“Try not to lose that key, young man.”

  Ferrara looked at the caseworker and frowned. He didn’t appreciate condescending adults treating him like a baby. Even other Puerto Ricans treated them like they were stupid and he was tired of it. “My father has been away for three years,” he said as he pulled in the last plastic bag. “I am the man of the family until he comes back.”

  Deep inside, Ferrara knew his father wasn’t going to be found and wasn’t ever coming back, but for his mother’s sake he pretended her prayers would be answered. Mr. Notice ignored the teen’s outburst. “I’m usually gone at four, but I’m doing a double today,” he said. “If you need anything, please come see me.”

  His mother and sister sat on the bed, holding hands. They were Bo Peep’s lost sheep. The medium-sized bed was covered with a golden hued polyester spread that looked as though it hadn’t been washed in years. Beneath the itchy fibers, the mattress was bare. There were only two beds in the room, which meant his sister and mother would have to sleep together. The walls were painted pea soup green and from the corner of his eye, he saw a grey mouse dash along the side. In the corner was a rusty radiator, and in the middle of the floor, there was a large dried bloodstain. God only knows who had lived in that room before them or what kind of evil spirits they had released.

  Ferrara stuck his head into the tiny bathroom where the sink and shower needed scrubbing. Dried urine stained the toilet. He tasted the bile rising in his throat and he needed some fresh air. Opening the window, he leaned out and took a few deep breaths before finally calming down. Unfortunately, the window faced 8th Avenue, and exhaust and street noise filtered inside their room.

  The crazed din of the neighborhood’s bugged-out citizens mixed perfectly with the sound of horns beeping and street construction. Ferrara was amazed by the screaming neon, colorfully dressed hookers, stumbling drunks and other wildlife attractions. On the corner, two men fought savagely, until one of them knocked the other on his ass.

  “I’m going to get you and Patricia something to eat,” he told his mother.

  “You’re a good boy, Ferrara,” Carmen replied. Her head was bent and the black rosary beads were between her fingers. “God will bless you.”

  “Yeah, ma, I can feel his glory filling me up,” he replied in English so as not to disturb her with his blasphemy. Raised Catholic, he’d gone to church since his holy water christening when he was a baby. Nevertheless, after his father’s disappearance, the flames of his faith waned to the point of being extinguished. Although he was the man of the family, he was still a teenager getting used to the unfairness of the world. “Make sure you lock-up.”

  The cinderblock walls of the staircase were painted an ugly gray and covered with graffiti; hundreds of names and crude drawings scrawled in bright paint and black markers, the stink of piss hung in the air like an invisible urine cloud. He quickly ran down the steps and out the door. He stood in front of the hotel and looked around until focusing on Delany’s Deli across the street.

  Sandwiched between the Carter, another welfare hotel, and a bar called Sally’s Hideaway, there weren’t many people inside the store. Turning his head, the same pretty girl he’d seen earlier was sitting on a parked car. While there was no one in the driver’s seat, the radio blasted Public Enemy’s jam “Don’t Believe the Hype.” Her long, black hair framed her youthful face of a teenager, but the dangerous curves of her body were all woman.

  Delany’s was owned by a pot-bellied Black man with a thick beard. Wearing blue jean overalls, he was a kindly dude who looked like he might’ve once been in a biker gang. The store smelled like cat, but at least it was clean. With its air conditioner on high, it was the first cool place Ferrara had been all afternoon. Stepping in front of the deli counter, he saw a hand scrawled sign advertising turkey and cheese hero sandwiches for $2.00. He ordered three. “With lettuce, tomato and mustard, please,” Ferrara said.

  “Lettuce and tomato is fifty cent extra.”

  “Yeah, all right.”

  “You going to buy me a sandwich too?” a sultry voice behind him asked. Startled, he swung around quickly and saw the fine young woman who, just minutes before, was sitting on the car. “Hey, calm down. I was just kidding.”

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. You could get hurt.”

  “All right, all right. Damn, you a little on edge.” Her breath smelled of Juicy Fruit and cigarettes. “I’m Lupe Santana.”

  “I’m Ferrara.”

  “I saw you moving into the castle today. Where they send you from?”

  “From E.A.U. This is our first shelter. They were going to send us to Brooklyn Arms, but they sent us here instead.”

  “You lucky, man. Last year, I got chased by a rat at Brooklyn Arms,” Lupe laughed. “They got rats big as cats up in that bitch, for real. I’m from Brooklyn originally, do or die Bed-Stuy. Marcy Houses, I was a project princess, you know. You from Brooklyn?”

  “I’ve never been to Brooklyn.”

  “Never been to Brooklyn? Where you from, the moon?”

  “Puerto Rico.”

  “You came from that to this. Man, your peoples must be crazy to come here instead of staying there. Somebody should’ve told y’all these streets ain’t been paved with gold in years. I wish I could go to Puerto Rico. I’d never come back here.”

  “Believe me, I didn’t want to come here.”

  “So why did you?”

  “We’re looking for my father.”

  “Aren’t we all?” she giggled.

  Feeling hurt, he stared at her and turned back around. Delany was bagging the sandwiches. Ferrara went to the refrigerator and took out three orange sodas. After slipping the sandwiches and sodas into plastic, he handed the bulging bag to Ferrara, who then handed the man a ten-dollar bill.

  “I was just joking,” Lupe said. “You know, most of us ain’t got no daddy, not really.”

  “We all have fathers,” Ferrara said.

  “Yeah, right. My mother grew up not far from here in Hell’s Kitchen, so my father is either a mick or a spic. They was on some real West Side Story shit over on that side of town, but my mama ain’t have no prejudices. She opened her legs to them all.”

  “So, what is your mother?”

  “A bitch.” Her laugh was contagious. For the first time in weeks, Ferrara genuinely guffawed. After crossing the street, he split his sandwich with Lupe as she schooled him on life at the Lafayette Hotel. Talking with her mouth full of food, she told him about the constantly breaking elevators, the ruthless drug dealers, rodents running around the rooms and the pervert on the eighth floor who folks swore was paying young boys for sex.

  As they were finishing their food, he pulled napkins from his pocket and gave one to her. He retrieved the bag of sandwiches from her hand. “Can I see you later?”

  “Of course,” Lupe blushed, unused to dudes who actually acted like gentlemen. “I’m in room 305, but more than likely I’ll be at work. I’m at the Glitter Girl strip club after seven for a few hours. You come get me when you’re ready. Just walk to the corner and Glitter Girl is across the street.”

  Ferrara looked at Lupe and smiled. “Let me make sure my family is all right, but I’ll be back. I promise.” He went back to his room and gave his mother and sister their sandwiches. Leaning with his back against the window, he watched as they hungrily attacked the food. Being in New York City, living inside this tangled web of heartache and depression, was turning them into animals. Ferrara knew he had to do what he could to find his father and return these sheep back to the safety of their island.

  Looking out of the window, he watched the spectacle of the street. An hour later, his mother, holding Carmen tight, finally fell asleep. Ferrara moved away from the window, kissed them both on the forehead and slipped out of the door. Walking around the corner, he crossed the busy street and stood in front of the Glitter Girl for a few minutes. The windows were painted black and red, with a small, clear opening to get a peek. Although Lupe had invited him to come check her out, he felt funny about going to see a new friend dance naked.

  Pushing open the door, he thought they might throw him out for being too young, but the gruff bartender simply looked at him up and down. “What ya havin’?”

  Ferrara ordered a Heineken. That’s what his daddy drank. Carrying the pint glass in his right hand, he strolled towards the flock of flexible dancers performing on the main stage in the rear. Looking for Lupe, he walked through the dense crowd and overheard snatches of scandalous customer conversation, including one dude negotiating a back-room blowjob while another was trying to score a gram of coke.

  It was at that moment that he saw Lupe on stage. Lured into a lustful state of high-heeled hypnosis, Ferrara stared intensely at her voluptuousness swirling on stage. Sitting down at a small table, he watched as she fluttered in front of the aqua colored stage lights.

  There was beauty in her every movement as she swayed as loud rock songs blared from the speakers. With a full-figured body that was devilishly alluring, he was soon lost in the crashing waves of thick thighs and the drowning pools of almond-shaped eyes. A group of cursing men chugging bottles of brews made their way to the stage at the beginning of Lupe’s set and screamed nasty talk as they sat down.

  “She sure looks like she can take it,” yelled one, grabbing his crotch. His goofy friends laughed as they tossed wrinkled singles at her feet. Lupe nervously eyeballed the men as they talked smack. At the end of her third song, Billy Squier’s booty shaker, “Stroke Me,” Lupe picked up her tips and stepped from the stage. “Wait for me,” she whispered to Ferrara, and hustled back to the changing room.

  Seconds later, one of the rowdy men stood up. He’d been the loudest and rudest of the quartet. “Gotta drain the snake,” he screamed, and his friends laughed. Wearing a black Member’s Only jacket, white t-shirt, black jeans and dress shoes, he walked unsteadily towards the men’s room.

  Minutes passed before Ferrara sensed that something wasn’t right. Slowly, he stood up and walked towards the rear of the club. He passed the bathrooms and kept on walking. Over the loud music, he heard what sounded like a bunch of wire hangers hitting the floor. Ferrara ran to the door, opened it, and saw the guy trying to push Lupe onto the table. “Come on, bitch, ain’t no virgins in here,” the man hissed.

  With one hand grabbing Lupe’s ass and the other over her mouth. He tried to bend her over, but she kept fighting. Panicked, Ferrara glanced to his left and noticed a folded metal chair. He picked it up and smashed it over dude’s head. Releasing Lupe, the man screamed as he fell to the floor. Bubbling with anger and frustration, he continued to hit him until Lupe’s voice penetrated the fog in his head. “Stop it, you’re killing him.”

  Ferrara dropped the metal chair on floor. Blood pooled under the fallen man’s head. Lupe kneeled down beside the unconscious body and took his wallet out. Flipping it open, they both saw the gold detective badge that twinkled like a star under the overhead light shined on it. Fucker’s name was David Kelly. “Where there’s a badge, there’s a gun,” Ferrara thought as he opened the man’s tacky jacket and removed the 9-millimeter in the hoister. Ferrara held up the gun, made sure the safety was on before slipping it into his pants.

  “Damn, a fucking cop,” Lupe said, though the realization that dude was NYPD didn’t stop her from removing his cash. “We gotta get out of here.” Just as the words came out of her mouth, a loud voice in the hallway screamed, “Hey Kelly, let’s go, man. Kelly, where the hell are you?”

  Lupe quickly grabbed a dress hanging from a nearby rack and slid into it. “I think you killed that dude.”

  “He was trying to rape you.”

  “It doesn’t matter, he’s NYPD, they gonna come looking for us.” She grabbed Ferrara’s hand, and they ran to the rear of the room where there was an open window. Lupe climbed out first. As Ferrara trailed behind her, he heard to door opening and, seconds later, there was a gunshot. He heard footsteps behind them.

  He followed Lupe closely as she guided him towards the maddening crowd on 8th Avenue. Some of the movie theaters had just let out and the streets were packed with couples maneuvering past a legless man in a wheelchair and scantily dressed soul sisters clanking in their hooker heels.

  “Where are we going?” Ferrara asked.

  “The guys that own Glitter know where I live. Five-O more than likely already at the hotel. It’s kind of hard to shut down Times Square, but this place is going to be swarming with cops. We need to stay in the shadows.”

  “Again, where are we going?”

  “We’re going over to find my friend Raymond Torres on Broadway,” she answered. “He goes over there to play pinball. He loves him some pinball.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s sort of The Godfather of Times Square, but he’s a friend. He can help us.”

  Looking around, he felt as though he was at the circus. On the corner of 42nd and 8th, they turned and walked towards Broadway. The smell of sizzling meat wafted from a gyro spot. Across the street, an old black man screamed something about the last days. “Repent, brothers and sisters, because the four horsemen are galloping our way! Can’t you hear the horns, can’t you hear the hoofs?” A few feet away, b-boys spun and bopped on a broke down flattened cardboard box, break dancing to “It Takes Two” blasting from a massive JVC boom box. Spinning on their skulls and pushing up off the smooth cardboard with their palms, the rhythmic black boys attracted smiling fans clapping their hands and tossing them change.

  Minutes later, Lupe pushed open the glass doors at Playland. Ferrara felt an electronic hum vibrating through the arcade along with the sound of ringing bells and the thump of skeet balls being flung into a black hole. They shoved through the crowd, most playing various video games or plotting on something devious. Under the glare of the bright lights, pickpockets and perverts lurked, unafraid of doing their dirty work.

  Pinball machines lined against the walls as they strolled to the back. Lupe stopped and stared at a dude who had to be Raymond, but he hadn’t noticed their presence. Concentrating deeply on his game, Ray stood hunched over the KISS pinball machine dressed in a red sweat suit and white Adidas, feet apart as he swayed from side to side. With renderings of each KISS band member’s face on the top bummers, the machine was covered with green snakes, various fire breathing demons and thigh boot wearing warrior broads.

  Raymond played the game with the skill of a pinball wizard. Skillfully flicking the flippers and fondling the silver ball as though it was a lover. Always hovering on the edge of tilting, eight minutes passed before the silver ball finally slid down the middle. The brother was connected so deeply, it took him a few seconds to float back to earth.

  Slowly turning his head, Raymond finally noticed Lupe standing to the right side of the machine. “Hey, little mama,” he mumbled. “What’s up with you?”

  “I need, we need your help.” Raymond looked Ferrara in the face for as the first time. “We’re in trouble.”

  “If you got troubles, maybe you should go to the police.”

  “That’s who the trouble is with.”

  “I see. Well, the game is over. Y’all might as well come to my office.”

  After exiting the arcade, they stood at the corner of 43rd Street, waiting for the light to change. Thereafter, they headed towards the massive green and yellow colored Nathan’s where the Formica tables were covered with frankfurters, freshly cut fries and sodas. Lupe sat next to Ferrara, with Raymond on the other side of the table.

  “Isn’t it kind of bright in here,” Ferrara said.

  “We’re only going to be a few minutes.” Lupe turned to face Raymond. “Ferrara might’ve killed a cop.”

  “Killed a cop? A New York City cop? Fuck, what you mean ‘might have?’ Don’t you know?”

  “It was at the Glitter Girl about twenty minutes ago. One of them dogs tried to rape me, and Ferrara put him down. Slapped him across the head with a metal chair a few times.”

  “Ouch,” Raymond laughed. “And now you need to disappear, and you think I’m some Houdini? What do I get for my troubles?”

  “Come on, Raymond, you owe me, man. We’re Deuce People. We got to look out for one another.”

  “I tell you what, I’m driving down to Philly in the morning. I’d take you two that far, but afterwards you’re on your own. There’s a parking lot of 46th between 8th and 9th. Meet me there at 8 AM. Don’t be late.”

  Ferrara just happened to look up when he saw two middle-aged white men pointing at them through the plate-glass window. “We gotta get out of here,” he screamed. He watched as one of the men kicked the glass and the window shattered. Broken glass rained to the ground as customers screamed and jumped back. Ferrara pulled out the piece and began shooting. The cops returned fire as customers ran towards the exits.

  Lupe and Ferrara blended in with the crowd and escaped. Quickening their steps, they heard sirens as they hauled ass down a dark alleyway and didn’t stop until they were in the rear of the condemned Chene Hotel on 40th and 8th where a rickety, rusty fire escape scaled down the building.

  “Jump up and pull down the ladder,” Lupe whispered. Ferrara did as he was told and followed Lupe up the steep metal stairs that scaled the building’s twenty-four stories before finally reaching the rooftop. The 25th floor, Ferrara noted when they were finally at the end. He stepped down, looked around, and felt as though he’d entered a different world.

  It wasn’t the sort of rooftop he’d anticipated with chimneys and water towers, but instead one of faded splendor. This was once a rooftop garden and restaurant. The tables were rusted and covered with dust. Roosting birds cooed in the shadows. Many years back, the space was obviously a special place, but hadn’t been that in years. The marble floor was cracked and rodents dashed across it. There were vines and other plant life growing everywhere.