I was in a barren industrial area of the City, familiar because some friends had once liberated an abandoned warehouse nearby for a party. Which proved how very, very important it is to attend every party you get invited to because they provide invaluable knowledge.

I stopped running and reached into my pocket for the money I’d taken from Average Joe. I counted out almost three hundred dollars. I was a few miles from a scuzzy urban motel, nicknamed Motel Smells Like Hell, where Mercedes housed particularly problematic bands. It was the sort of place where decent, respectable, upstanding citizens were treated with suspicion and hostility, i.e., exactly the place I needed.

Another mile took me to a seedy block where one could score drugs or visit the “Does It Itch?” free clinic. I glanced at the newsstands of weeklies. Wilcox, Ford, and Cricket had been dead for only eight days.

I gave a street person five dollars for all his coins, and he told me about a working pay phone nearby. I dialed Mercedes’s office landline and left a message, saying, “Miracles can be found at places that smell like hell, no doubt; don’t say a word,” and hung up.

Half an hour later I reached the motel. I hid in the parking lot, which stunk of urine, rotting garbage, and pine-scented disinfectant. I contributed substantially to the stench.

An unfamiliar green car pulled up and I saw Mercedes inside. She got out and looked around. When I called out quietly, “Hermana,” she turned toward me.

“¡Dios mio!” Her eyes were wide behind her glasses and her mouth fell open.

“You don’t have to give me an abrazo until I get clean. Does anyone know you’re here, meeting me?”

“No one. I knew you wouldn’t reference Gwen Stefani except in an emergency,” she said. “You look …”

“I need a room and a change of clothes. Something red to drink and eat would be great.” I put the money in her hands. “Keep it off the books and I’ll tell you everything once we’re in the room.” I stepped back behind the Dumpster.

She returned ten minutes later, carrying a cardboard box, and whispered, “Where are you?”

“Here,” I answered, and came out. She led me to an end unit and unlocked the door. The room had a king-sized bed covered in a shiny leopard-print polyester bedspread and mustard yellow shag carpeting.

Mercedes closed and locked the door and wedged a chair under the doorknob. She reached into the box and took out a bottle of V8, a package of Red Vines licorice, and teriyaki-flavored beef jerky. As I scarfed down my food, I saw her looking at my feet, with their mud of blood and filth, my bloodstained shirt, my jeans hanging from my hips.