Pulp - Charles Bukowski [46]
45
So there I was, back at the office the next day. I was feeling unfulfilled and, frankly, rather crappy about everything. I wasn’t going anywhere and neither was the rest of the world. We were all just hanging around waiting to die and meanwhile doing little things to fill the space. Some of us weren’t even doing little things. We were vegetables. I was one of those. I don’t know what kind of vegetable I was. I felt like a turnip. I lit a cigar, inhaled, and pretended that I knew what the hell.
The phone rang. I picked it up.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Belane, you have been selected as one of our prize winners. Your prize can be a tv set, a trip to Somalia, $5,000 or a folding umbrella. We have a free room for you, a free breakfast. All you have to do is attend one of our seminars where we will offer you an unlimited real estate value…”
“Hey, buddy,” I said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go hump a rabbit!”
I hung up. I stared at the phone. Deathly damned thing. But you needed it to call 911. You never knew.
I needed a vacation. I needed 5 women. I needed to get the wax out of my ears. My car needed an oil change. I’d failed to file my damned income tax. One of the stems had broken off of my reading glasses. There were ants in my apartment. I needed to get my teeth cleaned. My shoes were run down at the heels. I had insomnia. My auto insurance had expired. I cut myself every time I shaved. I hadn’t laughed in 6 years. I tended to worry when there was nothing to worry about. And when there was something to worry about, I got drunk.
The phone rang again. I picked it up.
“Belane?” this voice asked.
“Maybe,” I answered.
“Maybe my ass,” the voice went on, “either you’re Belane or you’re not Belane.”
“All right, you got me. I’m Belane.”
“All right, Belane, we hear you’re looking for the Red Sparrow.”
“Yeah? What’s your source?”
“Our source is private.”
“So are your parts but you can expose them.”
“We choose not to.”
“All right,” I said, “so what’s the play?”
“$10,000 and we’ll put the Red Sparrow into your hand.”
“I don’t have the ten.”
“We can put you in touch with someone who can let you have it.”
“Really?”
“Really, Belane. Only 15% interest. A month.”
“But I don’t have any collateral.”
“Sure you have.”
“What?”
“Your life.”
“That all? Let’s talk.”
“Sure, Belane. We’ll be at your office. Ten minutes.”
“How’ll I know it’s you?”
“We’ll tell you.”
I hung up.
Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door. A loud knock. The whole door rattled and shook. I checked my desk drawer for the luger. It was there, pretty as a picture. A nude one.
“It’s open, for Christ’s sake, come on in!”
The door swung open. A huge body blocked the light. An ape with a cigar and a light pink suit. He was with two smaller apes.
I motioned him to a chair. He sat in it, completely filling it. The chair legs gave a bit. One ape flanked him on each side.
The main ape belched, leaned forward a bit toward me.
“I’m Sanderson,” he said, “Harry Sanderson. These,” he nodded toward his cohorts, “are my boys.”
“Your sons?” I asked.
“Boys, boys,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You need us,” said Sanderson.
“Yeah,” I said.
“The Red Sparrow,” said Sanderson.
“Are you connected with that babe and her mongrel boy who skipped their apartment the other night?”
“I ain’t tied to no babe,” he said. “I just use them for one thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“To mop my poop deck.”
Each of his apes giggled. They had thought that cute.
“I don’t think that’s cute,” I said.
“We don’t care,” said Sanderson, “what you think.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Now, let’s talk about the Red Sparrow.”
“$10,000,” said Sanderson.
“Like I said, I don’t have it.”
“And like I said, we get a Loaner to give it to you, easy terms, 15% a month.”
“O.k., get me the Loaner.”
“We’re the Loaner.”
“You?”
“Yeah, Belane. We give it to you, you then hand it back. Then you pay 15% often grand each month until the loan is fully repaid. All you do is sign this piece of paper. No money really changes hands. We just keep it, to save you from handing it back.”
“And for