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was pouring out, looking like a red dye soaking the roots of her hair.
    On the floor was a light-blue Tiffany bag with Tupperware inside—the manager’s lunch perhaps. Ann held it to the edge of the counter and scooped in the stacks of twenties. Next to the cash register was a taped work schedule. Ann pulled it off and then walked out.
    When she reached the parking lot, her head was pulsating. She walked past the security guard again, even acknowledging him with a nod.
    Ann reached a church, a traditional brick building with a cross. A canvas sign, all in Korean, was stretched above the double doors. There was a light above the cross and Ann sat on the stairs and studied the work schedule. On the left side was a list of Korean characters corresponding to addresses in English on the right-hand side. Two of the addresses were on Hobart Boulevard with the exact same number. It had to be Number 19’s apartment.
    Ann could have taken the bus, but opted to walk instead. She passed mini-malls with neon signs that she couldn’t read, rows of multilevel apartments with fire escapes that didn’t seem to lead anywhere, and another driving range. Adrenalin was pumping throughout her body and she couldn’t stand still. Number 19’s apartment building was much like hers, a dilapidated structure made of bricks that didn’t seemed attached to one another, loose teeth in old gray gums. Sloped grass lawn full of weeds that could probably accommodate two parked Chryslers.
    Ann climbed up the creaky wooden steps to Number 19’s unit. She didn’t bother to try the doorbell—they never seemed to work in these buildings. Instead she rapped the dark wooden door with the side of her bent index finger.
    The door slowly opened, and Number 19 didn’t seem surprised to see Ann standing outside her home. She looked shorter, plumper, and older in the doorway of her apartment.
    “I need to talk to you. May I come in?”
    Number 19 nodded, holding the door open for Ann. It was a one-bedroom apartment and it looked like somebody slept on the couch. Number 19 gestured toward the kitchen, which was connected to living room.
    “I tried to get your job back, but I couldn’t.” Ann then dumped the contents of the Tiffany bag onto the kitchen table. The cash, mixed in with shards of glass, tumbled out, almost knocking over a plastic soy sauce bottle and a jar of chili paste. Last of all, the Tupperware container of the manager’s half-eaten lunch slid on top of the bills. “Here’s your money; it’s all yours. You deserve it.”
    Number 19 looked at her, first with fear and then sadness. Her hands trembled as she touched one of the bills. Then the bedroom door burst open. Uniformed officers with guns yelled, “Police!”
    Number 19 was crying now into her bare hands. Her roommate—Ann recognized the woman from the spa—emerged from the back bedroom and tried to console Number 19.
    One of the officers pulled Ann’s arms back and, while reciting her rights, secured her wrists in plastic ties.
    After Ann was led out of the apartment, one of the police detectives, a Korean American who spoke Korean, turned to the masseuse. “Did you have a relationship with that woman?” he asked.
    The masseuse kept shaking her head as if she were trying to erase any thought of the girl from her mind. “Just a customer,” she said. “She was no one special.”

DANGEROUS DAYS
    BY E MORY H OLMES II
Leimert Park
    1.
    Every Halloween, his birthday, John Hannibal “Quick” Cravitz liked to put aside his usual routine of chasing power and pleasure in the cloak-and-pistol world of private security and devote a day to rest and public service.
    That Halloween eve, when the day’s work was done, Betty Penny, his office manager, strung their offices with skulls and calaveras , crepe paper cats and autumn leaves. Some of the girls from Satin Dolls brought in champagne and gumbo. Cravitz gave everyone a pumpkin stuffed with treats and a hefty check for the