Nightlife by Brian Hodge

tavern. Just like Cheers, only more potent. The phrase crack house seemed so accusatory.
    Tony reaped its profits on a daily basis but was rarely here himself. Always sent trusted runners, usually driven by Lupo. Kids, mostly. Eleven, twelve, thirteen at most. Minimize the danger, maximize the buffer zone between himself and illegalities. A kid gets pinched by the law, they can’t do a whole lot but ask some futile questions and let him go. The kids knew the score. Knew that a job well done now meant better work and pay as they got older. Also knew that screw-ups were very costly. In terms of fingers. Toes. Lives. Never let it be said that Tony Mendoza wasn’t investing in the future of youth. Let Nancy Reagan come suck on that one awhile.
    Tony and Sasha got out, left Lupo behind to guard the car.
    “It stinks here, Tony.” Sasha was clinging close to his side. You had to appreciate the humor—suburban baby way out of her element. “Are we gonna be here long?”
    He took a deep breath. A gaseous mix of urine, feces, smoke, sweat, despair. He didn’t mind it. “That’s the smell of money in the making. Don’t bitch.”
    As they paced up the house’s walk, a gaggle of very young kids swarmed around their legs. They chattered excitedly. White suits got them every time. Tony dug into a pocket and flipped them a handful of loose change, and they scattered like beggars in India. Being a role model was such a burden sometimes.
    An older boy sat beside the door on the stoop, unreadable behind his wraparounds. He idly flipped a butterfly knife through its various permutations. He was better security than he looked. Kid had already killed four times by age fifteen—that anybody knew about.
    The heady smell thickened inside the house until it was almost solid. In dim light, smokers lined the walls and what furniture was left. A pretty docile crowd, for the most part, many of them lean to the point of emaciation. Somebody in another room had a boom box with Hendrix ripping at full volume.
    Tony sought out the homeboy that managed the place, a scarecrow of a guy named Freddy. His wife hung behind him, face sunken and a baby at her chest sucking on one wrung-out tit.
    Tony leaned in close to Freddy. “You got everybody out of the basement?”
    Freddy nodded. “Cleaned it out this afternoon. I been making sure it stays that way.” He smiled hopefully, teeth scummy and gray.
    “Good man.” Tony peeled out a fifty and stuffed it into one of Freddy’s pockets.
    He looked back at Sasha. She was down on her knees in front of some other homeboy sitting in a corner, and he was pawing at her. She kept pushing his hands away but didn’t seem to mind. She was leaning into the guy’s face and asking him what it felt like to be rotting from the inside out. No answers, just mindless groping. Autopilot.
    “Hands off the lady,” Tony said. He chopped his foot across loverboy’s face, driving him back into the wall. The guy was so far gone, he thought it was funny that his nose bled into his vacant smile.
    “Come on.” Tony grabbed Sasha by the wrist and started pulling her along, deeper into the house. “One quick stop downstairs and then we’re out of here.”
    “There’s no hurry,” she pouted.
    Glad you feel that way.
    Tony led her to a back stairway that took them -to the basement. It was far cooler down here, much fresher than upstairs but compensated with a musty odor. Brick walls wept moisture, and somewhere in the darkness a pipe dripped into a puddle with cavernous plinks. Tony flipped on a light bulb dangling from a cord. Little good it did; forty watts at best.
    He led her into a side room, its heavy iron door hanging open like the entrance to a meat locker. He switched on another weak bulb. Made a show of checking some nonexistent merchandise in some scrap crates in a corner. Muttered meaningless satisfaction to himself and stood up to rejoin her.
    “I could live here,” she whispered, looking around with those