Marcus Manuel: Apt. 215

The average income of a tenant of the Washington Heights project was less than $5500 a year. 50% of the residents had been incarcerated and more than likely the other 50% would be in jail soon. No kids had ever gotten out and made something of themselves, you know, like gone to college or something. Marcus Manuel got out of what was by far the nicest car in the parking lot, a Cadillac Escalade, and smiled. Usually he didn't like having to deal with what he called "delinquent customers," but this time he knew the man wouldn't be bothering him anymore. Plus he was a Dominican, who he really shouldn't have been dealing with anyways. "Whatever," he mused to himself, "moving on." He thought about his native Bogota and for a moment paused, missing the nice, warm beaches and the hordes of prostitutes and hitmen he had at his disposal. Quickly his thoughts snapped back to real life. If Marcus Manuel had to be summed up in one word, that word would be realist, and he thought to himself that Baltimore wasn't really that bad a place after all. Hey, it was a hell of a lot safer here than in Colombia, where every moment he feared a governement official busting through his door, or a rival drug lord setting off a car bomb. Here the most he had to worry about was whether the junkie would have his money, or if some mom got angry that he had killed their kid with his smack. "It's not my fault that kid OD'd on the stuff, I told him that shit was strong," he told the screaming and crying woman ready to rip his throat out. He tossed a few twenties at her feet, maybe five or six, told her to get a nice dress or something, and went along his way. A day in the life... but that life was about to get a lot more interesting in the coming weeks.