Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [42]
“What about me?” Bobby asked, sadness wrapped around the question. “You still love me?”
“I’m here, no?” Beatrice said. “To give strangers money your father works in a hole to earn.”
“I’ll pay you back,” Bobby said. “I swear it.”
“Don’t pay me with money,” Beatrice said.
“What, then?”
“Walk away from this life for good,” she said. “From the drugs and these bums who sell them to you.”
“I said I was gonna quit,” Bobby said. “This’ll be my last payoff.”
“If you can’t do that,” Beatrice said, cupping his chin, “then take enough to kill yourself.”
“You want me to die?” Bobby said slowly. “That’s what you’re tellin’ me you want?”
“You’re dead now, Roberto,” Beatrice said. “You walk and talk, eat and drink, but inside you’re dead. So, make it simple. For everybody. Stop what you’re doing or let me have a grave to pray over.”
The dealer came up out of the shadows to stand by Bobby’s left, a long, dark raincoat buttoned to his neck. The thin brim of a gray fedora shielded his eyes and hid his face; his hands were covered by thick black gloves. He was in his mid-twenties, long blond hair rubber-banded into a ponytail.
“Hey, Ray,” Bobby said in a startled tone, standing when he saw the dealer. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“You got my money?” Ray asked, his tired voice sprinkled with venom.
“This is my mom,” Bobby said, pointing down toward Beatrice, who stayed in her seat, staring at the dealer with contempt.
“I don’t give a fuck who she is,” Ray said. “You got my money?”
“Most of it,” Bobby said, looking over Ray’s shoulders, spotting the car waiting by a fire hydrant, smoke filtering out of the exhaust.
“I didn’t ask for most of it,” Ray said. “I want all of it. Now.”
“I brought five hundred,” Beatrice said to the dealer in the strongest voice she could muster. “It is all we have left.”
“You’re a thousand short,” Ray said.
“I’ll have the rest in about a week,” Bobby told him.
“How you gonna do that, High School?” Ray said. “Mama already gave you everything she’s got, and she’s all you know that’s got money.”
“It’s my problem,” Bobby said. “I’ll figure it out.”
Ray jumped off his stance and pounced on Bobby. His two gloved hands grabbed hold of the front of the zippered army jacket, lifting Bobby several inches off his feet.
“It ain’t just your problem,” Ray said. “It’s my problem now. And I gotta solve it.”
He let Bobby go, pushing him back toward his mother, who sat rigid in fear, her hands locked across her face. Ray walked past the boy, stopping in front of Beatrice. He crouched down, his eyes meeting hers, two hands on her knees, and smiled.
“You tellin’ the truth?” he asked her. “Five hundred’s all you got left?”
Beatrice nodded, too frightened to speak.
Ray took a hand off her knee and put it in his pocket. He leaned closer to Beatrice as the hand came out holding a black Indian-point switchblade. He pressed on a thin button at the bottom edge of the handle, releasing a seven-inch knife, sharp enough to cut through wood.
“I want all my money, Bobby,” Ray said, his eyes still on Beatrice, his face close enough for her to smell his drink-stained breath. “So I’m gonna ask you again. You got it for me?”
“Give me one more day.” Bobby moved two steps closer, trying not to sound as panicked as he felt. “I’ll get you the rest tomorrow. I swear it.”
“When tomorrow?” Ray ran the edge of the blade up the front of Beatrice’s coat.
“I’ll meet you here,” Bobby said. “Same time.”
“You think your little junkie’s tellin’ me the truth?” Ray asked Beatrice.
“My son is a junkie,” Beatrice said, putting a hand on Ray’s raincoat, bunching a small corner into a ball. “But you are much worse. You live off junkies. And that makes you nothing but an animal.”
“This is between us, Ray,” Bobby said. “Keep her out of this. Please.”
“You’re the one that brought her,” Ray said.
“Take your blood money.” Beatrice pulled out the envelope with the five hundred dollars from her coat pocket,