Gideon

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Flaco had known that it would be I bad, but he had no idea how bad it would be until Serafina called him by every name he had.

“José Eduardo Gonsalves y Mercado! You cannot be serious!”

Flaco leaned against the frame of the open window and stared at the snarling traffic on Fort Washington Avenue, four stories below. At the grimy sidewalks, at the tight-packed throng of people passing one another in rigid isolation. At the dealers and the hookers and the hustlers hanging on the street corner—the corner of “Powder and Pussy”—waiting for the cars from the burbs to come and deal. He would give anything to leave this place; to find Serafina a home somewhere bright and green, where flowers grew The Sun was still high and the breeze that rippled the dingy white curtains of the apartment brought no relief from the July heat.

Flaco shrugged and stepped into the kitchenette of their two-room flat. He pulled a six pack of El Presidente from the refrigerator, snapped one can out of its ring and tossed it to Serafina. He took another one for himself and rubbed it across his forehead and the side of his face. The icy condensation on the can let him forget for the moment how hot it was in the city. Even the sleeveless undershirt he wore did not help. “It is a wonderful opportunity,” he said.

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