Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [39]
Oh, man.
—OK. I’ll give you a ride, but let’s get going.
—Thanks. My name’s Leslie. Pink slip’s inside.
The daughter is sitting on the floor in front of the tube watching MTV. A girl her mom’s age is shoving her ass into the camera. Leslie points at a chair.
—Wait here.
She goes into a bedroom and I can see her take a box down off a shelf in the closet. I stand next to the chair and watch the girl watch TV. The video ends and she becomes aware of me.
—You like Britney?
—Not really.
—I used to like her, but now she’s all dirty.
—Looks that way.
—You like Christina?
—Not really.
—My mom likes her.
—Who do you like?
—Eminem. Do you like him?
—Sometimes.
Her eyes are locked on the screen as she flips channels. Leslie walks back into the room, a massive black purse over her shoulder and a pink slip in her hand.
—Got the money?
I slip some bills out of my pocket and count out four hundred. She takes it and looks at the rest of the cash in my hands.
—You a dealer?
—No.
—Hn.
She hands me the pink slip, already signed, and I put it in my back pocket. She puts the cash in her purse and looks at her daughter.
—Cassidy, turn that off, we’re gonna go to daddy’s.
Cassidy switches off the TV, gets up, and walks out the front door without looking at her mom.
—She’s a little pissed at me right now because I told her we had to get rid of the cable.
—Right.
I wait on the porch while she locks the door, twists the BMW key off the ring, and hands it to me. I point at the trunk.
—Anything you need to get out?
—Some tapes in the glove box, you can have ’em.
—OK.
Cassidy scrambles into the backseat, Leslie gets in front and looks over her shoulder.
—Put on your belt, honey.
Cassidy sighs loudly but buckles up and we do the same. I start the BMW and pull into the street. At the first stop sign I tread lightly on the brake pedal and roll halfway through the intersection before we stop. I pull us the rest of the way across and look at Leslie.
—Told you they needed fluid.
—No kidding.
—You want your money back?
—No. Which way?
She directs me through several blocks of run-down suburbia, brown lawns, peeling paint, overgrown tree roots pushing up slabs of sidewalk, until we pull into the driveway of another stucco job, this one with a rusted and empty boat trailer in the side yard. Leslie opens her door and sticks one foot out.
—Look, will ya do me a favor?
—Depends.
—I know I said I just needed a ride here, but will you wait a second in case he’s not home and we need a ride to the bus stop? I would of called him, but the phone, ya know, like the cable.
Killing me, she’s killing me.
—Just be fast, OK?
She nods sharply, gets out, and helps Cassidy from the backseat. I turn off the car and watch as they go up the walk. The front door opens before they can knock. A guy in his twenties, wearing sweatpants and a concert T with the sleeves ripped off, comes out. He sees me in the car and points.
—Who the fuck is that?
Oh no.
Leslie looks at me.
—That’s the guy I just sold your fucking car to, you asshole.
Oh fucking no.
—See, fucker, I told you. I told you, pay your fucking support or I’d sell the fucking thing.
No more kindness to strangers. No more kindness to strangers. No more kindness to strangers.
Cassidy’s dad sticks his finger in Leslie’s face.
—You did not, you fucking bitch.
—Yes I did, I did.
She points at me.
—Go ask him. Go see, he has the fucking pink slip, you deadbeat piece of shit.
Cassidy walks past them and into the house with a shrug of her shoulders. Been there, done that.
The guy starts heading for me.
—You, cocksucker, get out of my fucking car.
Why do I keep landing in this shit? I mean, is shit just attracted to this fly or what? No matter. This particular shit is easy to get out of.
I start the car, drop it in reverse, zip out of the drive, and head back down