After dipping a rag in one of the buckets, Nachine dripped water on the floor going toward the glass. This was a cover job. Something to make some nickels and dimes to eat and get around.
"Nevermind dummy, get some paper towel and Windex," Rochelle said forcing a pan in the last opening in the cave. "Have you every clean a window."
"Nope," Nachine said.
Grabbing the paper towel and Windex, Rochelle sprayed the showcase glass. "You don't use sanitized water."
"I can wash dishes and do light vacuuming."
"First, we have a dishwasher for the pans and the serving utensils," Rochelle said. "Are you imbecile?" She took her glasses off her face to clean them with the paper towel. "There's no carpet in here."
What right she got to call her names? Nachine thought. She struggled living the United States since she spoke little of the English language and lacked the understanding of the States drug world, she ended up traveling from state to state to set up in the poorest part of Detroit. Nachine took a loaded off her feet in one of the women restroom stalls. She had dug herself out the poverty her dying mother left her in.
Running young groups of Brazilian enforcers, she controlled areas of the favellas. They would stab, burn, and riddle with bullets the enemies of the drug lord she worked for not like the Tattle Tale sissies fearing the Detroit police.
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