OMG! Maybe the judge was right? Was he—along with all the other loitering men on my block—selling drugs? Sex? Both? At that moment, I noticed Mr. Overalls accepting some cash from the driver before getting in on the passenger side. They sped off. Could it be that I lived in the Red Light District of Philly? No wonder my rent was so cheap. I called James, who thankfully was home.

“Hey, can you meet me outside, right now?” I asked compulsively.

“Is everything OK?”

“Just come outside, OK?”

“OK, be down in a minute.” James came out moments later, in his after-hours uniform—jeans, sweatshirt, tennis shoes. “What’s going on? You’re home early,” he commented.

“Yes. The judge drove me home. Did you know we lived in a prostitution drug circle?” I implored. James shook his head, confused. I pointed to the posse of skinny men. “Look. Those guys are always there. Random cars pull up and stop and talk to them. Sometimes they get in. And that guy who lives upstairs in our building always has men coming over.”

“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.