Read Online Dermaphoria by Craig Clevenger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Clevenger
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you. For collateral.”
“Is he staying too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
You kissed me. For the length of the kiss, the Mad Hatters came back.
“If you follow the news,” Otto rode shotgun, talking in an auctioneer’s blue streak, “busts are almost always in the inner cities. If you trust the numbers about the drug economy, and believe that it’s purely an inner-city problem, then the streets of ghettos and barrios would be swamped with dealers, and the buyers would queue up like an East German bread line.
“The major shit moves through here,” he said. He’d guided me into suburbia. Skin-colored houses with white pickups and boats in their driveways. “And I mean major.”
He reached into the backseat and heaved a black duffle the size of a small tree stump into his lap. Beneath two layers of waterproof canvas and nylon lay an ingot of bills. They were sheathed in plastic, the top layer all Jacksons.
“This time, it isn’t mine. I’m a way station.”
“Zip that up.” My eyes went to the rearview mirror out of instinct. Every pair of headlights was cause for alarm. “Now.”
“All twenties. Nonsequential and unmarked. I’ve checked ’em, I know.” He closed the inner and outer bags and said, “this thing weighs thirty-five pounds. You want to know how much this totals?”
“No.”
“Whatever. You’re the only other person I’ve told about it. I gotta deliver it tonight and they’re going to count it, every last bill. You’ll find out.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
“Relax. You’ll like these people.”
We made two stops, maybe three. Some details are sharper than others, and they all run together. The houses were the same, I remember, white walls, white carpets, and children’s art projects on the refrigerators. Each visit, someone offered us a light beer and a seat on the couch in front of a wide-screen television where I waited while Otto exchanged one bag for another.
Otto’s people drove minivans with baby seats, their floors littered with fast-food wrappers, school newsletters and sports equipment. They owned boats and jet skis, campers and trucks with bumper stickers broadcasting their political party or proclaiming their children’s honor-student status. They wore Little League coaching windbreakers and T-shirts branded with water-ski equipment dealers or lake resorts. They had gold credit cards, frequent-flyer miles, golf clubs, satellite dishes, video games, swimming pools and dirt bikes.
They told sad stories, stories about playing football in high school or sexual conquests in college, about the concerts they’d seen and how much they drank, about the long hair or the earring they once had. They told stories about the muscle car they had as a teenager, about the band they played in or the bike they used to race.
The details are as blurry as they are dull. What remains vivid above all else is the size of the duffle bags Otto was moving, the bets he placedon games during the stops, and our handshake agreement on the drive back. We were in business.
You were staring at the moon from your front yard when the lights from my Galaxie flared against your hair like a torch.
“That was more than half an hour.” You grabbed my belt buckle and pulled me into you. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”
“I thought you were a fortune-teller.”
“People tell their fortunes for me. I just listen, give them a few details and they fill in the blank spots. They think it’s all me, but it’s not. They believe what they want to.”
“You must be good if you make a living at it.”
You took my hands, laced your fingers with mine and pulled them behind your back, locking us together. The tip of your nose brushed my face and it felt cold, so I kissed it.
“You kissed my nose.”
“It was cold.”
“Are you trying to seduce me?”
“You’ll know.”
“Will I, now?”
“Yes. All of your willpower will dissolve when I decide to seduce you.” I kept a
“Is he staying too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
You kissed me. For the length of the kiss, the Mad Hatters came back.
“If you follow the news,” Otto rode shotgun, talking in an auctioneer’s blue streak, “busts are almost always in the inner cities. If you trust the numbers about the drug economy, and believe that it’s purely an inner-city problem, then the streets of ghettos and barrios would be swamped with dealers, and the buyers would queue up like an East German bread line.
“The major shit moves through here,” he said. He’d guided me into suburbia. Skin-colored houses with white pickups and boats in their driveways. “And I mean major.”
He reached into the backseat and heaved a black duffle the size of a small tree stump into his lap. Beneath two layers of waterproof canvas and nylon lay an ingot of bills. They were sheathed in plastic, the top layer all Jacksons.
“This time, it isn’t mine. I’m a way station.”
“Zip that up.” My eyes went to the rearview mirror out of instinct. Every pair of headlights was cause for alarm. “Now.”
“All twenties. Nonsequential and unmarked. I’ve checked ’em, I know.” He closed the inner and outer bags and said, “this thing weighs thirty-five pounds. You want to know how much this totals?”
“No.”
“Whatever. You’re the only other person I’ve told about it. I gotta deliver it tonight and they’re going to count it, every last bill. You’ll find out.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
“Relax. You’ll like these people.”
We made two stops, maybe three. Some details are sharper than others, and they all run together. The houses were the same, I remember, white walls, white carpets, and children’s art projects on the refrigerators. Each visit, someone offered us a light beer and a seat on the couch in front of a wide-screen television where I waited while Otto exchanged one bag for another.
Otto’s people drove minivans with baby seats, their floors littered with fast-food wrappers, school newsletters and sports equipment. They owned boats and jet skis, campers and trucks with bumper stickers broadcasting their political party or proclaiming their children’s honor-student status. They wore Little League coaching windbreakers and T-shirts branded with water-ski equipment dealers or lake resorts. They had gold credit cards, frequent-flyer miles, golf clubs, satellite dishes, video games, swimming pools and dirt bikes.
They told sad stories, stories about playing football in high school or sexual conquests in college, about the concerts they’d seen and how much they drank, about the long hair or the earring they once had. They told stories about the muscle car they had as a teenager, about the band they played in or the bike they used to race.
The details are as blurry as they are dull. What remains vivid above all else is the size of the duffle bags Otto was moving, the bets he placedon games during the stops, and our handshake agreement on the drive back. We were in business.
You were staring at the moon from your front yard when the lights from my Galaxie flared against your hair like a torch.
“That was more than half an hour.” You grabbed my belt buckle and pulled me into you. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”
“I thought you were a fortune-teller.”
“People tell their fortunes for me. I just listen, give them a few details and they fill in the blank spots. They think it’s all me, but it’s not. They believe what they want to.”
“You must be good if you make a living at it.”
You took my hands, laced your fingers with mine and pulled them behind your back, locking us together. The tip of your nose brushed my face and it felt cold, so I kissed it.
“You kissed my nose.”
“It was cold.”
“Are you trying to seduce me?”
“You’ll know.”
“Will I, now?”
“Yes. All of your willpower will dissolve when I decide to seduce you.” I kept a
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