Chapter 2: Grease & Gunpowder
The apartment smelled of hot iron and ambition. Simone had dragged her small, wheezing garment steamer from the back of the closet and it was belching clouds of vapor into the already-humid air, making the single room feel like a tropical greenhouse. She stood before the full-length mirror tacked to the wall, a frown etched deep between her brows as she assessed a little black dress that clung to every curve.
Angel sat cross-legged on the mattress, wearing his favorite pajamas—soft, faded cotton covered in a print of tiny rocketships. Simone had put his hair up in two high pigtails earlier to keep it off his neck in the heat, the platinum ropes resting over his shoulders. He was sketching in his book, but his attention kept drifting to her, a silent, devoted audience of one.
“This one makes my ass look… monumental,” Simone muttered, twisting to look over her shoulder. “Which is usually the goal, but tonight?” She shook her head, the gold hoops in her ears catching the light. “Tonight I wanna look expensive. Like I don’t smell of perm solution and disappointment.” She sighed and unzipped the dress, letting it puddle at her feet. She stood there in her bra and panties, hands on her hips, surveying the three other options draped over the back of the couch.
Angel glanced up, his pencil pausing. He was used to this. Her body was as familiar to him as the layout of the apartment, a landscape of comfort and safety. “Is nice,” he offered softly, meaning the dress on the floor.
“Nice ain’t gonna cut it, baby,” she said, but she shot him a grateful smile. She picked up the next contender, a blood-red number with a plunging neckline. She shimmied into it, the fabric fighting her curves for a moment before surrendering. She turned to him. “Well?”
Angel tilted his head. The color was fierce against her skin. It looked like a challenge. He didn’t have the words for that. “Is… strong,” he tried.
“Strong.” She considered her reflection. “Strong is good. Tyra and them ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em.” But after another moment, she shrugged and reached for the zipper. “Too much like I’m trying, though. Feels like a costume.”
The third dress was emerald green, slip-like and seemingly simple. She slid it on. It flowed over her, subtle, highlighting without screaming. She smoothed it down her thighs and turned. “And?”
Angel put his sketchbook aside. He studied her with a seriousness that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. His dark blue eyes were so focused. “You look… like moon on water,” he said finally, the words slow and careful. It was a phrase from a poem she’d read to him once, years ago.
Simone’s breath caught. She looked back at the mirror. The dress did seem to shimmer. It was quiet, but it held a light. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Okay. Okay, this is the one.” She bent, her knees popping, and kissed the top of his head. “You’re a genius.”
A sharp rap sounded at the door, not the quick tattoo of a neighbor but three slow, deliberate thumps. “Yo, Simone! It’s Rico. You decent?”
“Hold your horses, Razor!” she called back, rolling her eyes affectionately. She grabbed a silky black robe from the hook on the back of the door and wrapped it around herself, knotting the belt. “Angel, let him in, baby.”
Angel padded to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.
Rico filled the doorway. He was a solid man, not overly tall but built like a wrestler, his arms thick with tattoos that snaked up from his wrists under the sleeves of his white tank top. His dark hair was cropped close, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He carried a brown paper bag in one hand and a six-pack of cheap beer in the other. His sharp brown eyes scanned the room, taking in the steamer’s haze, the dresses on the couch, Simone in her robe.
“Damn, what’d I miss? Fashion week?” His voice was a gravelly rasp.
“Something like that,” Simone said, walking over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “You’re early.”
“Shop was dead.” He stepped inside, his presence making the room feel even smaller, warmer. He nodded at Angel. “Hey, kid.” His gaze lingered for a second on Angel’s pigtails, a faint, almost imperceptible softening at the corner of his mouth. He set the six-pack on the kitchen counter and held the paper bag out to Angel. “Got you somethin’.”
Angel took the bag cautiously. The smell hit him first—garlic, fried dough, savory meat. He peeked inside. Two fat, grease-spotted empanadas, still warm. His face lit up. “You remember.”
“Course I remember,” Rico grunted, turning away to shove a beer into the freezer compartment of the tiny fridge. “You mentioned ‘em Tuesday. Said you wanted the ones from that truck on 8th.” He said it like it was nothing, like he hadn’t driven twenty minutes out of his way.
“Thank you,” Angel said, clutching the bag to his chest.
“Eat ‘em before they get cold. What’s all this, Simone?” Rico asked, gesturing at her with his chin as he popped the cap off a beer for himself.
“I’m going out,” she announced, untying the robe and letting it slip off her shoulders. She stood in the emerald dress, striking a quick pose. “With the girls. To that new spot downtown, Icon.”
Rico took a long pull from his beer, his eyes giving her an appreciative but entirely brotherly once-over. “Icon, huh? Fancy. They letting people like us in there?”
“My money’s as green as anybody’s,” she said, her voice gaining an edge. “Tired of being cooped up in here, tired of thinking about Mr. Hill and his damn citations. Tyra says the DJ there is fire. I need to move. I need to not be a mom for five goddamn hours.” She walked back to the mirror, grabbed her makeup bag.
“You’re always a mom,” Rico said quietly, leaning against the counter.
Simone paused, a tube of mascara in her hand. She looked at Rico, then at Angel, who was now sitting back on the mattress, carefully eating an empanada, trying not to get grease on his pajamas. Her expression softened. “Yeah. I am. And I love it. But tonight…” She turned back to the mirror. “Tonight, your mama need to get laid, Honey. Real bad.”
Angel didn’t flinch. He took another bite of the empanada, chewing thoughtfully. He’d heard variations of this before. It was just a fact of life, like Simone saying she needed coffee or needed to pay the electric bill. A need was a need. He watched as she began applying a dark line along her eyelid, her tongue peeking out in concentration. “I like this one,” he said, swallowing. “The dress. Is… moon on water.”
Rico’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He took another sip of beer. “Kid’s right. It’s good. Makes you look…”
“Like a moon?” Simone finished, grinning wickedly at Rico’s reflection.
“Like you clean up alright,” he retorted, but he was smiling too.
For the next half-hour, the apartment was a hive of gentle activity. Simone’s transformation continued—earrings, a spritz of perfume that smelled of night-blooming flowers, strappy heels that made her two inches taller. Rico settled into the creaky armchair, sipping his beer, idly channel-surfing on the flickering TV, offering the occasional grunt of commentary. Angel finished his food, wiped his hands meticulously on a napkin, and went back to his drawing, occasionally glancing up to watch her.
There was a comfort in it, a domestic rhythm. Rico’s presence was a solid, grounding force. He’d been around since the beginning, since the day six years ago when Simone, then just a neighbor he barely knew, had shown up at his shop with a skinny, terrified, bleach-blonde nine-year-old boy clinging to her hand, saying, “Razor, I need you to be quiet and look like you’d skin anyone who comes near us.” He’d asked no questions then. He asked few now.
“So you’re on Angel-duty?” Simone asked, finally satisfied with her makeup. She looked like a polished version of herself, radiant and sharp.
“Yeah. We’ll be fine. Gonna teach him how to play dominos. For real this time, none of that ‘let the kid win’ shit.”
“Hey, I won myself,” Angel murmured, not looking up from his sketchbook.
“You got lucky,” Rico said, a real grin spreading across his face. “Tonight, I break you.”
Simone shouldered her small silver purse. She walked over to the mattress, crouched down in front of Angel, careful not to crush her dress. “Okay. Rules.”
Angel put his pencil down and gave her his full attention.
“Rico is in charge. You listen to him like you listen to me. Bed by eleven. No sugar after nine—he brought you empanadas, that’s your sugar. Door stays locked. My phone is on, volume up. You call if you need me, for anything.” She cupped his cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, Mamochka,” he said, leaning into her touch.
She kissed his forehead, leaving a faint, glossy print from her lips. She stood up, smoothed her dress again, and looked at Rico. “You. Keep him safe.”
“Always do,” Rico said, his tone losing its gruffness for a moment. It was a vow.
She gave a final, decisive nod and left, the click of her heels and the scent of her perfume trailing behind her like a ghost. The door clicked shut. The lock thudded.
Silence descended, different from the silence of the day before. This was a male silence, punctuated by the tinny laugh track from the old sitcom Rico had settled on.
Rico let out a long, slow breath. “Alright, kid. You wanna get whipped at dominos now, or you wanna sit there drawing all night?”
Angel closed his sketchbook. “I want play.”
“Good.” Rico heaved himself out of the chair. He went to the cabinet where Simone kept games and a worn deck of cards. He pulled out the box of dominos, the lid held on with a rubber band. “Clear that off,” he said, nodding at the small coffee table.
Angel pushed aside a stack of magazines and a half-dead succulent. Rico sat on the floor on one side, Angel mirrored him on the other. Rico spilled the bones out, their click-clack a familiar, comforting sound. He began turning them over, his thick, calloused fingers surprisingly deft.
“So,” Rico said, not looking up as he shuffled the tiles. “Moon on water, huh?”
Angel felt a slight warmth in his cheeks. He shrugged, arranging his own tiles on their edge so only he could see them. “Is how it look.”
“It’s a good line.” Rico set the first tile down with a definitive tap. “Your turn. Don’t overthink it.”
They played. Rico didn’t let him win. Angel lost the first three games quickly, his strategy obvious and faltering. Rico explained the counts, the logic of blocking, the importance of paying attention to what tiles were left. His teaching voice was low, patient, devoid of its usual street-edge.
During the fourth game, as the evening deepened outside and the neon from the bodega sign bled through the curtains, Angel started to see the patterns. He played a double-five, blocking Rico’s move.
Rico grunted, impressed. “There you go. Using your head.”
They played on. The sitcom ended, replaced by the low murmur of a late-night news broadcast. Rico got up at one point, got two glasses of water, set one next to Angel without a word.
In a lull between games, Angel, emboldened by the focused quiet, asked, “The man from city… he make trouble more?”
Rico looked up from setting up a new game. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “Mr. Hill?”
Angel nodded.
“Probably,” Rico said bluntly. “That kind always does. But don’t you worry about that. That’s our job. Me and Simone. Your job is…” He gestured at the dominos. “To learn this so you can finally beat my ass.”
“Is not for me to worry?” Angel asked, his voice small.
Rico was quiet for a long moment. He picked up a domino, turned it over in his hand. “Worryin’ don’t fix it. Action fixes it. We’re working on it.” He met Angel’s gaze. “You trust us?”
Angel didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then trust that.” Rico set the tile down. “Your lead.”
Angel played his tile. The game continued, the only sounds the tap of bone on wood and the distant wail of a siren a few blocks over. In this space, on this floor, with Rico’s solid presence across from him, the worry Simone carried, the man from the city, the closed salon—it all receded. It was just the game, the strategy, the quiet companionship.
Much later, the distant thump of bass from a car stereo signaled the approach of midnight. Angel had just won his first game, a victory so unexpected he’d just stared at the board, unsure.
“Huh,” Rico said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Look at that.”
The triumph on Angel’s face was pure and bright.
Rico started gathering the tiles. “Alright, champ. Eleven. Simone’ll have my hide if I keep you up.”
Angel helped box up the dominos. He washed his glass in the sink. Rico turned off the TV, plunging the room into a gloom broken only by the streetlight’s glow.
“You need anything else?” Rico asked, standing by the door like a sentinel.
Angel shook his head, already climbing onto the mattress. He’d taken his hair out of the pigtails, and it cascaded around him in a pale wave. “No. Thank you for… for tonight.”
“Anytime, kid.” Rico’s hand went to the doorknob, but he paused. “She’s gonna be okay, you know. Simone. She’s the toughest person I know.”
Angel nodded, pulling the thin sheet over himself. He believed it.
Rico cracked the door, checking the hall. “Lock this behind me. Don’t open it for nobody. I’ll be right outside.”
“Outside?”
“On the stairs. Gonna smoke. Keep an eye out ‘til she gets home.” He said it casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Now lock it.”
Angel got up, went to the door. Rico gave him a short nod and stepped into the hallway. Angel closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and heard the heavy tread of Rico’s boots heading not away, but towards the stairwell.
He went back to bed, curling on his side, facing the door. The bass from the car faded. The apartment settled around him, familiar and safe. He could picture Rico sitting on the concrete steps outside, the red glow of a cigarette tip punctuating the dark, a silent, vigilant silhouette guarding the threshold. It was a different kind of quiet than when Simone was here. A watchful quiet. A protected quiet.
He listened to the distant sounds of the night—a dog barking, a distant shout, the far-off whine of a police siren—and felt, not for the first time, the profound luck of his place in this small, fierce constellation of people. His eyelids grew heavy. The last thing he remembered before sleep pulled him under was the faint, comforting smell of Rico’s cigarette smoke seeping through the crack under the door, a scent that meant someone was standing guard.