We sailed along Lakeshore Drive, got off at Fullerton, took Clark to Broadway, and turned right onto Surf Street. The hotel sat in the middle of the block, minuscule compared to the apartment buildings on both sides.

The Surf Hotel is a rent-by-the-month shit hole frequented by Down-and-outs whose plan for the future ends with their next meal, trick, or drug-induced trip. Then hit repeat. Crushed beer cans and cigarette butts littered the sidewalk along with the human equivalent.

A twenty-something kid in filthy jeans and a Metallica tee shirt paced back and forth in front of the building in a looping pattern. Hands shoved down in his pockets, back hunched, head bowed like he was working out some unresolved coming-of-age crisis or counting cracks in the sidewalk.

Two punks leaned against the side of the building in an alleyway. The perfect escape route if a cop accidentally drives by on their way to buy donuts.

An old bag in a dilapidated wheelchair sat next to the hotel entrance chucking insults at passerby's. She could have been a character in Oliver Twist__with emphasis on the twist part.

Nick stuck his head out of the window. "Hey, Gladys, I'm back!"

"You got my money? You piece of shit."

"Don't pay any attention to her; she's batshit crazy. I'll get my things and be right back."

"I got an errand to run. Meet me at Clark and Diversey in an hour," I said.

Before he entered the hotel, he stopped for a chat with the two punks. The conversation looked animated; then Nick pointed to our cab and waved to me. Not so much a "come here" wave. More like, "I'm with the rich old bitch in the backseat of the cab" kind of wave.

One of the punks pulled something out of his pocket and palmed it off to Nick. I heard Nick say, "thanks, man, catch you later." Followed by a fist bump.

He disappeared inside the hotel, with his ass hanging out the back of his hospital gown. No one gave him a second glance. Welcome to the bottom of the barrel, Chicago style.

I watched the wheelchair lady reach into her pleather pocketbook and pull out an empty pack of Camels. She crumpled it in one motion and threw it next to a discarded beer can. Then, she leaned over and fetched a half-smoked butt from the ground and lit it.

I knew the feeling--the joy of finding a half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray of life. I reached into my Fendi HoBo bag and fished out two one-hundred-dollar bills and a fresh pack of Marlboro's. I tossed a hundred into the front seat of the cab. "Thanks for the ride," I said. "Keep the change." He drove away.

"Hey, Gladys, any place around here a gal can buy some dry clothes?" I asked.

She looked surprised that I knew her name and adjusted her demeanor. She dropped the cigarette and ran her fingers through her greasy hair. A hopeless grooming gesture. But important. Yes...important.

Her voice morphed into a younger version of herself. Goodbye, crone, hello promising young woman of yesteryear.

"Oh, my! Well, let me think. Uh, Ronnies Resale Shop is around the corner. But," she said in a whisper like we were two ladies dishing the dirt. "It's kind of chintzy."

"Thanks for the info," I said with a wink. "We girls got to stick together."

She gave me a million-dollar toothless smile and then quickly covered her mouth.

I palmed her the other hundred and dropped the pack of cigs in her lap. When I turned the corner on Broadway, I looked back. She was waving the money and yelling something. I never heard what she said. But, I'm sure it was important.

I stared at my phone. I had four missed calls from Q. I deleted them and dialed a number. "You still in the disposal business? Send someone to the corner of Clark and Diversey for a pick-up. My name? Manning, Zelda Manning."