Read Online Some Are Sicker Than Others by Andrew Seaward - Free Book Online Page B

Unfortunately, the farther west you got down Colfax, the more the city began to look like a slummy ghetto; hotels became motels that charged by the hour and bowling alleys became strip clubs that reeked of cum and stale whiskey sours. English turned to Spanish, burgers became tacos, and banks with glass windows became iron-barred pawnshops. Jesus, what a neighborhood. Every time he came down here, he thought he was gonna catch dysentery.
    He eased on the brake as he pulled up to a stoplight then gently pressed down the door locks and peered out the window. A woman with wild, wiry hair was pushing a shopping cart, staring at Dave as she staggered into the crosswalk. Her cart was filled to the brim with aluminum cans and boxes, ratty blankets and torn up newspaper. Dave tried not to make eye contact as she walked out in front of him. She was muttering something at the pavement in a language that was definitely not English. On the opposite side of the street stood a bunch of Mexicans, waiting for the bus that would take them into the city. Their hands looked more like claws, clutching their grocery bags, shivering and waiting in the merciless Colorado winter. Poor bastards. Look at their fingers. They were all split and frozen like hot dogs with freezer burn. What a horrible life. What a miserable existence. Thank god he would never have to end up like them.
    Finally, the light turned green and Dave stomped on the gas pedal, then put on his blinker and turned left at the next corner. He went about a quarter of a mile down the street then made a quick U-turn and pulled to a stop in front of a horribly plain brick building. The building was five stories high with microscopic slits for windows that made it look more like a prison tower than an actual apartment. In front of the building was a patch of dirt no bigger than the size of a pitcher’s mound that Dave figured was supposed to serve as the building’s front garden. Around the dirt stood a six-foot tall, chain-link rectangle that looked strangely familiar to the kind of fence you’d put around a prison yard. The only thing that was missing was some razor wire, a couple of free weights, and maybe some basketball hoops. Even the name of the place made Dave chuckle. It was called, Casa Grande—The Big House . How ominous.
    He laughed to himself as he scanned the grounds of the building, but his temperament quickly sobered when he locked eyes with a short, angry-looking Hispanic. He was just a kid, nineteen maybe twenty, with a black baseball cap on his head that said Colorado Rockies . It was hard to make him out from underneath the building’s shadow, but Dave knew it had to be Juarez, because who else would be up this early on a Monday morning?
    Dave tapped the horn once as a sign of identification then reached across the center console and rolled down the passenger side window. The kid nodded and put down his still-burning cigarette then trotted down the steps of the front porch patio. Before he got to the street, the kid stopped and looked down both ends of the corner. Once he was satisfied that there were no cops around, he opened the gate and walked towards Dave’s passenger side window. “What’s up?” he said, leaning in the window, one hand on the hood, the other dug deep into his jacket pocket.
    “Hey, what’s up Juarez?” Dave said, unable to stop grinning, half because he was nervous and half because the glands in his mouth were burning with salivation. “How’s business?”
    “Business is business. What you want man?”
    Dave nodded and quickly reached into his back pocket and produced five crisp twenties from his brown, chewed up wallet. “I guess the usual,” he said, as he held out the money, his hands trembling from utter anticipation.
    “The usual huh?”
    “Yep.”
    The kid smiled a smile of arrogance, probably because he thought he had Dave wrapped around his little finger. But Dave didn’t care, because he knew something this little punk