. No one should be hurting her. No one.

  * * *

  “Heard you offed a pig last night.” Gerry waggles his thick, peach-colored eyebrows at me. He looks like he’s got two caterpillars attached to his forehead and he tends to move them around a lot. It gives me the willies, but Gerry’s a decent guy, so I hide my response.

  As part of my day job, I work at Marjory’s. Who the hell Marjory is, I have no clue. It belongs to the Big Boss—the one that turns Stinky Steve into a slavering fool. There aren’t many customers here other than the ones that work for Steve. As I understand it, cash businesses like this one wash the under-the-table money clean. Marjory could lose money every year and Stinky Steve and his boss would still be smiling.