S Street Rising: Crack, Murder, and Redemption in D.C. by Ruben Castaneda Read Free Book Online

in front of an abandoned bakery.
    The two-story brick building was huge. The front spanned about thirty yards, and it looked to be more than fifty yards deep. Two sets of front doors were padlocked, and the windows were covered with plywood. Near the top of the facade, plastic letters spelled WONDER BREAD and HOSTES CAKE, a space where the second S in HOSTESS had once been. I wondered whether some young gunslinger had knocked it off during target practice.
    The building seemed like some kind of giant, urban ghost ship.
    My eyes flickered to the right, to our side of the street. A brick row house stood next to John’s Place, then an alley, followed by four modest two-story houses.
    In the middle of the block stood a large brick Victorian with circular bay windows and a large turret on top. It looked like a small castle. The lush front yard was filled with boxwoods, a rosebush, and daisies, all shaded by a large sycamore. The yard was set off from the sidewalk by a short, black iron fence. A small sign near the front door read NEW COMMUNITY CHURCH . A church? Here? In the middle of a crack zone?
    To my right, just past John’s Place, a thin man flipped burgers on a grill in the small front yard of his home, seemingly unconcerned about the brazen drug dealers working the block. The aroma of barbecue wafted into the car.
    Within five seconds, the slingers on both sides of the street spotted Champagne and sprang to life. Their eyes lit up as they raced toward my car. Yeah, she was known on the block. I watched them close in with a combination of anticipation and horror. I imagined a team of plainclothes cops swooping in, guns drawn, as Champagne exchanged crack for cash from the passenger seat.
    “The money?” Champagne asked, calm as Sunday morning.
    “Not in the car,” I said, my voice tense. I knew that some cities could confiscate the vehicles of motorists busted for drug buys made from a car. I wasn’t sure if D.C. was one of them. “Do you mind getting out?”
    Champagne shrugged. “Fine.”
    I handed her the cash. The street dealers surged toward her. I checked the rearview once more.
    As soon as her feet hit the sidewalk, Champagne was surrounded by a dozen slingers. I figured she’d lead them into the nearby alley, on the side of John’s Place, out of plain sight. I figured wrong. Champagne stayed put as the dealers formed a tight circle around her. They reached into their pockets, then held out their palms, displaying their products. Calmly, as casually as if she were inspecting fruit at a farmers’ market, Champagne considered her options. I watched in anxious awe.
    In Los Angeles, the Latino-gangster slingers in MacArthur Park and in Raven’s neighborhood at least looked over their shoulders for cops during drug deals. Here we were, barely two miles from the White House, and neither Champagne nor the dealers were breaking a sweat.
    In fact, Champagne looked bored. After what felt like a small eternity, she nodded toward one slinger and made the buy. The crack dealers retreated to their territory like football players jogging to the sideline after being removed from the game. Champagne strolled back to my car. I checked the far end of the street. Still no cops.
    “How’d you do?” I said.
    “See for yourself.”
    She opened her palm, displaying two healthy-sized chunks of rock in separate plastic baggies. Goose bumps erupted on my arms and neck.
    “Nice job,” I said.
    I turned on the ignition, shifted into drive, and cruised past the guy barbecuing on his front lawn, the slingers, the bakery, and the church that looked like a castle.
    We reached the end of the block. As I hung a right to head back to my apartment, I joked, “I guess these guys haven’t heard about the war on drugs.”
    A quizzical expression crossed Champagne’s face. “Huh?”
    At my place, we sat on the edge of my bed and got right to it. Without a word, she cut her rock in half, loaded it into her pipe, lit up, and