I circle around the block to find a parking spot. It takes me two revolutions before I find one. I park my Mercedes Benz tank and pray it’ll still be here when I come out, and if it is, I hope the windows won’t be smashed or my tires slashed.
Jamaica, Queens isn’t Fordham Heights, but this isn’t a safe neighborhood.
Without knowing the facts, I’m certain the rug has been pulled from underneath Harley’s feet in the year since I last saw her. Going into business isn’t for the faint at heart, but the dilapidated building staring at me screams last recourse.
Harley has fallen on hard times.
I cross the street and head towards the six-story apartment building annexed to two rickety houses. One of them has a roofcovered in a sheet of plastic, and both look in rough shape. Everything about this neighborhood is in rough shape.
I climb up the stairs, open the door, and enter the small lobby.
As I study the board to find Harley’s name, the door leading inside opens.
A black woman steps out, holding the hands of two little kids––a boy wearing the sports jersey to the local basketball team and a girl wearing a purple and white dress.
“Allow me.” I hold the door open for them.
The woman takes me in with an appreciative onceover. “Thank you.” She passes under my arm and drags her kids to the front door.
I step inside and survey my surroundings.
I shake my head.
How can landlords allow tenants to live in a dump like this?
I spot a sign indicating the access to apartment 1F.
I take the stairs to the basement.
When I open the door, a foul smell hits me in the face.
“Holy shit.”
I resist the urge to cover my nose with the lapel of my jacket.
I scan the numbers on the door until I find 1F.
I knock and wait.
A shadow passes in front of the peephole and the door flies open.
I’m greeted by a teary-eyed Harley.
My gaze flies over her head, searching behind her.
I frown at her. “What is it? Who did this to you? Why are you crying? Did someone hurt you? Who do I have to kill?”
“It’s… it’s…” Her lower lip trembles.
I place my hands on her shoulders. “Whatever it is, tell me. I’ll deal with it.”
“He… He… violated me.”
My eyebrows hit my forehead.
I don’t know who the motherfucker is, but he’s dead. “Who violated you?”Did Étienne and his accomplice get to her?
“The… The…”
