“Sheila, just because they’re not wearing Façonnable shirts doesn’t mean they’re selling drugs.” James replied, smirking.

“Listen, the judge told me that corner was where prostitutes and drug dealers were.” I pointed again, this time with slightly more drama.

“OK, so now Judge Friedman’s the final word on coke and sex? Look Sheila, I just don’t think so. This is a really beautiful, nice neighborhood,” he said smugly. I was frustrated now.

“Does it not occur to you that sex and drugs could possibly be sold in nice neighborhoods? For example, Washington Square Park, Greenwich Village? I think we should ask someone.”

“You want me to proposition one of those guys. No thanks. I’m still smarting from the whole Brian-Jana episode. I don’t need to add getting arrested for seeking out homosexual sex to my résumé at this point.” Fair enough.

“Maybe we can just ask the guy, I don’t know, at the Laundromat or something?”

James didn’t think so.

“Listen. I have an idea. Why don’t you go to the Laundromat. Ask the nice, eighty-year-old Korean man who doesn’t speak English if he knows where you can buy some crack and sex. But man-on-man sex, clarify that part. Then call me and we’ll go grab a beer.”

At that moment, I noticed a cop walking out of Pine Street Pizza, at the corner of 12th and Pine. I ran down the street and caught up to him before he got back into his police car.

“Excuse me, sir,” I panted.

“Yeah?” He asked, irritated that I’d come between him and the foot-long sausage stromboli he’d shoved underneath his armpit.

“Yes, I moved down the street not long ago and my boss just told me she thought that corner,” I pointed up to Spruce and batted my lashes, “was a place where prostitutes and drug dealers were.” The sheer eloquence was lost on him. The cop just stared. “Is that true?” I asked. He leered.

“You must be from the country. A small town or somethin’?” Me—a farm hand?!

“If you must know, I moved here from NEW YORK CITY.” I was bragging about a city I no longer lived in to a cop with a sausage up his armpit.

“Well, Ms. Big City, in that case, it should be obvious to you that’s where people sell drugs and sex. Why else would all those queers be getting into those cars? Those cars are driven by Main Line faggots who screw those guys and then go home to their wives and kids.” He appeared to grow enraged just thinking about it.

At least those guys didn’t beat their wives and kids, I thought, noticing his wedding band. Good thing he carried a gun, a beating stick, and mace.

“Great, thanks.” And I was off. James was standing where I left him moments earlier. “Yup. Guns, drugs, sex to the north. Scary, hateful, homophobic wife-beater cops to the south.” James’s mouth dropped.