Diablerie

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The apartment reeked from the acrid odor of roaches — a whole colony, tens of thousands of them, seething and unseen in the walls and under the dull, splintery floorboards of the vacant tenement apartment.

“Isn’t it great, Daddy?” Seela said.

Her smile was exultant. She hugged my arm.

I turned my head toward the window looking out on the East Village street. There I saw a Rastafarian wearing clothes that were once bright but now had faded into dull tatters, two transvestite prostitutes, and a powerful-looking drunk who was having a loud disagreement with a newspaper vending machine.

“It’s only twenty-two hundred and Millie’s going to split it with me,” Seela was saying. “We can move in tomorrow.”

“It looks like a dicey neighborhood, honey,” I said, unable to keep the whine out of my voice. “What if that guy down there goes crazy and pushes his way in here?”

“Oh, Dad. Lots of kids from NYU live around here.”

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