Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

I did. Unless they got really lucky, they were going to live in a succession of foster homes and group homes until they were turned out onto the street at age eighteen. We all get dealt a hand to play in this life. Being orphaned in Newark, New Jersey, had to rank among the worst.

As we made our way through midday traffic toward the Outback, we downshifted to small talk. It’s amazing how much hookers and reporters have in common: we have to walk the streets in all kinds of weather, we have to relate to people from a variety of backgrounds, and we’re constantly getting dicked around by politicians.

We arrived at the restaurant to find it mostly empty and got seated in a corner booth. After we ordered our meal and received our salads, I got down to business.

“So how is it you and Wanda started working together?”

“You mean with me doing it and her dealing?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess it was when she got pregnant with her fourth baby and couldn’t dance no more,” Tynesha said. “We were pretty tight by then. I knew she had to do something to support those kids of hers, and there ain’t exactly a lot of jobs out there for pregnant dancers. I mean, there were a few guys out there who wanted to get themselves with a pregnant girl. .”

I made a face.

“Yeah, all kinds of weird suckers out there,” she said. “But Tynesha didn’t want to turn tricks. She was real firm about that. You should put that in your article. Anyway, once her baby started showing, the owner wouldn’t let her dance no more, so she started selling. See, that’s the side I want to come out. She sold to support her kids. She wasn’t no bad person.”

“I’ll make sure that gets in,” I said, using it as an excuse to remove my notepad and start taking notes.

“So where did she get her drugs from?” I asked.

“At first, she got it from Lucious, my pimp. Then one of her boyfriends hooked her up with some stuff. She got it from all over, I guess. I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“What did she sell?”

“Oh, man, I don’t even know. All kinds of stuff. Whatever she could get her hands on. She was just trying to survive, you know what I’m saying?”

“She sell heroin?”

“Yeah, some of that.”

“She ever get caught?”

“Yeah, once,” Tynesha said. “She was selling to some guy who turned out to be a cop. Ended up doing some time for that.”

“When did she get out?”

Tynesha thought for a moment.

“Well, she got pregnant right after she got out. I mean, like, she was going to find herself a man to take care of her and she was going to do it fast. She got herself another loser, of course. And he ran off. But that was. . let’s see. . that baby is six months and she was pregnant for nine months. . so she got out. . a year and a half ago?”

“Didn’t getting sent to jail make her want to stop dealing?”

“Naw. It made her more careful,” Tynesha said. “It’s like she learned how to be a better dealer in jail, like it was dealer Vo-Tech or something. Before she went to jail she was just selling to people in the bar, you know? But then after she got out, she was selling inside the bar, outside the bar. People would seek her out. It was like, man, she made it. I mean, maybe this sounds weird or something, but I was proud of her.”

“So why did she keep dancing if she was doing such good business?”

“I guess it was like a front, you know? If she stopped dancing, it would be suspicious. We get cops who come in all the time. They know all the dancers. They’d notice if she quit. I guess she just didn’t want them asking questions.”

“Do you know what she was selling at that point?” I asked as our meat arrived.

Tynesha got this look like she was trying to remember something.

“I mean, there was this one guy. I was sucking him off and he was just jabbering on and on-some guys really like to talk, you know? And he said something like, ‘Man, I love this place. You give me the best head ever and your girl gives me the best H ever.’ ”

H. As in heroin.

“Was that before or after she got out of jail?” I asked.

“Definitely after,” Tynesha said with half a mouthful of filet mignon.

Another confirmed heroin seller. Another ex-con. It was definitely starting to become a pattern.

“So if she suddenly has this best-ever heroin after she gets out of jail, you think she hooked up with a source in prison?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess.”

“She ever talk about where she was getting it from?” I asked.

Tynesha looked at me solemnly.

“In the hood, if you have a really good source for junk, you don’t never talk about it. Never,” she said. “Not with your neighbor. Not with your boyfriend. Not even with your best friend.”

Our date finished uneventfully, and I dropped off Tynesha in Irvington with an exchange of cell phone numbers. When I got back to the office, it was nearing 3 P.M. and Tommy was deep into the Edun jeans Web site.

“My butt would look so killer in these,” he said wistfully. “Too bad they’re like $195.”

“Who would want to drop two bills on a friggin’ pair of jeans?”

“ Bono wears Edun jeans,” Tommy said with the utmost gravity.

“And Bono has a great ass? He’s old enough to be your father.”

“I hope my ass looks half that good when I’m his age.”

“So Bono has set the standard for aging asses?”

“It’s not just his ass,” Tommy said, getting frustrated with me. “It’s his whole aura . I wouldn’t expect someone who wears pleated pants to understand.”

“What’s wrong with pleated pants?”

“Nothing, if it was still 1996,” Tommy said. “Although I guess they match your 1998 shoes.”

“Okay, meanwhile, back in the present, please tell me you managed to find out something about Shareef Thomas?”

“Well, of the seven addresses you gave me, I found two vacant lots, an abandoned building, one Shareef Thomas who is alive and well-and totally mental-and two places where, to quote one woman, ‘I ain’t never heard of no Thomas Shareef.’ ”

“And the seventh address?”

“I got a door slammed in my face.”

“That’s promising,” I said, and I wasn’t kidding.

“You think?”

“Absolutely. Think of all the things a slammed door represents: a little bit of anger, some fear, definitely something to hide. I’d say you hit paydirt. Which address was it?”

Tommy shuffled some papers. “One-nine-eight South Twelfth Street,” he said.

“That’s. . where?”

“Up off Central Avenue,” Tommy said. “I kicked three plastic vodka bottles on my way from the car to the front door. There’s a homeless shelter next door. It’s pretty much wino heaven.”

“Any of the neighbors know Shareef?”

Tommy paused, a little embarrassed.

“You didn’t talk to any neighbors?”

“It was like the fifth or sixth address I looked at,” he whined. “I was getting cold. All the other addresses had been dead ends. I just thought. .”

“No, that’s okay,” I said. “Look on the bright side: now you have something to do this afternoon.”

Tommy sighed and sank low into his seat.

“That street was so nasty,” he said.

“C’mon. All you need to do is find someone who will be willing to admit to a perfect stranger that Shareef Thomas was a heroin dealer who recently got out of prison. How difficult can that be?”

“See you later,” Tommy said, sighing more as he grudgingly lifted himself from his chair. “If I don’t make it back alive, I’m bequeathing you my wardrobe. At least I’ll die knowing it went to a truly needy recipient.”