Fletcher Street fled from Central Avenue like a cat desperately hoping to evade its pursuer—-twisting peculiarly, frenetically spitting dead ends left and right, and eventually disintegrating into a stumbling series of alleys which dissolved, with its buildings, into the bay. Halfway between Central and the waterfront sat Benny’s corner, the proprietor’s athletic frame leaning with apparent ease against the crumbling brick of a semi-demolished building whose other half housed a family of twelve. Someone had attempted to start a garden amidst the rubble that shared walls with the questionably-sound structure, but the leaves of the potato plants were yellowed and withering—-no surprise there. Good earth was expensive and hard to come by besides. Benny sometimes paid the smaller children to keep watch for trouble, be it cops or competitors, but recently he’d had no need. Business was good. Every person who hurried down the ancient street was a customer or potential customer, even the lawmen. Benny didn’t distinguish—-everyone had a price, and everyone had a need, and Benny had been blessed with an acute awareness of peoples’ desires. No matter your tastes, if Benny didn’t have it, he knew where to get it. Local bottle-dens paid him a stipend to divert business their way, and in return, they’d steer those in need toward his corner. He had a reputation of being stringently fair; money was exact and prompt, or he was not above extracting it with ruthless diligence. Those who knew him knew not to cross him, for he was armed with a cold ambition that sentimentality could not sway. For now, he allowed them to call him “Benny”, but someday soon, he would be addressed as “Mr. Gussman” or simply “Sir”. Soon, he assured himself, soon.
The evening descended gently, the dwindling light bringing even more customers to the streets in search of pleasures only available after the sun set. Benny’s dispassionate gaze turned upward, briefly following the movement of bats near the angels silhouetted against the sky. Older buildings were often decorated with these stone figures—-some monstrous and animalistic, some somber and serene, but all uniformly refered to as “angels”. Statues were a rarity; most had been destroyed many years ago, leaving only these strange little refugees stranded on their lofty perches—-forgotten relics of a time before modern history. In the distance, rhythmic music announced that the bottle-dens were opening for the night, and Benny’s attention returned to the street, where it belonged. A figure was approaching, one that he recognized immediately, but did not greet. The girl paused a yard or so from him, her blank face offering only the fresh bruises and cuts of the day. Benny knew better than to expect a smile.
“The usual, love? Ah, that’s right, you don’t like it when I say that. Rough day at the station?” Benny extended his hand, palm up, and smirked. There wasn’t much that went on in this city without him hearing about it, especially when one of his regulars got hauled in for questioning. He also knew she hadn’t ratted him out—-if the abuse on her pale skin wasn’t evidence enough, he knew she needed the rush. She had a habit, and he was her supplier. In all the months he’d known her, Benny still hadn’t heard her speak, but he’d quickly learned to read her. Sometimes the lack of expression made it even easier to see when something hit home—-a minute narrowing of the eyes, a momentary downward curve of the lips; ah yes, she was hurting, and still held such disdain for him and his profession, and more than a little self-disgust for depending on both. It was all there, plainly laid out for him, and Benny didn’t give a shit. With a shrug, he took her money, smoothly tossing the inhaler to the uncommunicative wench in return. She turned to leave, stubbornly refusing to hit up in his presence. Benny just snickered to himself, counting his credits and shaking his head as the trenchcoat disappeared quickly down the closest alley. The other junkies had a nickname for the woman. They called her “The Dead Angel”. Some whispered it with reverence, some spat the name like an insult, but for Benny, it was simply further evidence of his personal philosophy.
“Even angels have a price,” he muttered, pocketing the credits with a cool smirk. Benny was moving up, and he planned to have an office overlooking the streets, far above angels and junkies alike. Everything around him was temporary. Soon, they’d know it. They’d all know it.
