Pulp - Charles Bukowski [104]
“Punk,” he said, “your 24 hours are up. You still diddling with your weenie or you made your mind up?”
“I’m still diddling with my weenie.”
“You want the Red Sparrow or not?”
“I want it. But you guys remind me of these guys who worked over my aunt in Illinois.”
“Your aunt? What the fuck’s this about your aunt?”
“She had a leaky roof.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. These guys came by and told her they’d fix her roof, they had a new super sealant. They had her sign a piece of paper, write out a check and then they climbed up there.”
“Up where, punk?”
“The roof. They got up there and poured used motor oil all over. Then they split. Next time it rained, it all came through, the rain, the oil. Ruined everything in my aunt’s house.”
“No kiddin’, Belane? You touch my god-damned heart with that one! Now, let’s talk! You want the Sparrow or you want us to walk out of here?”
“You’re gonna loan me 10 grand, huh? Which I ain’t even going to get and you’re going to charge me 15% a month interest? You got any other sweet deals for me? I mean, look at it this way: if you were me would you touch this goddamned deal?”
“Belane,” Sanderson smiled, “one of the few things in the world that I am grateful for is that I am not you.”
Both of his monkeys smiled at that one.
“You sleep with these guys, Sanderson?”
“Sleep? What the hell you mean, sleep?”
“Sleep. Close your eyes. Play hand up the cheek. Stuff like that.”
“Belane, I ought to bust you up so you’re less than a fart in an empty church!”
Both of his monkeys giggled at that one.
I inhaled, exhaled. Somehow, I felt as if I were going a bit mad. But I often felt that way.
“So, Sanderson, you say you can put the Sparrow in my hand?”
“Beyond a doubt.”
“Well, screw you.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘screw you!’”
“What’s the matter with you, Belane? Going a bit mad?”
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s it.”
“Just a moment…”
Sanderson gathered his two monkeys close to him. I could hear them buzzing and chirping. Then the huddle broke.
Sanderson looked solemn.
“It’s your last shot, punk.”
“What? What is?”
“We’ve decided to let you have the bird for 5 grand.”
“3 grand.”
“4 grand is our final offer.”
“Where’s the fucking papers?”
“I got ’em here…”
He reached into his coat and threw them on the desk. I tried to read them. There was much legal jargon. I was to sign for a loan from the Acme Executioners. 15% interest a month. I could make that out. Also, something else.
“This thing still reads as a 10 grand loan.”
“Oh, Mr. Belane, we can fix that,” said Sanderson. He snatched the papers, crossed out the 10, changed it to 4, initialed it. He flipped the papers back on my desk.
“Now, sign…”
I found a pen. Then I did it. I signed the god-damned thing.
Sanderson snatched the papers up and put them back in his coat.
“Thanks a bunch, Mr. Belane. Have a nice day.”
He and his two monkeys turned to leave.
“Hey, where’s the Red Sparrow?”
Sanderson stopped, turned.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yeah, oh,” I said.
“Meet us at the Grand Central Market, tomorrow afternoon, 2 p.m.”
“That’s a big place. Where?”
“Just find the butcher shop. Stand by the hogs’ heads. We’ll find you.”
“Hogs’ heads?”
“Right. We’ll find you.”
Then they turned and walked out of there. I sat there looking at the walls. I had a vague feeling that I had been screwed.
48
So, it was 2 p.m. I was at the Grand Central Market. I had found the butcher shop and I stood at the hogs’ heads. The holes in the skulls, where the eyes had been, looked at me. I looked back, took a puff at my cigar. So many things to make a man sad. The poor boiled those skulls for soup.
I wondered if I had been set up. These guys might never show.
A poor soul walked toward me. He was dressed in rags. As he got close I spoke to him, “Hey, buddy, you got a dollar for a beer? My damned tongue is hanging out…”
The miserable bastard turned and walked off. Sometimes I gave, sometimes I didn’t. It all depended upon how my feet hit the floor in the morning. Maybe. Who knew?
Well, there wasn’t enough money to go around. There never had been.