The Complete Collection. William Wharton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ convinced they’re most likely counterfeit, they’re brand-new-looking, but how much use do hundred-dollar bills get anyway?

      I’m not saying anything; I just want to get the hell out of there. I’m so confused I put out my hand to shake, French-style. She takes my hand and gives me a good shake back. I don’t think anything could surprise this lady. She goes over to the door and before she can open it, I come a bit to my senses.

      ‘Do you want us to bring the keys in here or leave them in the car?’

      She smiles.

      ‘You’d better lock it up and bring the keys in; we still have to sign the delivery papers.’

      I want Dad to see this place. He’d never believe it and I don’t blame him. I stick my head out the door and holler. He can’t hear me inside, so I motion him to come in. He opens the door and sticks his head up over the car.

      ‘Lock it up and bring the keys, Dad. Bring the papers, too.’

      Those kids and all the neighbors are lined up across the street. Nobody’s moving. Dad locks his door, then sprints across and up the steps. I stand back to let him in.

      He stops dead in his tracks like he’s been sandbagged. He looks at me and looks at the lady. His head turns slowly to take it in. He looks back at the door. The lady puts out her hand for the key. She’s enjoying this almost as much as I am.

      ‘Would you give me the key? I gave him the money.’

      She points to me and I nod. Dad drops the keys in her hand. She tucks them in a little pocket at the hip of her dress. She reaches for the papers.

      ‘What’re we supposed to sign?’

      Dad gives her the papers. His hands are shaking. The lady leads us to the nearest bar where there’s more light. Dad’s in front of me and she’s leading the way. I let off two minor-note farts; I fart when I’m nervous.

      We do the signing. She keeps her pages and Dad pockets his. Dad tries to pay back the change, about fifty dollars, but she waves it off.

      ‘What are you two; brothers, or father and son, or what? It’s like seeing double.’

      She couldn’t’ve said anything to make Dad happier; but personally I’m getting fed up with being seen as some kind of carbon copy thrown off by a biological time machine.

      ‘Yeah, this is my son Bill.

      ‘Wow, you sure have a beautiful place here; it’s the last thing you’d expect.’

      ‘You like it, huh?’

      She smiles that same smile, more in the eyes than in the mouth.

      ‘It’s incredible.’

      ‘And you’re curious about it, huh?’

      She isn’t being nasty, just leading him on.

      ‘Yeah, to be honest, I am. For instance, how are you going to use a car like that one out there? What do you do with a fancy place like this in a neighborhood like this one?’

      ‘This is just what you think it is, Mr Tremont, a fancy place.’

      She smiles again.

      That’s straight enough. She offers us both a drink, and when we nod yes, she pulls ice from an ice-maker, puts it in shot glasses and pours Ballantine Scotch over top. The whole thing’s so James Bond I can’t get myself around it. I’m still expecting a quiet hit over the head, either here or when we get outside. I’m tasting the drink for knockout drops.

      ‘If you two’d like to stay on and have a good time, there’s not much going now; it’d cost just one of those soldiers you have in your pocket there.’

      Fucking A, the old man handles this as if he’s been propositioned by beautiful whores in the afternoon all his life. He smiles and says we have friends waiting for us; he asks if there’s a bus or streetcar back to Bala-Cynwyd.

      ‘Lord almighty, I don’t know anything about that. I never go outside. I don’t even live in Philadelphia; I live in Newark. Sorry, I can’t help you but I believe there’s a bar around the corner to the left. Maybe they can help.’

      Since there’s no more business with us, she gently slips past, smiling, talking all the way, leading us to the door we came in. All the other doors have been blocked out and covered with mirrors or brocade. This door has heavy drapes over it so you’d hardly know it was there.

      So suddenly we’re out in that blinding sunlight. There’s the heat, the humidity, the smells and all those black people standing on the other side of the street staring. The fire hydrant’s still spurting water. It’s ten times worse than coming out of a movie in mid-afternoon; my eyes start hurting as if I’d just eaten a pint of ice cream in three minutes. And there’s such a heavy feeling of hate, a chill would run up my spine if there were anything cool left in me. Now I’m dripping sweat inside my jean jacket.

      We stroll, not run, down the street and around the corner. We find a place there you might call a bar. It has the word ‘BAR’ written on what’s left of a broken plate-glass window and there are black, mean-looking bucks hanging around in front of it. There’s also one guy spread in the gutter, bleeding from his nose and mouth. Nobody’s paying much attention to him. There’s another sleek, thin type, with blood dripping down the front of his T-shirt, leaning in the doorway of what’s supposed to be the bar.

      Nobody’s shouting or even looking excited. My crazy old man walks past the cat in the door to a fat guy behind the bar; there’s broken glass all over everything. I stay outside. All those eyes follow Dad in as if he’s Cleopatra stepping from her boat on the Nile. I almost expect them to twist shoulders and take the frontal position. Other groovy cats have started drifting onto the scene. I never really thought of myself as the kind of asshole who’d die a violent death in North Philadelphia.

      One huge mother of a stud sidles up to me. He’s wearing a black, leather, brimmed hat and a thin, yellow silk, tailored shirt. Dad’s still in there talking with the fat bartender.

      ‘Hey, man, what you doin’ here?’

      ‘We just delivered a car from California to a house around the corner and we’re trying to find a bus out. That’s my dad in there.’

      ‘Shit, man, you are in the wrong place. You got maybe five minutes to live if you stay around here. You all jes’ come with me and right now. Get your old man and stick your ass tight to me.’

      This guy must be over six feet six and he’s at least three feet across the shoulders. He looks like a muscular gone-to-pot basketball player or a linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers. He talks in a reedy, high-pitched quiet voice.

      Dad comes out and I tell him this fellow’s showing us where there’s a bus. I can tell from Dad’s face, things didn’t go so hot in the bar. I suspect nothing ever goes well in that bar. He falls in behind me and we tail this tall dude with the black leather hat and the yellow shirt. He could be leading us up some alley for a real mugging and we wouldn’t have a chance, even with the two of us, even if he were alone, which he wouldn’t be. But we don’t have that many choices. The giant keeps checking to see that we don’t fall too far behind. it takes two СКАЧАТЬ