The hot food case sat against the back wall of the convenience store with its glass fogged at the corners and its heat lamp throwing an orange glow across trays that had been full six hours ago. Saul stood in front of it with his hard hat under his arm and his vest open over his work shirt, the reflective strips catching the fluorescent light overhead.
The morning rush had come through and taken everything worth taking. What remained was a handful of boudin links sitting in their own grease at one end of a tray, the casings split and darkened where they'd dried against the metal, and a stack of egg rolls at the other end that had gone stiff under the lamp, the wrappers cracked at the edges.
He pulled the case open and grabbed one of the boudin links with a square of wax paper, dropped it into a paper bag, and folded the top over. The grease soaked through the bottom of the bag before he got it off the counter. He crossed to the cooler and pulled a bottle of water from the middle shelf, the cold air rolling out past his arm and hitting the sweat on his neck and walked to the register.
The door opened behind him. He heard the hinges firstand then the click of shoes on the tile that landed different from work boots. He turned his head enough to catch her in his periphery.
Francesca came through the door with her badge clipped to her sweater, the lanyard hanging against the buttons, her hair pulled up off her. She stopped when she saw him. Her weight shifted to one hip and she tipped her chin at the bag in his hand, her eyes dropping to the grease stain spreading across the bottom of it.
"That's your lunch?"
Saul looked down at the bag. The boudin had settled into one corner and the paper was already translucent where the grease had worked through. "It's what they got."
"That's sad, Saul."
She walked past him toward the drink cooler, her shoulder passing close enough that the smell of her perfume cut through the grease and the burnt coffee. She pulled the cooler door open and stood there looking at the rows of bottles and cans, her fingers drumming once on the door handle, the nail of her index finger tapping against the metal.
"You still owe me flowers, by the way. For letting you not do that four eyes the other day."
"I said I got you. I ain't forget."
"You better not."
She pulled a drink from the shelf and let the cooler door swing shut behind her, the seal catching with a soft compression. She turned and faced him, the bottle held against her hip, her other hand coming to rest on the strap of her badge where it hung from her sweater.
"You got a girl, Saul?"
His eyebrows came up a fraction. He set the bag and the water on the counter beside the register, the bag leaving a wet circle on the laminate where the grease pressed through. "Why you asking me that?"
Francesca shrugged, the motion small, one shoulder lifting and dropping, her chin staying level. "Because you never flirt back and I'm trying to figure out if it's because you're taken or because you're slow. Or maybe you’re gay, which is totally fine."
Saul let out a breath through his nose. "I got a girl. I got a baby. I definitely ain’t gay."
"Mm." She nodded, her mouth pulling into something that held back more than it gave. She stepped up beside him at the counter and set her drink down next to his water, the two bottles standing side by side on the laminate, hers sweating condensation onto the surface.
"That's nice. What about you? You got somebody?" Saul asked.
Francesca looked at him sideways, her head turning just enough that the light overhead caught the edge of her jaw. "I got a husband."
Saul blinked. His head pulled back a half inch, his chin tucking toward his neck. "A husband."
"Mhm."
"And you in here asking me if I got a girl."
Her smile widened, the corners of her mouth pulling up past where she usually held them, her teeth showing for the first time. She picked her drink up off the counter and tapped the cap against his bottle of water twice, the plastic clicking against plastic.
"My husband likes to let me have my fun. He likes to hear about it."
She stepped around him toward the door, pulling it open with her free hand, the heat from outside pushing through the gap and pressing against the air conditioning. She stopped in the frame, her hand holding the door, the light from outside washing the color out of everything behind her. She looked back over her shoulder.
"Don't forget those flowers when you come for your permits, Saul. Daisies. Not roses."
She walked out. The door swung shut behind her and the hinges squeaked once and the store settled back into its fluorescent hum, the hot food case ticking under its lamp, the cooler cycling low against the back wall.
Saul stood at the counter for a moment then turned and scanned the bag and drink, tapping his card against the kiosk to pay.
~~~
Autumn stood beside the golf cart with her arms folded across her chest, her visor pulled low enough that she had to tilt her chin up to see past the brim. The fairway stretched out ahead of them in a long green corridor, the sprinklers having come through early enough that the grass still held a faint sheen where the sun caught it.
Garrison and Donovan had Julian boxed in near the tee box. Her father stood with his driver resting across the backs of his shoulders, both hands draped over the shaft, his weight settled onto his heels, his chin lifted. Donovan stood across from him with his arms crossed, his polo stretched tight across his chest, his head moving in a slow nod at whatever Julian was offering.
Julian stood between them with his hands out in front of his body, one palm open, gesturing as he spoke. His posture was pulled upright, his shoulders held back a half inch, his chin level.
Behind them, Nadine and Vivienne sat in the second cart. Nadine had her sunglasses pushed up into her hair and her legs crossed at the ankle where they hung from the cart's edge. Vivienne leaned toward her with her hand on Nadine's arm, the two of them laughing about something, their voices carrying in bright fragments across the tee box without reaching far enough to make out the words.
Sasha stood next to Autumn with her club resting against her thigh, the grip turned under her palm, the shaft angling out toward the grass. Her jaw held tight as she watched Julian field another question from Garrison.
"They've been at him the whole fucking time."
Autumn tipped her head, her eyes tracking Garrison as he shifted his weight and opened his mouth for another question. "That's what happens when you bring a random ass nigga to meet the family."
"I didn't bring him to get grilled. I brought him so they could see he's a good guy."
Autumn turned her head and looked at Sasha. The visor threw a line of shadow across her nose. "If he can't handle my daddy and Unc asking him some questions on a golf course, what exactly is he going to handle?"
Sasha sucked her teeth. "Not everybody needs to go through all that shit to prove anything."
"You would want a nigga who wilt under the pressure."
Sasha shook her head, her grip tightening on the club where it pressed against her thigh, her knuckles whitening over the rubber. "You're just jealous because I actually have somebody."
Autumn laughedn, her head tipping back far enough that the visor caught the sun across its brim. "Jealous? Of what?" She let her eyes move to Julian, running over him once from his shoes to his face, the look slow and appraising. "Sash, I could have him if I wanted him. That's not me being mean. That's just the truth. And I got a man."
Sasha's mouth opened. Nothing came out for a second, the air between them filling with the sprinkler hiss from the next fairway over and the faint mechanical hum of a cart moving somewhere behind the tree line.
"You are so fucking foul."
"I’m just being real with you."
"No, you're foul. And you're delusional if you think every fucking man on the planet wants you."
Autumn shrugged, one shoulder lifting and dropping, her arms still folded. "Not every nigga. Just the ones you bring around."
Before Sasha could get her mouth around whatever was building behind her teeth, Garrison stepped back from Julian and pulled his driver off his shoulders. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart on the tee box, rolled his shoulders once to loosen the rotation, and addressed the ball. The backswing was smooth, his hips turning before his arms followed, his wrists hinging at the top of the arc. The downswing came through clean, the clubface meeting the ball with a crack that carried across the fairway, the ball lifting off the tee in a low arc that rose and held its line down the center of the grass, carrying two hundred yards before it landed and rolled another twenty past the bend.
He held the follow-through with the club high over his shoulder, his weight forward on his front foot, his eyes tracking the ball until it stopped. Then he pulled the club down and rested the shaft against his leg.
Donovan nodded, his arms still crossed. Julian clapped once. Garrison turned back to Julian and picked up wherever the conversation had left off, the driver resting against his thigh, his free hand already gesturing.
Autumn stepped up to the tee. She pulled her glove tight across her knuckles, flexing her fingers once before she set the ball on its peg and straightened. She took her stance, her feet finding their width, her hips square to the target line. She drew the club back in a controlled arc, her left arm straight, and swung through. The contact was solid, the sound clean, the ball climbing in a straight line and carrying past the women's markers before it touched down and rolled another fifteen yards, coming to rest in the short grass near the center of the fairway.
She lifted the club off her shoulder and walked back toward the cart. She passed Sasha and looked at her, holding the eye contact for a beat for, the corner of her mouth lifting at one side. Then she shifted her eyes to Julian. She caught his gaze across the tee box and winked, the gesture quick.
Sasha's jaw set and her hand tightened around her club.
Autumn dropped into the cart and crossed one leg over the other, her hands resting on her knee, her eyes already on the fairway.
~~~
Caine sat on the back of the park bench with his feet on the seat, a plate of ribs and links balanced across his knee, the sauce running into the grooves of the styrofoam where the meat had slid during the walk from the grill. Campanella Park spread out in front of him, the grass packed with bodies, the sidewalks lined with grills sending columns of smoke up through the trees that drifted sideways when the wind caught them and settled across the crowd in a haze of charcoal, pork fat, lighter fluid still burning off.
Red covered everything. Red flags hanging from back pockets, red shirts stretched over backs and chests, red hats turned forward and cocked to the side, red laces threaded through shoes that had been cleaned that morning for the occasion. The color sat on the park in layers, bright where the sun caught it and deeper in the shade under the pavilion where groups of men crowded the benches and the grass with plates in their hands and cups sweating at their feet.
An older man held position at the main grill in a lawn chair, his tongs working the grate in slow passes, turning ribs and shifting links to cooler spots along the edges. Every few minutes someone drifted too close and he waved them back with the tongs without looking up, the motion practiced, his arm extending and retracting in the same arc each time. His wife stood behind him with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of something she kept dabbing onto a rag, and he waved her back too.
Women moved through the crowd carrying plates, carrying children, carrying conversations between groups. Near the curb, a speaker sat propped on the hood of a maroon Cutlass with the windows down, the bass pushing out across the grass in low waves that Caine could feel through the bench slats where his feet pressed. Three women danced beside it, their hips catching the rhythm, one of them holding a cup above her head with her free hand while the other two moved in their own orbits around her.
Two men stood near the main pavilion at the center of it all. Both of them grinning, plates stacked high, people coming up to dap them, hug them, press foreheads together, grip the backs of their necks in the hold. The line kept replenishing itself from deeper in the park.
Rachaad sat beside him on the bench the same way, his plate balanced on his knee, already stripped down to bones and sauce stains. He picked the last link off the styrofoam and bit through the casing, chewing slow, his eyes moving across the park.
Cam was near the speaker, leaned toward a woman with his hand pressed flat against his own chest at something she'd said, his mouth open in exaggerated disbelief. The woman laughed and pushed at his shoulder, and he let the push turn him a quarter step, grinning, already coming back with whatever the next line was. Derron had his arm up on the roof of a parked car beside another woman, his body angled toward her, his voice pitched low enough that she had to lean in to catch it. Alonzo and Angel stood at the edge of a circle of women near the pavilion, Angel saying something with both hands that made two of them look at each other and then back at him.
Nap came across the grass with a red cup in his hand. He dropped onto the bench beside Rachaad, stretching his legs out in front of him, his Chucks crossing at the ankle in the grass.
"Y'all eating good, blood?"
Rachaad nodded, turning the stripped bone between his fingers before he set it on the plate. "Ribs is alright."
Nap tipped his chin toward the grill. "That's OG Omar on that grill. Nigga been out here since six this morning. Don't let nobody touch it. Not even his wife."
He took a sip from his cup and looked across the park at the two men near the pavilion, the line of people still coming, the hugs still holding.
"Monster did seven years. Boo did nine. Both of them got caught up in that fed sweep back in like '17, '18. Whole time they was in there, the homies kept money on they books, made sure they people was straight." He lifted the cup and gestured with it in a slow arc that took in the grills, the music, the crowd, the red hanging from every pocket and laced through every shoe. "This what coming home supposed to look like."
Caine pulled a rib off the bone with his teeth and chewed, the sauce sweet and hot at the back of his mouth. He watched Monster pull a man into a hug that lifted him off his feet for a second before setting him back down, both of them laughing, hands finding shoulders and staying there.
Nap looked over at Caine. “I know that shit better than whatever y’all be eating in Louisiana, lil’ homie.”
Caine snorted a laugh. “Never that, big brudda.”
Rachaad laughed. “Better than that shit in bumfuck Georgia for sure.”
Caine shrugged. “Can’t argue with that shit.”
“Make sure y’all get y’all some shit to take home,” Nap said, nodding toward the grill. “Niggas start acting goofy around hoes and eat like them white bitches. But y’all know how that go, blood.”
Nap finished his cup, crushed it in his hand and tossed it into the trash barrel behind the bench without looking. He stood and dapped Rachaad up, pulling him into the one-armed hug. He reached for Caine and dapped him up too. Then he walked back across the grass toward a group of Tree Tops near the parking lot, his stride easy, his red hoodie catching sun where the sleeves were pushed to his elbows.
Caine looked at Rachaad. "So what's the deal with the Hoover shit? Zo said your mama stay around them but you always out here."
Rachaad chewed, swallowed, wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He set the bone down on the plate and picked his fork back up, stabbing through a piece of link and holding it there for a second before he brought it to his mouth.
"My half-brother a Hoover. We don't really fuck with each other like that. Never really have."
He chewed the link and looked out at the park, his jaw working, his eyes settling on something in the middle distance that might have been the grill or might have been nothing.
"My grandmama raised me more than my mama did and she been in Compton my whole life. So the homies I grew up with is Pirus. Except them Fruit Town niggas.."
Caine nodded. "That make sense."
"Just a roll of the dice. I do know a few of them niggas, though."
Caine pulled the last strip of meat off a rib bone with his teeth and set the bone on the plate then set his plate on the bench beside him. Rachaad reached down into the cooler at their feet, the ice shifting and cracking under his hand, and pulled two beers out. He held one toward Caine and he took it. They twisted the caps off at the same time and drank.
~~~
Sena pushed through the door and the bar's warmth rolled over her, the same low lamps along the back wall throwing yellow light across the bottles, the same brass pendants hanging in uneven heights above the counter. The tile floor carried its scuff marks in long arcs where stools had been dragged across it for years.
Alex sat at the far end. Her phone was in her hand, her thumb still on the screen, her drink already down past halfway down glass. She lifted her eyes and found Sena crossing the floor and the smile came full and immediate, her teeth showing, her body already turning on the stool. She slid off it and opened her arms.
Alex's arms wrapped around her back, her chin settling against Sena's shoulder, her palms pressing flat between Sena's shoulder blades. The hug held for a beat and Alex pulled back. Her fingers trailed down the outsides of Sena's arms, following the seams of her sleeves, finding her wrists. Sena drew her hands back before Alex's fingers reached her palms. The contact broke and Sena stepped past her to the stool, pulling the strap of her bag off her shoulder and hooking it under the bar on the brass hook bolted to the underside.
Alex settled back onto her stool, one foot hooked on the rung, her body angled toward Sena. She lifted two fingers off the bar toward Andrea without turning her head. Andrea nodded from three stools down and started building.
"I'm glad you came out."
Sena turned on her stool enough to face her. "You said you wanted to talk."
Alex nodded. Her finger found the rim of her glass and traced it, the pad of her fingertip running the curve of the lip in a slow circle.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking. And I know I've been selfish. I know what I said was fucked up and I'm sorry." She lifted her eyes from the glass. "I don't want to lose you over something I said when I was confused and scared."
Andrea set a Cosmo on a fresh napkin in front of Sena, the glass sweating at the stem. Sena picked it up and took a sip. The vodka and the cranberry cut through the warmth of the bar and she set it back down, the base finding the center of the napkin.
"I appreciate you saying that."
Alex leaned in. Her shoulder pressed against Sena's, the contact warm through both their sleeves, and her hand landed on Sena's knee, her fingers settling against the denim.
"I miss you. Like, I genuinely miss having you in my life. And I know I have David, but you know that's not the same thing. You've always been different for me."
Sena looked down at Alex's hand on her knee. The fingers rested there, the nails painted a pale pink that caught the lamplight.
"Alex."
"What?"
"I'm seeing someone."
Alex's hand stayed on her knee. The pressure in her fingers shifted, the grip loosening a fraction, the tendons in the back of her hand relaxing against the denim. Her smile held its shape but her eyes moved.
"Since when?"
"Recently. It's new."
"Who is she?"
Sena picked up her drink and brought it to her mouth. She took a sip and set it down, turning the glass once on the napkin, the wet base leaving a ring on the paper.
"Her name is Mireya. We went to UNO together, now HSC."
Alex's hand came off Sena's knee. She sat back on her stool, her spine straightening, the lean she'd been holding between them pulling back to vertical. Her hands found her own drink and wrapped around the glass, both of them, her fingers lacing over each other. The smile pulled tight at the corner of her mouth, the skin around her eyes creasing a fraction before the expression loosened again.
"Okay." She brought the glass to her mouth and sipped. The ice shifted against her teeth. "Is it serious?"
Sena nodded.
Alex let a breath out through her nose, the air leaving her in a thin stream that moved the napkin at the edge of her glass. She set the drink down and turned it once on the bar, her thumb and forefinger finding the same spot on the glass.
"I'm not going to pretend that doesn't sting a little bit." She paused, her jaw working once, the muscle at the hinge of it tightening before it released. "But can we at least try to be friends again? Because I really do miss you, Sena. Not just in that way. I miss my friend."
Sena looked at her. Alex's face had settled into something softer.
"Yeah. We can try."
Alex nodded. Her hand came back across the space between them but stopped short of Sena's arm, her fingers resting on the wood of the bar between their drinks, the tips of them pressing against the grain.
"Good. That's all I'm asking."
Sena picked up her glass and finished it.
~~~
Mireya raised her head and wiped at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. The man let out a breath above her, his head tipping against the cushion, his eyes closed, his chest settling under his shirt. The purple LEDs along the base of the wall threw their color across the floor and up the side of the couch in a low wash that made everything look bruised.
She stood, her knees pressing off the carpet, and pulled the robe from the arm of the couch. The silk slid over her shoulders and she looked down at him, a smile finding her mouth.
"You good, papi?"
He nodded, his hand already going to his pocket. He pulled out a fold of bills and held them toward her, his arm extending without opening his eyes. Mireya took the money and counted it with her thumb, each bill pressing past the one behind it, her eyes staying on his face. She folded the stack and held it against her palm.
"You know where to find me if you want to come back."
He stood from the couch and zipped his pants, his belt buckle clinking once as he adjusted the waistband. "Yeah, I'll be back."
"I'll be here, baby. And next time it’ll be even better."
He walked to the door and pulled it open, the bass from the floor rushing in through the gap before the door swung shut behind him and the room went back to its muffled thump. Mireya tucked the money into the pocket of her robe, pressing it flat against her thigh, and stepped into the hall.
Stasia was there. Leaning against the wall with her arms folded, her heels together. She tipped her chin down the hall.
"Come talk to me for a second."
Mireya fell into step beside her. Stasia led her to an empty VIP room at the end of the hall and held the door with one hand. Mireya walked in and dropped onto the arm of the couch, the cushion giving under her weight, her hands settling in her lap. Stasia closed the door behind them and the bass dropped to a pulse in the walls.
Stasia stood in front of her. Her eyes moved once over Mireya's body, traveling from her collarbones down through the robe to her midsection where they stopped for a beat, reading what the silk held against Mireya's frame, before they came back up to her face.
"How are you feeling?"
Mireya shrugged. "I'm good. Tired, but I'm always tired."
Stasia nodded once, the motion small, her chin dipping and returning. Her arms stayed folded, her weight on one heel.
"I never wanted children. I don't have the patience for it. I don't have the selflessness. I've always known that about myself." She paused, her eyes staying on Mireya's face. "Which means I don't know what it's like to do what you're doing right now. But I know what it looks like when the math stops working."
Mireya's thumb went to the corner of her mouth, pressing against the skin there, the nail catching at the edge of her lip. "Things are still working, Stasia. I'm still bringing in money. The floor's been good. VIPs been good. You’ve seen my tip out."
"I have. And some of them love it. But for every man who's into you right now, there are three who see you showing and go find the next girl. You know that as well as I do."
"Then I'll do more VIPs. Pick up some extra nights. I can adjust."
Stasia shook her head, the motion small and final, her chin moving a fraction to the left and back. "You're done until after you deliver."
Mireya's fingers pressed into the fabric on the arm of the couch, the silk of the robe bunching under her grip. "I need this. Please."
"And it'll be here when you come back.”
Mireya held there. Her jaw shifted once, the muscle working at the hinge, her teeth pressing together behind closed lips. The bass pulsed through the wall behind her and the purple from the LEDs sat on the floor between them.
"I've already raised what you'll get from South Plaquemines. It's not going to cover everything but it'll take the edge off until you're back."
Mireya looked down at her hands on the robe, her thumb finding the fold of money in her pocket through the fabric, pressing against the shape of it.
Stasia stepped forward. Her hand came up and settled against Mireya's cheek, her palm warm against her jaw, her fingers resting along the side of her face. She held it there.
"Tell me when the baby shower is so I can spoil your little baby."
Mireya looked up at her. Stasia's thumb moved once across her cheekbone, the pad of it tracing the bone beneath the skin. Then her hand dropped and she turned, her heels finding the floor in their even rhythm, and walked to the door. She pulled it open and stopped in the frame, one hand on the edge, her body half in the hallway.
"Take care of yourself, Mireya."
She stepped out. Her heels clicked steady against the floor, the sound carrying down the hall, each strike landing at the same interval as the one before it until the bass from the main floor swallowed the last of them.
The music pushed through the walls around Mireya, the bass heavy enough to feel in the cushion beneath her. She pulled the money from her pocket and counted it again, slower this time, her thumb pressing each bill flat before turning it past the next, the paper warm from her body. She folded them together and dropped them back into the pocket of her robe.
The feds over here. "Mr. Guerra has just arrived to Los Angeles. He is unaware of the criminal culture here and was only taking a picture with individuals at a basketball game." Simple spin.