22As dawn cut through Margaux’s barred window, she struggled to keep her hair from frizzing inside the holding cell at the New York City Police Department’s Nineteenth Precinct. It sat at 153 East Sixty-Seventh Street and provided her with no view, no beignets, no beautiful girls. But worst of all, she had to sleep on Third Avenue, which Margaux had deemed Suicide Avenue.
She had worked hard for her rightful domain between Fifth and Madison. But the NYPD took her back to a street full of Rite-Aids and delis instead of Brunello Cucinellis. The Central Park Conservancy didn’t plant flowers or put Christmas lights on the lesser avenues. Instead, construction refuse littered the dark and grimy world outside her prison cell.
To Margaux, the people of Third Avenue were those who almost worked
