Full of Grace by Misty Provencher

the second floor.  I lock up my car and climb the metal staircase.  When I hit the top floor, the teens huddling at the opposite end of the walkway turn to look at me all at once, like a Gothic herd of pierced-up sheep.
    “Hey,” I say, with a two-finger wave.  I scan the apartment doors.  None have numbers on them.  There are only shedding wreaths, dented doors, and filthy welcome mats to differentiate the dwellings.
    “You looking for Craig?” One of the teens asks, flicking his cigarette ashes over the railing.  When I get close enough, I realize that not all three are as young as I thought.  At least the one speaking to me isn’t.  He’s got a bull-ring through his septum and about six in his face and he’s maybe five years older than the fourteen or fifteen year-old girl beside him.  And who knows how much older than the freaky little androgynous thing smashed in the corner behind them.
    “Nope,” I say with a grin. Bull-Ring flicks more ashes over the rail.  It’s probably raining on the old lady in the checkered housecoat who I saw sitting down below.
    “Julie?”
    Another grin.  “Nope.”
    “Who you lookin’ for then?” The girl asks.  She’s got gauges in her ears that are so big, I could probably pass my fist through them.
    “Sher,” I say.
    “Cowl or Traifere?”
    “There’s two of them?”
    “Uh, yeah,” the gauged girl rolls her eyes.  I realize that I’m every bit as stupid as she’s thinking I am, even if not for the same reasons.  I have no idea what Sher’s last name is.  I don’t know a damn thing about her, except that she’s got skin like the underbelly of a baby rabbit and she’s carrying my baby—for the moment.  We came together for maybe ten minutes total and it began this whole weird elbow pipe of our lives as strangers.  What a mess.
    “Sher with all the brothers and sisters,” I finally say.  It’s the only thing I can think of.
    “Traifere,” Bull-Ring says.  He turns away from me.  “Guess she’s turnin’ tricks now.”
    “Pardon?” I say.  I even push a friendly-ish grin on my face, to let him know that I’m the friend that will grab that stupid silver ring he’s got jammed through the middle of his nose and use it to drag him around the complex, while I simultaneously kick his ass.
    But Bull-Ring obviously can’t read facial expressions, or muscles.  He flicks away the butt of his cigarette and squares his shoulders to me, as if he’s something to worry about.
    “I said, she must be turnin’ tricks now.  Why else’re you here?  I had her a while ago and I can tell you, she ain’t worth it.  She ain’t got a clue what she’s doing.  But, at least, I didn’t have to pay.”
    “Didn’t you now?” I say, walking toward him.  I quickly assess the railings of the balcony and the way the gauged girl stares at the back of Bull-Ring’s head, like he’s crazy.  I also take in the androgynous black-covered thing, who has slid down against the wall and peers out into the apartment parking lot, as if the cops are going to drive up and start blasting at any second.
    Bull-Ring takes a step toward me.
    “You sure you want to do this?” I ask with a teasing grin.
    I don’t have time to give him my credentials because the kid yanks a pistol from his waist band.  I don’t waste a second talking. I tuck in close, blocking his arm and twisting it, while also bending his wrist the wrong way.  It happens all at once, like a Mangle-Me-Twister game, until Bull-Ring finally gives in to the excruciating pain racing up his arm and drops his gun.
    It’s a frackin’ Airsoft gun that fires plastic BBs. I should pop his elbow just to teach him a lesson about pointing guns at people.  But, instead, I shout, “Look out below!” and kick it over the edge of the railing.
    The androgynous kid on the floor is still folded up, and the gauged girl is frozen, her mouth dangling as low as her holey earlobes.
    “Get off me, you sonofabitch!”