Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

“Grace!”

“Oops. You forgot to say when.” Grace paused-Izzie’s eyes glued to her-plucked at the fabric of the jacket, rubbed it between finger and thumb. “Nice,” she said.

“Want to try it on?” said Izzie, very quiet.

“That’s up to Nat, isn’t it?”

“Of course not,” Nat said.

“I wouldn’t want to violate any high-school code.”

“What are you talking about?” said Izzie; every note false in Nat’s ear. “It’s just a jacket.” She shrugged it off.

Grace put on Nat’s high-school letter jacket, saying, “At least we know it’s going to fit.”

And it did. At that moment Nat realized that Patti had never worn it. Wearing your boyfriend’s jacket had been uncool at Clear Creek High, at least while he was there.

“How do I look?” Grace said.

“Thought you had a laptop,” said Ronnie Medeiros, rummaging through the stuff in the back of the goddamn hippie van as they drove down to Fitchville. “My uncle has a thing for laptops.”

“You thought wrong,” Freedy said. There was a laptop, of course. Freedy had decided to keep it for himself. He’d never owned a computer before, knew nothing about them, but the CEO of a pool company would need to be completely whatever the word was with computers. So he was going to learn in his spare time. How hard could it be?

“Still,” said Ronnie, climbing into the front, “not a bad haul. My uncle says you’re doin’ good.”

It was starting to snow again, little dark pellets more like buckshot than flakes. Freedy turned on the wipers, turned up the heat. “Why’s it so fucking cold?” he said.

“Maybe you’re low on coolant,” said Ronnie. “Or else the coil’s fucked.”

Freedy glanced sideways at Ronnie, all toasty warm in his plaid hat, wool mittens, and padded jacket out to here. Looked like a complete asshole. He hadn’t been talking about the goddamn car. “Why’s it so fucking cold in general?”

“You mean because there’s s’posta be global warming?”

Freedy wanted to hit him; not brutally, just hard enough to straighten things out, clear the air. “How can you stand it?”

“Hey, it’s home.”

“The flats,” said Freedy. “You call that home?”

“Could do worse.”

“How the fuck would you know? You never been anywhere.”

“That’s not true. I was down to see my cousin in Fall River just last spring.”

“Fall River,” said Freedy. “You heard of Bel-Air, Santa Monica, Rancho…” Rancho what? He couldn’t remember. Like: was the whole thing, his whole California life, his real life, fading away? That scared him. This pool thing-pool business, concern, corporation-was going to happen. No matter what. Have an idea, make a plan, and then… for a moment, he couldn’t remember the third part.

“Jesus,” said Ronnie, throwing his hands up over his face, “you almost hit that guy.”

“Fuck you, Ronnie. I’m in total control.” He must have said it loud, because everything was quiet after. And in the quiet, having a chance to think for once, he remembered the third part from the infomercials: stick to the plan. Idea, plan, stick, stick, stick.

“Everything’s cool,” he said.

“Okeydoke.”

“Say, Ronnie.”

“Yeah?”

“Got any access to crystal meth?”

“You into that?”

“Wouldn’t say into. It’s just, you know, an enhancer.”

“I tried it. Couldn’t sleep for two nights.”

“That’s what’s fun.”

“Not for me. I need my sleep. Can’t perform otherwise.”

Perform? What the hell was he talking about? He wasn’t some high-powered something-Jew word-he was Ronnie Medeiros, Portagee loser. “You got access, yes or no?”

“It’s around.”

“I know it’s around, Ronnie. This is the U.S. of A. What I’m sayin’ is can you get me some?”

“Sure, for a price.”

“You fuckin’ people.”

“What’s that mean? Who fuckin’ people?”

“What I said.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, Freedy shivering because of the coolant or the coil or whatever the fuck it was, and still wearing California clothes, and Ronnie toasty warm hunched inside his padded jacket out to here, looking like an asshole. Imagine Ronnie in California. The thought made Freedy laugh out loud, a good long laugh. He could feel Ronnie thinking, What’s so funny? but he didn’t explain. Does the wolf explain, or the tiger?

“Thought there was a laptop,” said Saul Medeiros. It was cold in his office back of the collision place; cold in the office, cold in the car, cold everywhere, like all the heat was on the fritz.

“No laptop.”

“You sure?”

“Fuck I’m sure,” said Freedy. “Think I got it hidden in that goddamn toaster?” A good line, California cool, especially if he’d said it quieter.

“ ’Kay,” said Saul, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his greasy jacket, that nose with the hair growing right on top. “If there’s no laptops, there’s no laptops. But you know why I like laptops?”

“ ’Cause they make you think of pussy,” said Ronnie, smoking in the corner. They both turned to him. “That’s what they make me think of,” Ronnie said. “Every time I see a laptop I think of one of those lawyers, like on TV in a miniskirt.”

“Ronnie?” said Saul.

“Yep.”

“How about takin’ the dog for a walk?”

“What dog?”

“The junkyard dog, for fuck sake. What other dog is there?”

After Ronnie left, Saul opened a drawer in his desk, took out two nips of V.O. and a jelly donut with sprinkles. He pushed one of the nips across the desk, tore the donut in half, leaving a black thumbprint on powdered sugar, said, “Help yourself.”

“Not hungry,” said Freedy, unscrewing the tiny bottle.

Saul shrugged, ate the donut, speaking between mouthfuls, or actually during them. “What I like about laptops is the way they fly out of here.”

“Yeah?” said Freedy, downing his drink.

“Fly. You’re doin’ pretty good, but you start bringin’ in laptops you’ll be doin’ better. ’Pendin’ on the model, I pay up to three C’s for a laptop.” He raised the V.O. to his lips-lips with sugar powder in the corners-paused. “One thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You bein’ discreet?”

“Sure.”

“Discreet means you never mention my name.”

“Why would I?”

“Otherwise I get anxiety. That’s no good for anybody. Me because of my hypertension. You because…” The ugly little bastard stared at him with his ugly little eyes, one of them bloodshot. Then he polished off his drink and said, “Let’s do business.”

They did business. For Saul that meant shaking his head a lot, saying, “This I can’t move for shit,” “No one wants these anymore,” “There’s a new model out now,” “It’s missing that thingamajig at the back”; for Freedy it meant getting ripped off.

“You’re doin’ good,” said Saul, paying him off.

“Then how come this is all I get?”

Saul did that head-shaking thing again. A tiny green drop quivered at the end of his nose. “Has nothin’ to do with me,” Saul said. “Market forces goin’ on here. Globalization market forces.”

A hundred and seventy-five dollars. Driving back by himself up the highway, Freedy knew he just had to work harder. He was willing. This was the U.S. of A., and he was a native son. Men just like him had built the whole goddamn country, so there was no problem with work. He wasn’t some lazy name-the-ethnic-group. He popped an andro dry, ready to work at the drop of a hat.