It was another two weeks before I could get back to the city. I didn’t see the man but had no trouble finding another. And another. And another. It got to be a habit. Moms never asked where the extra money was coming from. She got better. And I was cool back at the reform school, so they kept their promise to let me end my bid sooner since Moms was still sick and I was only an accomplice in the crime in the first place. By the time I got out, I had learned to do more with my body—every part of it—and I made more money, too. I had my own corner and didn’t have to go into the bars to buy drinks or wink at fat old men. I didn’t have to dance like some of the real faggots do in cutoff jeans or satin gym shorts too tight in the crotch. I didn’t have to do nothing much at all. Nobody knew my name and nobody cared. I was all face and body. Seems like I didn’t even have a name and didn’t want or need one. But just for kicks I tried calling myself Starlight and Mister Magic, not anything that would say something about me or what I did. Nothing that could get me back in jail. Then when it was warmer and spring, I wore only jeans and a light jacket. No underwear. The days were longer. Nights warmer. But one night, the magic stopped and for one goddamn scary moment I thought I was through.

“Aren’t you Lonny? Lonny Russo?”

I even stopped breathing for a second. Shit.

A woman’s voice. A black woman’s voice. Someone I didn’t even know. A face I didn’t remember. A real woman, too, not one of the drag queens who worked the block. This one had real tits and a round ass. Two men were with her. Pimps? Shit, I was scared. I tried being cool.

“Aren’t you Lonny?” she said again.

“Naw,” I said. “I don’t know who you talking about.”

“Yes, you are. You remember Jesse, don’t you? I’m his friend.”

“I don’t know nobody like that.”

“Remember Metro?”

“Who?”

“Metro. The boy they stabbed in the Village last year?”

“Don’t know what you talking about.”

She stayed there a moment, not crossing the street. I held my breath. But she kept looking at me like she had my case. Shit. I didn’t even know who she was.

“Come on, Ruella,” one of the guys said, pulling her across the street.

“We don’t want to be late for the program,” said the other one.

“But that’s Lonny,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”

“Come on, Ruella. City Center’s not too far. We’re going to be late.”