Lost Ones (Bad Idea Book 2)

by Nicole French

  “And how the fuck do you know this?” My voice is sharper than I intend it to be.

  Now it’s Gabe’s turn to rub the back of his neck. “I might have walked her there last night. She was standing on our corner looking like a lost kitten. It was, I don’t know, like ten, eleven? Something like that? I just figured you’d want me to walk her to wherever she was going.”

  “You thought right,” I say. “Thanks. So you met her…the guy?”

  Gabe nods and makes a face. “Yeah. Dude was wack. Tall, pale, skeleton-looking asshole with glasses. He talked to her like he was her dad, all pissed that she missed curfew.” I must have a pretty awful look on my face, because when Gabe looks up, he actually takes a step back. “Sorry. You want me to stop?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s okay.”

  “He’s actually in one of my classes.”

  I stop. “Serious?”

  Gabe nods. “Yeah, my algebra class. But he’s always missing or leaving early, or else he’s on his phone, texting someone while the teacher talks. She fuckin’ hates him because he doesn’t listen for shit.”

  I snort, even though I probably shouldn’t take so much pleasure in that. But if I’m being honest, the guy is a little intimidating. He’s everything I’m not––smart, college kid, from a good family, probably rich. Way closer to what Layla’s family would want for her than I am.

  So yeah, it’s nice to hear he’s not perfect.

  “You think he’s into something?” I ask, thinking of Flaco’s comments about the guys on the block.

  Gabe shrugs. “I don’t know. But it’s weird how he’s always up and leaving. His phone buzzes and ‘boom,’ he’s gone. She said yesterday that he works at a club, but I don’t know, man. What kind of club business takes you out of class at nine thirty in the morning?”

  I frown. I don’t know where this guy works, but I’ve worked in nightclubs for a long time. It’s not impossible that Evita has errands for a manager first thing in the morning, but most people who work in the nightlife industry keep hours like bats. And I don’t know a single promoter who starts their job before noon.

  “Hey.” Gabe stops walking toward the buildings when he notices I haven’t followed. “You want me to keep an eye on him?”

  It’s tempting. But I don’t need my little brother getting involved with this guy, especially if he’s into anything bad. Gabe needs to focus on school. That’s it.

  “Nah, man, it’s okay. Thanks, though.”

  We jog back up the stairs to where Ma and Selena are finishing up. Alba is coming over tomorrow morning to help everyone clean the place. There’s no deposit to get back, but we don’t need to get slammed with an exit fee.

  Ma walks out of the kitchen carrying a box of dishes. The apartment is looking really bare. We got rid of the last of the furniture a few days ago, and they’ve been moving her things gradually uptown so as not to attract the suspicion of the landlord up there. The move is almost done; all that’s left is to take a few more boxes uptown and haul the rest to the Salvation Army. Then we clean and get the hell out.

  “Ay, bendito,” Ma remarks for the tenth time as she looks over the empty living room. It seems bigger now that it’s not crammed with furniture and the clutter of four kids. She’s been sighing like that for the last few days.

  “It’s hard to say goodbye,” she says in Spanish.

  My mother moved here when she was ten, so I’m pretty sure she could speak English if she wanted to. But for most of her life, living in the shadows the way she has, she’s kept to the community of people from Puerto Rico and other Hispanic countries that originally populated this part of Hell’s Kitchen, until one by one, most of them left, scattered across New Jersey and the Bronx as it became harder and harder to pay the rent in this part of the city. We’ve been seeing it our whole lives, especially after the police cleaned up the neighborhood. It was only a matter of time for us too.

  I walk over and put my arm around her shoulder, and Ma lays her head against me for a moment. She says nothing more, but I know what she’s feeling. She and Alba moved into the building when they both had K.C. and me in tow, and until I was eighteen, the apartment was under Alba’s name, just like anything else my mom needed legal identification for. But Alba moved out years ago, and eventually so did most of the other people. Things are changing. It’s time for her to change too.

  And she deserves more than this. More than living in a place that doesn’t meet housing codes and has a bathroom in the middle of the kitchen. More than moving from building to building like a fugitive. Always living in fear of being discovered. Constantly worried that one day, her habit of staying out of the way is going to catch up to her. I want more for my mother. More for all of us.

  Still, I get it. This was our home, for better or for worse. The scent of beans and rice, always cooking on the little stove, still lingers in the air. If I listen hard enough, I can hear the shouts of laughter when my siblings and I would chase each other around the room until one of us got a house slipper thrown at us.

  But I can hear other sounds too––the shouts and screams when my mother fought with David, Gabe’s dad, or one of the other shitheads who preyed on her vulnerability until I was old enough and big enough to tell them all to fuck off. It took threatening to take away Gabe and Selena and Maggie to get her to stop with those types, but she’s stayed good to her word, even now, when all of us are finally grown. Things are better; our family finally has a peace we rarely had when I was growing up. But all of us still bear the scars of those times, inside and out.

  I squeeze her shoulders and then take the last box from her. No matter what happens with my job, I decide then and there that after it’s all over, the next thing on my agenda will be to get my mother on the path to legal residency. And my brother and sisters––they have to help too. Plenty must have changed since she was told in the seventies she had no chance. It’s been over twenty years. She deserves more.

  ~

  By the time Gabe and I load the rest of the boxes into the truck, it’s close to dinner. Ma wants to stay one last night in the apartment by herself on the mattress that’s getting tossed in the morning, probably to say goodbye to the first place that was only hers. She didn’t have much time to herself––just a few months after I left and Gabe moved out. I can’t actually tell if she was happier alone.

  I still want to work out or do something to burn off some steam before my interview tomorrow, which will probably mean running up and down the Hudson until I get too cold to do it anymore, then picking up some food uptown before I get a good night’s sleep.

  “We’ll see you up there?” Gabe asks as he shuts the cab. Selena is waiting in the front seat, messing around on her phone.

  I nod and hand him the keys. “Yeah. See you there.”

  They drive off, and I take a final look around the neighborhood. I don’t know how much I’ll come back here anymore. Probably every now and then to see Alba, who’s really like my second mother. But beyond that…this is a goodbye for me too. Really, it’s a goodbye for all of us.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I answer it without looking, still stuck in my memories.

  “Hello?”

  “N-Nico?”

  The voice, small and tentative, cuts through the rumble of car horns and people.

  “Layla? What is it? What’s wrong?” I swear to God, if that motherfucker hurt her…I’ll kill him myself.

  “I’m fine,” she says, and relief floods me. “I just…I need your help.”

  “Where are you?” I demand, already jogging toward Tenth Avenue to hail a cab.

  There’s a long pause, and I wonder for a second if she’s joking. But then she answers, and I’m not sure if I heard her correctly.

  “Hunt’s Point?” I ask. “Is what you just said? That your boyfriend sent you to Hunt’s fuckin’ Point?”

  “Y-yes,” she says, and then rattles off an address. For a second I feel like I’m about to faint. Because L
ayla just told me she’s alone in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in New York, and I’m standing here like an idiot, miles away.

  “Don’t move,” I order as a cab pulls over. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  ~

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Nico

  Hunt’s Point is a weird neighborhood, with some buildings taller than my old seven-story building in Harlem, and others that are supposed to be single-family homes. The cab zips past a few clusters of people on the darker corners––dealers, some of them, a few gang members, and some lone women I’d guess are prostitutes.

  This part of the city is much more spacious than the narrow streets I grew up on, but the sly crime and deviance that hangs in the air reminds me of Hell’s Kitchen when I was a kid. It’s nicer now, but when I was little, the Kitchen was so populated with junkies and criminals that my mother felt safer walking us down the center of the street than the sidewalks. More than one kid I went to school with is already dead, having met an early end in a life of crime or drugs. Hunt’s Point has that same air of hopelessness and abandonment. It’s a feeling that’s getting harder and harder to find in the city these days, but still exists in a few pockets.

  The cab stops in front of the address Layla gave me––a pawnshop, where the neon “OPEN” sign flickers, orange and tinged with dirt in the twilight.

  “Thanks, man,” I say as I hand over the fare. “Can you wait a few minutes?”

  The cabbie, an older Russian guy who seems like he’s been doing this for a long time, looks at me like I’m crazy. “No.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Thanks again.”

  I push open the door to the pawnshop to find Layla cowering next to one of the glass cases while the owner, a short, fat dude with a trimmed gray mustache, stares at her like he’s not sure if he should smack her or feed her dinner.

  Layla looks up, and her big blue eyes flood with relief.

  “Hi,” she says in almost a whisper as I join her.

  “Hey,” I say, a little too sharply as I approach.

  I can’t help it. I sat in the back of that cab for twenty-eight minutes, twenty-eight minutes of texting her constantly to make sure she was okay, twenty-eight minutes for my worry to turn into about a million other emotions until it finally landed on anger, pure and simple. So now I’m fuckin’ pissed. I’m pissed she’s here. I’m pissed that she thought it would be a good idea for her to come to this neighborhood by herself. And I’m really fuckin’ pissed at the motherfucker who sent her.

  Everything about Layla sticks out in a place like this. It doesn’t matter that she has the same black hair and curvy body as a lot of the girls in these neighborhoods. Her privilege shouts itself in her big blue eyes that look at the world without any hardness, in the quiet polish of her clothes, her genuine leather shoes, and the gold jewelry that won’t rub off to brass or nickel in a few weeks.

  What the fuck was this guy thinking?

  Then it hits me: he knew exactly what he was doing. Motherfucker sent his naive, rich girlfriend here precisely because the pawnbroker would see her and say exactly what he says next.

  “She’s short.”

  He speaks Spanish directly to me, in a Dominican accent that I know Layla can’t understand yet because of the way he removes letters and even whole words. Don’t get me wrong. I’m impressed by the progress she’s made in less than a year. She’s smart and definitely has a knack for language. But as cute as it is to hear her ask “Where is my backpack?” in formal Castilian Spanish, she can’t understand the rapid-fire dialects you hear in New York.

  “You know Giancarlo?” the broker continues, still in Spanish.

  I shake my head. “No. But he’s gonna get to know me pretty soon.”

  “The cocksucker sent his girl here a thousand short. Don’t tell me it wasn’t on purpose.”

  I don’t argue with the man. He’s not the kind who will take no for an answer. He’s the kind of guy who probably has a Glock handy by the register, who’ll shout for a couple of dudes to hold you down while he rips your watch and anything else of value off your body. Jack-Me-Off knows this, which is why he sent his Bambi-looking girlfriend instead. And on some level, Layla knows this too; it’s why she called me to come get her.

  “What did he say?” she whispers, her blue eyes large and afraid. I hate that look. That look makes me want to break the neck of the fucker who put it there.

  I blink between the broker and Layla. She doesn’t notice the way my fists ball up, but he does.

  “Her watch,” he says to me. “I told her I wanted the watch, and everything will be okay. But she doesn’t understand.”

  “Did you try in English? She doesn’t speak Spanish.”

  “I told her.” The broker shrugs, which tells me his English probably wasn’t good enough to explain what he wants, and the conversation probably consisted mostly of pointing and yelling at Layla.

  I turn to where she’s watching the exchange, her arms folded around her waist. She’s scared, shrunken into herself. The sight makes me that much angrier, but I swallow it back with difficulty.

  “Baby, he needs your watch.”

  Her face screws up with confusion. “What? Why? I gave him the money.”

  I sigh, and the broker starts tapping his fat fingers on the glass.

  “El reloj!” he shouts, pointing at her wrist.

  “Oye, calma!” I snap, then turn back to Layla, who is clasping her wrist. “Baby, your man––”

  I trip over the phrase; it sounds so fuckin’ wrong out of my mouth. This dude’s not a man, not by any stretch of the imagination. And even if he was, the only way that fucking sentence works is with me. As in, your man is me. Nico. I, Nico, am your man. No one the fuck else, and especially not that piece of shit motherfucker.

  I clear my throat. “He didn’t give you enough money. He still owes a thousand dollars. The broker here says he’ll take your watch instead.”

  “What? No! There must be some mistake. Giancarlo said this would cover everything he paid for the TVs. They were for the club he works for, he said.”

  I have to force myself not to roll my eyes. I’d bet my foot Giancarlo––the name makes me want to vomit––owes money for something a lot bigger than some used televisions.

  I just shake my head. “No, baby. There’s no mistake. Layla, I think you should just give him the watch.”

  Layla’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she processes what’s happening. Yeah, I know, baby. Your boyfriend’s a dick. He shorted you on purpose so you’d get stuck with the bill, because he was betting no one would take advantage of your pretty, innocent face. He’s a cowardly fuck, and he was doing it to save his own ass.

  I hate that I can’t just pay the debt for her. But the shitty Casio on my wrist is worth maybe fifteen dollars, and I only have twenty more in my pocket. Nothing else on me is worth a dime.

  The broker lets out a growl and another machine-gun fire of Spanish, cursing Giancarlo. I don’t argue with any of it. But this guy is getting impatient, and soon he’s not going to care that Layla’s a sweet, innocent girl. He’ll get that watch, whether she wants to give it up or not.

  “Layla,” I say again, trying for a calmer tone. “It’s just a watch.”

  “But m-my dad gave me this watch,” she says. “It was m-my Christmas gift this year.”

  Shit. I can see her now, carrying this flashy piece of jewelry around with her, the one thing her father has done in six months to show her he cares about her at all. That’s another guy I wouldn’t mind punching one day because of the way he makes her look.

  I sigh and take her hand. “Layla.”

  I don’t have to say anything else. She can see it on my face. With eyes that water and a chin that quivers, she nods, then pulls off the watch and sets it on the glass in front of the broker.

  “G-good?” she asks him. “B-bueno?”

  He examines the watch, a delicate little thing that’s clearly well made. Then
he looks at her, a little bit of kindness written across his hard features.

  “Sí,” he tells her. Then to me: “Tell la blanquita she needs a new boyfriend. The one she’s got is bad news. And if you see that motherfucker, tell him he’s not welcome in my shop no more. Any bitch who has to send his woman to pay his debts for him wants a beating.”

  My fists curl tightly. I don’t want to think about beating this dude’s face. It’s too tempting, and Layla doesn’t need to see me like that.

  With a curt nod, I turn to Layla. “You’re good, baby. Let’s go.”

  ~

  Layla

  After Nico practically jogs us to the other side of the highway so that we are firmly out of Hunt’s Point, he calls a cab from the shelter of a gas station, and we ride in silence while the tinny voice of some kind of Middle Eastern music fills the air.

  Nico’s mad. He’s really mad. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel as I curl my fingers around my newly bare wrist. I still don’t completely understand what happened back there. I don’t know why the broker thought Giancarlo owed more money than he did. I’m sure there was some kind of misunderstanding, but when Nico told me to give him the watch, there was something in his eyes that told me not to argue. Nico was scared too. And that scared me more than anything.

  One day, my father is going to ask me what happened to my watch. Well, he’ll ask if he ever comes back to see me. A pang shoots through my heart at that thought, but I push it away. It’s another issue I’m so very tired of thinking about.

  It’s not until the cab comes to a stop much quicker than I expected that I realize Nico hasn’t told the driver my address, but his.

  “I can walk,” I say after we get out. “Giancarlo’s apartment is only a few blocks from here. I can wait there for him if he’s not already home, find out what happened.”

  Nico looks at me like I’m crazy. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely not,” he pronounces. “If you think I’m going to let you walk around by yourself right now, you are even crazier than I thought.”