“Al, slow down, goddammit.” Tweak stopped and shed her jacket, draping it over her arm. Bug shook her head and rolled her eyes. The June temperature lingered at eighty degrees, although the sun was nearly down. Tweak always insisted on wearing her leather. It was an image thing. She could be such a big baby, too. Something Bug had learned on the street: the tough-looking ones were often the first to crumble. That was Rebecca Alexie, AKA Tweak.
     “Quit whining, Bec,” she said. “Those boneheads won’t be there all night.”
     “Yeah, I know,” Tweak answered, apologetically.
     “What we’re gonna do,” said Bug, “is wait on the corner, like we’re spanging. It should be kinda busy there this time of day, so we shouldn’t be noticed.”
     Their target was an off-track betting joint called The Greyhound Station, a name which was being contested by the bus line. Several downtown rent-a-cops spent their free time there, shooting pool and betting on the dogs. Some of the kids had seen the boneheads in question go into the place just this evening. Bug was counting on them still being there.
     The girls turned the corner on SE 3rd Avenue, and picked a spot in front of a hole-in-the-wall market called Harry’s Downtown, where the kids often bought cigarettes. The area of town was on the border between suits and sleaze, generally a good place to pick up spare change without being hassled.
     The second door down was The Greyhound Station, and Bug positioned herself on the far side of Tweak, so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck to see the door. Bug made idle chitchat while Tweak asked passersby for money. She had spanging down to an art. If prospects were deemed Cool, they received a straight forward request for “cigarette money;” a fatherly-looking Conservative was pegged for “money to take the MAX home;” a Bleeding Heart got the puppy dog eyes, and please feed the homeless waifs spiel.
     Over the next hour, several groups of patrons came and left, but no sign of the boneheads. Tweak was getting bored and fidgety. Bug’s butt was sore. She stood up and stretched.
     “So how much we got?” she asked.
     “Four and a half bucks. Without even trying.”
     “Enough to get something to eat.”
     Bug shuffled nervously, staring at the door of The Greyhound Station. She itched to get a closer look, but sweating palms told her danger.
     “Okay. Okay.” She had made up her mind. “Bec, stay here. I’m goin’ to see if they’re in there.”
     Tweak scrambled to her feet. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Al.”
     “I’m gonna do it. You stay here.”
     “Al,” begged Tweak, but Bug was already halfway to the door of The Greyhound Station. Through the darkened glass, she could see the silhouettes of players racking up, lining up their shots, and swigging their beers. She took a deep breath and walked in. The smell of beer and cigarettes met her, as the door banged shut too hard behind her. The music was Seventies, the obnoxious disco kind. From the ceiling hung an array of video monitors displaying the race winners, lottery results, and various sports scores. Bug carefully scanned the dark room for the boneheads. She spotted them at a table in the back, the tall, beefy one still in his rent-a-cop uniform, cigarette dangling from his mouth; his wiry friend chattering, nervous like he had just done a speedball.
     “You got ID?” Bug jumped, heart pounding. The SOB had slipped up behind her.
     “Huh?” was all she could manage.
     “Out,” he said, “you got no business here.”
     Bug turned and quickly exited. Tweak was on the sidewalk where Bug left her, worriedly pacing. She gave Bug a reproving look and said, “Well?”
     “They’re still in there.”
     It was beginning to get dark and Bug was thinking, shit, we’re gonna be here all night. Just then, Tweak stiffened.
     “Don’t turn around, Al, they’re comin’ out. Oh, shit!”
     “What?” asked Bug, in a forced whisper. When Tweak didn’t reply, she repeated it more urgently.
     “It’s okay,” said Tweak, “the skinny one looked right at me, but I don’t think he recognized me. They’re goin’ west up Stark.”
     They grabbed their backpacks and scurried to the corner. The boneheads were still walking up Stark. The girls waited for them to get to the end of the block before continuing. Bug became suddenly aware of how deserted the streets were. The big brooding buildings that formed the canyon called Stark Street had few crannies to hide in if those guys were to turn around. Above her, she heard a long whistling cry, and she remembered the peregrine falcon she had seen here a few weeks ago, nesting in one of the towers. She didn’t know if it were a good sign, or bad.
     Bug didn’t notice when the boneheads disappeared. They had been there, but now the street was empty. Her hands began to sweat again, and her legs trembled. She looked around, wide-eyed at Tweak, and saw that her friend was about to wet her pants.
     “I’m scared,” Tweak whimpered. Bug knew that Tweak was going to be useless, maybe even a danger to them both. She steered her toward a nearby doorway.
     “Sit down here, Bec. I’ll be right back.”
     She gave her a gentle kiss and helped her onto the sidewalk, and then she slid along the edge of the building in the direction the boneheads had been. There was a cutaway for an ATM at the bank building on the corner of Broadway, obscured by a large concrete pillar. As Bug inched closer to it, her pounding heart eased. Broadway was still busy with traffic: she could scream for help if she needed.
     She moved quickly into the shadow of the pillar. Then she heard the voices. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she was sure it was the two boneheads and someone else. Then she noticed something that made her heart stop. In the bank window, she saw the reflections of three men, the boneheads, and the other guy she recognized from the City Council meeting where Emmy had spoken. And if she could see them, then couldn’t they see her?
     None of them had looked her way. She backed away slowly until she could no longer see their reflections, then carefully retraced her steps until she got back to where Tweak sat in the doorway, vulnerable, crying like the little girl she still was.
     “Oh, Allison,” she blurted out, but Bug hushed her.
     “They’re just up the block,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”
     The girls picked up their bags and moved quickly down the street. At Sixth Avenue, they turned south along the bus mall. They considered boarding a bus, but decided instead to stick to the mall until they reached Pioneer Square. On a warm, summer night there would be people there, hangin’.
     They were almost at Washington Street when Bug heard footsteps behind them. She was too scared to turn around. It’s just somebody going to catch a bus, she told herself. The footsteps receded. Then more footsteps. A woman’s heels. She relaxed.
     The phone booth on the corner of Sixth and Alder reminded her to check in with Marta. Tweak protested, but Bug dragged her to the phone, dug thirty-five cents out of her pack, and dialed. The wait was agonizingly long. Each click on the line emphasized the quiet on the street. Finally, Marta answered.
     “Yeah?”
     “It’s Bug.”
     “Yeah, Bug. Where the hell’ve you been?”
     “We followed the boneheads, Marta. They met with that Teddy guy from City Council.”
     There was a long silence on the other end of the line. More footsteps approached. A single man. The footfalls stopped, and Bug saw a shadow in the corner of her eye. Somebody waiting for the phone.
     “It’s Maddy,” said Marta. “This is all about Maddy Milcheford. Okay, guys. Good work. Call me in the morning.”
     Tweak was tugging on Bug’s arm, insistently.
     “Sure, Marta.”
     Bug hung up the phone before she felt the hot breath on her neck. The smell of beer. Something hard pressed into her ribs.
     “Take it easy, girls,” said a raspy voice. It was the skinny one. “Just walk on over to the bus shelter here, and I won’t have to hurt you. Giorgi will be here in a minute to give us a ride.”
     Bug’s heart sank. Tweak, white as a Goth princess, melted onto the bus shelter bench. Bug thought about her father in Oklahoma. If only she had gone with him, gone back to school, she wouldn’t be here now. Bec wouldn’t be here.
     The bonehead looked at her hard, a sneer on his face.
     “So, you queers ever do it with a man?”