Эд Макбейн - Love, Dad

“Yes,” Matthew said.

“I am not no pimp,” Sparky said. “Is that why you been runnin’ from me, honey? ’Cause you think I’m a pimp? I am not no pimp, cross my heart an’ hope to die,” he said, spitting on the pressed-together index and middle fingers of his right hand, and then making an X over his heart with them. “Whut you got in that valise there? If it’s somethin’ you want to sell, then maybe I’d be innerusted in buyin’. So whut is it? You gonna open that bag for Sparky?”

Lissie looked at him.

“Well, whut is it now, honey? Was I goin’ to rip it off, it’d be easier closed than open. Now come on, open it for me.”

Lissie looked at Matthew. Matthew shrugged. She knelt before the suitcase, laid it flat on the floor, and unfastened the clasps.

“Well, well, whut have we here?” Sparky said, kneeling beside her. There was the smell of strong cologne on him. She was worried he would stink up the fabrics in the bag.

“Just don’t touch it, okay?” she said. “Anything you want to see, I’ll show it to you.”

“Still afraid I’m gonna rip it off, huh?” he said and shook his head. “First she thinks I’m a pimp,” he said to Matthew, “and now I’m some kinda thief. My, my. How much you want for this whole bag of shit here?” he asked.

“What?” Lissie said.

“The whole bag. Whut was you hopin to get for it door-to-door?”

“Well... what difference would that make to you?”

“Name a price,” he said, and reached into his pocket.

“For the... the whole bag here? The whole...?”

“The whole bag of shit, raaaht,” Sparky said, and pulled out a thick roll of bills fastened with a rubber band. A pusher, she thought, he’s a pusher . “So?” he said, taking off the rubber band and sliding it over his hand and onto his wrist, “how much?”

“Three hundred,” she said.

A hundred percent markup would have brought $200 for the lot. After listening to Matthew, she realized she’d be lucky if she and Marjorie made a $50 profit on their $100 investment. She was now asking for three times what they’d paid for the stuff.

“Sounds steep,” Sparky said, raising his eyebrows.

“That’s the price,” Lissie said. “Take it or leave it.”

“You just sold a whole bunch of shit,” Sparky said, and began peeling off $50 bills from the roll. His hand stopped. He looked up from the roll and grinned. “Provided,” he said.

“Here it comes,” Lissie said, and nodded knowingly to Matthew. “What’s the catch?”

“Two catches,” Sparky said. “First, the price includes that ratty suitcase.”

“Okay.”

“And second, you let me take you to lunch. To celebrate.” Lissie hesitated a moment. Then she nodded and said, “Deal.” They ate in a hamburger joint near the Harvard Coop, the suitcase on the floor beside the table, the $300 in fifties tucked into the right front pocket of Lissie’s jeans. Every now and then, she ran her hand over the bulge of the money; she was certain Sparky was a pusher who might try to pick her pocket or else later send a confederate to mug her on the way home. Lissie ordered a salad. Sparky spread relish and ketchup on his hamburger, and then looked up at her and said, “So whut’s your name?”

“Lissie,” she said.

“For Melissa, right? Got a cousin named Melissa down home. Melissa whut?”

She hesitated. “Melissa Green,” she lied.

“Green. Is that Jewish?”

“No.”

“Green,” he said. “Where d’you live, Melissa?”

“Connecticut,” she said. “New Canaan, Connecticut.” Another lie. Chewing, she looked up from her salad to check his face. He seemed to have bought both lies.

“Food okay?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks. Yours?”

“Fine. Melissa Green of New Canaan, Connecticut, huh?” he said, and grinned. “How about that?”

“What’s the Sparky for?” she asked.

“Spartacus.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Spartacus Marshall, uh-huh. He was a slave, you know, Spartacus. So was my great-granddaddy.”

“Where are you from?”

“From?”

“You said ‘down home’ a minute ago...”

“Oh, that’s where my momma ’s from. Down home, Shiloam, Georgia, population three hundred and nineteen. Me, I was born and raised right here in Boston.”

“Are you a pimp?” she asked suddenly.

“Nope.”

“Cross your heart?”

“An’ hope to die,” he said, grinning.

“What then? A pusher?”

He looked at her. His eyes were intensely brown, his hair formed a tightly knit woolen cap over his skull, his nostrils flared, his lips were thick, he was altogether black and altogether handsome. She lowered her eyes, refusing to meet his. Her gaze lingered on his hands, the huge knuckles of a street fighter, the contradictorily slender fingers of a pianist.

“You want an answer?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. Her eyes were still on his hands.

“Then look at me.”

She raised her eyes.

“An’ ask me again.”

“Are you a pusher?”

“I’m a pusher,” he said.

She nodded.

“Why you want to know? You doin’ some kind of shit?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then why you so innerusted in if I’m a pusher. You lookin’ for some quality grass?”

“No.”

“You smoke grass, don’t you?”

“I do,” she said simply.

“Sure you don’t want to buy some fine grass with all that money you got for your goods?”

“Positive.”

“Where’d you get all that stuff, anyway?”

“India.”

“What’s the dope scene like over there?”

“Wide open.”

“But you never done none, huh?”

“Only grass.”

“Want a hit of something stronger?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Want to come smoke some grass with me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? I thought we were celebratin’.”

“We are, but...”

“Paid you five times what you paid for that shit, least you could do is smoke some grass with me.”

“Three times,” she said.

“Whut?”

“Three times what I paid.”

“Well, sheee-it!” he said, and burst out laughing. “What are you, some kinda honest mother honkie? I really dig you, Melissa. Whut’s your real name?”

“That’s it. Melissa.”

“Ain’t no honkie in the whole world named Melissa, that’s a nigger name if ever I heard one. Whut’s your real name? Come on, if I can tell you I’m a pusher, you can at least give me your real name.”

“That’s it. Melissa. But most people call me Lissie.”

“Lissie.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Lissie Green, huh?”

“Well...”

“That ain’t it, is it? That’s the name to fool the big bad nigger pusher, ain’t it? So he don’t come hangin’ ’roun your doorstep peddlin’ his dope.”

“It’s Melissa Croft,” she said. “And I don’t live in New Canaan, I live in Rutledge.”

“Where you stayin here in Boston?”

“With a friend of mine.”

“Whut’s her name?”

“Brooke Hastings.”

“Where’s she live?”

“Near Brenner.”

“Maybe I’ll give you a call, tell you how much I appreciate bein’ charged three times whut...”

“If you think I overcharged you for that stuff...”

“Well, you did, didn’t you?”

“Fine, then I’ll give you your money back.”

“Ha!” he said.

“I will.”

“Okay, give it back,” he said.

“Okay,” she said, and reached into her pocket.