Aphrodisiac by Alicia Street, Roy Street Read Free Book Online Page A

could have failed the Breathalyzer from a hundred yards. Benita and I made the mistake of allowing brief eye contact with him. Now he stumbled his way toward the car while unzipping his fly. Oh no. Not tonight. Good thing we had the air conditioner running so the golden arch of urine merely pattered against my closed window.
    My verbally gifted roommate opened the car door and jumped out. “ ¡Huelebicho! ” That meant dick smeller. “ ¡Me cago en tu madre! ” I shit on your mother.
    “Binnie.” Time for therapeutic intervention. “Remember, it’s not personal. Get back in the car. The light is green.”
    She reclaimed her seat and slammed the door shut in disgust. We left the human carwash tottering in the street, still wagging his droopy dog.
    As we rounded Van Brunt and made our way up Beard we saw a light coming from inside Gwen’s place. JMC Heating and Cooling occupied the first floor of the three-story red brick warehouse.
    “Let’s park up the street, so we don’t look obvious.” Benita pulled the Camry to the curb a healthy distance away from Gwen’s building. We got out and walked the length of the block. Beard Street had turned into an endless construction site, leaving parts of it torn up and covered with planks, piles of debris and broken cobblestones. Streetlamps made us easily visible. We decided to hide behind the hulking red Dumpster diagonally across from Gwen’s door.
    Crouched and huddled together, we watched for activity on the third floor. After twenty minutes of staring at blank windows, I whispered, “How long do we have to stay all bent up like this? Or are we aiming for the Beavis and Butt-Head award?”
    “This is surveillance. You gotta be patient."
    “Well, I’m getting a cramp in my thigh.”
    Benita glanced at me. “You white chicks are so stiff. Get into a deep squat.”
    “Can’t. My jeans are too tight.”
    “Why didn’t you wear running pants like me?”
    “I hate running pants. They make me look chunky.”
    “So, unsnap your jeans, piggy.”
    I gave it ten more agonizing minutes. “I bet nobody’s there, and they just left the light on. I say we call it a night. Tomorrow I hire a pro.”
    “No way. We’re going inside. I’ve got my camcorder.”
    “Great. And if we run into these gonzos we just say, ‘Don’t mind us. We’re making a documentary on lowlife scum.’ ”
    “No. We shoot and run with the evidence.”
    “You call that evidence? We can’t just…” My words trailed off. Benita was already making her way across the street. I confess, my cowardly first impulse was to let her be the scout while I held down the fort, so to speak, here in the shadows of the Dumpster. But my keys to Gwen’s place were inside my handbag.
    I scuttled after Benita, my eyes glued to the window just in case there was someone in there who could look out and see us. At the door I was half hoping they’d changed the locks. I slid the key in the tumbler. It clicked open.
    We bypassed the gray steel freight elevator. The stairwell was lit by one feeble bulb and stank of mold. I winced with every creak our feet made on the old wooden steps. We reached the second-floor landing and stood with our ears pressed against the door to Gwen’s loft.
    “Nada,” Binnie said.
    I turned the key. “In we go.” As soon as I opened the door I was struck by the barrage of scents still present from the fragrances Gwen made here. And by the undeniable reality that something was wrong. Several floorboards had been torn up all across the room. Sheetrock that covered the brick walls had been busted and torn, leaving large holes and craters.
    “Somebody’s looking for buried treasure,” Benita said.
    Whoever the pirates were, they had defiled sacred ground. For years this had been a very special place to me. Half shutting my eyes, I could still see Gwen’s jammed but neatly organized workspace. A series of cluttered tables and shelves. Beakers and flasks of perfumes being made in her