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“13300, 13300…” I muttered under my breath, scanning the line of old buildings that stretched on either side of the street. A few minutes ago, they had been high rises, forming the famed skyline that drew crowds and photographers for postcard pictures that lured the unwitting tourists to buying dozens. Sunlight reflected off the panes of glass and employees of corporate firms walked with purposeful strides to their destinations, probably counting minutes and steps and making it into a ratio, I thought wryly.
That was then. As things did in old cities, where the new was built in right along with the old, buildings changed abruptly when you crossed the street. The buildings now I passed were once beautiful; cracked ornate molding decorated the tops of some blackened brick buildings, turn-of-the-century houses were seated right next to them, all the rage at the time, but fallen into disrepair.
Moldings and styles, floors, baths, faucets, cabinets, fixtures, location, historical value, wallpaper, and carpet- all were second nature to me, as a real estate agent. The National Bank had posted for auction an old diner, built in the post-WWII craze that swept the nation and spawned an army of Cadillacs. As with much of the neighborhood, it could be restored and sold again- especially as I’d gotten word of a housing project taking place mere blocks from 13300 Westfield Ln.
“Thanks, Monty.” His glasses reflected my thin face.
“No problem. We all fall on hard times.” Monty’s voice was solid, reassuring. I would never starve with him tending the counter. He knew I would get a new job soon. The pencil-pushers at the lumber plant twenty minutes upstate had decided to shut down the plant. I would never wish something like that.
The plate of food was sitting in front of me, reassuring, sending up steam from the expertly cooked eggs and bacon. My mouth watered- this would be the best meal I’d eaten days. Lumberjack fingers closed around the fork.
9:03. I was more than on time for the auction. 13288…13290…13298… I slammed on the brakes as the derelict café came into view. The first thing that came into my mind was the cost. It would take much money to repair the older building and outfit it with modern appliances. The county inspections would be a nightmare. In classic style, it was a lower, sprawling building that once had white paint, but was now a pale grayish. Red trim three-quarters of the way up looked recently- well, comparatively recently pained. Shrubs looked dead or half-dying. The door handles were tarnished and rusty, but they were in the long style of the time. The windows weren’t square, but wavy or circular. Must have cost a fortune when they were put in. A cold blast of air hit me as I walked in to see a long, well-tended counter, black and white patterned flooring, and low triangular ceiling lamps.
So caught up was I in the details of the place, I hadn’t realized that I hadn’t seen any banker representatives or auctioneers. No Corvettes or Ferraris in the parking lot infested with more than one kind of weed. Despite a few local-looking customers, the place was empty.
Well. So.
I heard a cough from the corner table on my right. When I turned, however, the p***k was studiously looking into his coffee. “Excuse me?” I asked. I’ve been told that when I get angry, instead of frowning or shouting, my lips compress and the corners of my mouth turn up in a garish impression of a smile. I hadn’t ever realized until then, but now I felt the corners twitching upwards ever so slightly.
He was wearing a rumpled, good quality jacket and jeans, with a slightly stained white shirt underneath. I was never good at fashion, I couldn’t tell what they were, but they would look downright respectable with a wash. As for age- he looked over eighteen, but not much over. Black hair obscured his face. A pack of black djarum cigarettes lay on the table.
When he caught me studying him, he quit peering into his coffee and met my gaze. His eyes were vivid green, a contrast to the grey, drab clothing he wore. Dark smudges encircled his eyes, however, like the grayness was trying to leech all the color out of his face. “People like you don’t usually come here.”
“I am- was- here for a reason.”
“So you’re not here for a reason anymore?”
“So I’m here, but not for the reason that I originally came here.”
“What was your original reason for coming here?”
“The auction that will sell this,” I waved my hand in a vague motion.
“Someone else already bought it. They’re tearing it down.”
“So I came all this way for nothing.” He picked up the flat, disconnected sound in my voice, and shifted unconsciously slightly away from me, farther into the corner. “There’s always a cup of coffee,” he remarked offhandedly.
I snapped. “Yes, that’s probably what you live on, isn’t it.” Again, not a question. “That, and vicodin or whatever’s the cheapest and gives you the longest high. I wish the owner luck in tearing down this junkyard. He’d probably find enough needles to inoculate half of South Africa.” My voice echoed in my ears, and I didn’t like what I heard. High, shrill, demanding. Degrading.
It must have hit too close to the truth; the regulars at the counter and tables were now paying full attention, but they didn’t seem angry, and nor did the druggie. “We are defined by what we do. If you want to degrade your existence by slaving away for a job that will get you nowhere, if righteous hard work makes you feel good, then do so.”
“As for me, if I prefer mingling in a surreal world, one that seems a little more mysterious, more exciting, more forgiving than the reality you lock yourself in, you should allow me the privilege of choosing that for myself. While you force yourself into one existence and conform yourself into one reality, I sample all of them and allow myself to choose which I want to belong to.” He slammed his fist against the countertop, looking at me all the while, but his voice never raised once during his soliloquy. The coffee cup wobbled and spilled, sending a black puddle over the Formica. I at once moved to the napkin dispenser, but it was useless. I stared in shock as the coffee burned through the counter and the opposite chair and splashed on the black and white checkered tiles.
He took the napkins from my hand and tossed them over the spill. I watched numbly as the napkins leeched in all of the corrosive coffee, turning a pale cream color. Calmly, he took a cig from his pack on the part of the table that was still standing and lit it. The tiles had been affected by the coffee too- instead of being black and white checkered, they had faded into a dull grey.
”Whichever you choose.” The vintage handles of the doors felt cold and solid beneath my panicked hands.
“The police will hear about this. About your stash house.”
A disarming smile. “Fine. I welcome police.”
“Y’know, you’re tab has gotten high.”
“Yeah, Monty.” I could see my blue eyes reflected in his aviator glasses. “But this is only the third time this-”
“The diner has to make money too. We’re not a soup kitchen.” Quiet, firm. Begging not to make a scene.
Footsteps clicked on the old checkered tile. I didn’t turn, but saw a figure behind me in Monty’s aviators. “I’ll take care of it.” It said. Savior. “How much is on the tab?”
“One-hundred dollars and forty three.”
I blushed red, in shame. It was not just twenty-one hearty plates of eggs and bacon, and thirty cups of black coffee. Small, very empty bags and folds of crumpled paper littered my flat. I paid not a cent. Coolly, he, he pulled out his billfold and counted out the money. A hundred dollar bill; probably the first one Monty had seen in a long while. Two twenties, followed by a shower of nickels and dimes. Three pennies on top of the stack served as the final insult. He counted it out, every last cent.
The stool beside me creaked. Later: “Could you do a favor for me, Rick?” Anything.
“Depends what it is.” No, not anything. He’s well off, throwing around money. He's a someone. Someone who picked me up from the mud, and now he’s come collecting.
“Nothing big. I just want you to say a few things about me.” An unspoken question was communicated between our eyes. Like what?
“No.”
His voice took on a pleading tone. “Rick, Rick. It’s because of my pride.” The casual appearance, the do-no-wrong attitude, all stripped away. By begging. “Please, Rick.”
“Like what?” I’d listen. That’s all I’d do. Listen.
“I got into a spot of trouble. It’s mostly blown over now. A formality. If you help me, though, I might be able to hang with you here.” Pleading eyes, hands clinging to the tabletop as if he was drowning. If he were drowning, the Formica would be the last thing to save him.
“Okay.” Tentative.
He smiled winningly. “Okay.” His hand slipped into his jacket. A bag? “Look at me, Rick.” He said softly. I looked into his eyes. He had turned from the supplicant to the king. I felt myself be put under his spell, his charismatic gleam. And the rustle of the bag slipping out of his jacket.
“When they, the people in court, ask you questions, all you have to do is say-” He slowly opened the bag. I felt my skin prickle with anticipation.“-yes.” I stared as he slowly, but casually, opened the small pouch. No. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He pushed across a dime’s worth to me. “Once you’re out, I’ll give you everything you’ll need.” Dime. Dime’s worth. A thousand and four dimes worth.
“So you mean to say that this man-” an accusative finger pointed at him- “had no idea of your dealing in the drugs found in the local café? That a local real estate agent had verified?”
“Yes.”
“You recognize that all evidence points to the contrary,” yes, “that this man has several other misdemeanors against him, and he is the likely suspect for the crime?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe this man is not guilty, and in fact innocent of all crimes pressed against him, even though your sentence might be lightened by several years?”
Don’t worry. I’ll give you everything you need.
“Yes.”
“Objection!” Shouted the defense. My defense. “Our client is still under the effect of narcotics we believe were forcibly-”
Hush. I wanted to say. Stop shouting. You’re hurting my ears.
“I like these glasses. Never thought I’d have ones like these. I envied the guy who had them before me.” Lips curled back into a expansive smile.
He posed mischievously next to one of many granite columns in front of the courthouse. Nice molding around the bottom. Ornate carvings higher up in late Roman style.
“How much did you buy Rick Albinson for?”
“Much less than it would have cost to buy the jury,” he laughed, examining the lenses, sliding his fingers back and forth through the solid glass. I had learned not to respond to his tricks. His lashes rose slightly to see if I was looking. I was. Like a glassblower on a hot day, he melted the glass right off the cheap plastic frame. Coursing liquid glass ran down his arm in strings, reflecting the white of his collared shirt. With a snap of his wrist, the glasses reappeared in their un-liquefied state.
The corners of my mouth twitched up, again. “Cute.”
He put on his aviator shades. “Aren’t I?” I saw my eyes reflected in the glasses. “And the villain is scot-free. Does it bother you that justice is not done?”
“We’ll see.”
The diner was a vacant lot, last time I had checked. I try to avoid it. An economic recession had begun just as the place was bought, by the time they had cleared the rubble it was an expense just to keep the taxes in reign. I idly wondered if the workers had seen the table half-burned away from the coffee by the devious man who strode free or if it was really burned at all. But that was then.
 Attingere · Mon May 21, 2007 @ 03:01am · 0 Comments |
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