Read Online Every Man a Menace by Patrick Hoffman - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Hoffman
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Raymond waited, but that was all she offered by way of explanation.
“Let me ask you something,” he said. “How much we dealing with here? How much is it? How much you selling? How much he paying? You never told me any of that.”
Gloria chewed her gum and looked at him like she was trying to understand some deeper meaning to the question. Raymond could recognize her habits now, the way she tilted her chin up and gazed down at him when he spoke. She liked to pause before she answered his questions.
“We’re selling four hundred and forty pounds,” she finally said.
Raymond felt like he’d been hit in the gut. It was a lot more than he’d expected. Ten times more. Arthur had said forty, fifty at the most. Raymond had to stop himself fromreacting. Ten times more? Did Arthur know? “For how much?” he asked, trying to sound unimpressed.
“He’ll give you five-point-six.”
“Five million?”
Arthur should be getting half a million on the deal. His own little cut should be almost three hundred thousand, instead of thirty. Raymond’s heart was threatening to beat out his chest.
“Five-six, yes.”
“I gotta count it?” he asked, still trying for indifference.
“No, no, no. Just look at it. Examine it. Leaf through it. Make sure it’s real. He’s crazy, but he always pays.”
“And then what?”
“After he’s given you the money—you make sure it’s after—you’ll give him the address. The pack is in a storage locker in Vallejo.” Her accent made her pronounce it Ballejo. “Also, the key. That’s all.”
She handed him a slip of paper and a silver key. The paper had a handwritten address on it: 556 Lemon Street #342. Vallejo.
“After they pay you, they’ll give you a ride back to the restaurant. We’ll wait for you there. That’s it. That’s all. Deal done. Time for everyone to go home until we start all over again.”
They bounced along the road for a moment. Then Gloria said, “He’s a racist, too, you know. He called me a Chinese bitch. That’s why you’re here, Mr. Repair Man.”
Mr. Deal Broker. Mr. Repair Man.
They got onto the freeway at South Van Ness, looping around the ramp. Raymond looked at the frosted windowsof the jail as they drove past. He pictured all the men sitting in there, dressed in orange, breathing stale air, kicking themselves for stupid moves. Traffic was thick, but moving. His belly felt racked with nerves. Ten times more! Arthur was sure as hell going to want to know about that.
Quietly, almost to herself, Gloria was singing what sounded like an old disco song: Something in the way you make me feel, it feels so good to me. For a moment Raymond wondered if she was high. He pivoted in his seat so he could take a look at the man behind him: a skinny, older Filipino man with pockmarked cheeks who met his gaze and smiled. They were coming off the Bay Bridge now.
“Exit there,” said Gloria.
The driver pulled off the freeway and pulled into a parking lot alongside a Denny’s. They backed into a spot with a view of the entrance. The driver cut the engine.
“Now we wait,” said Gloria.
Raymond scanned the lot. He looked for occupied cars, looked in the restaurant windows, searched for groups of men that looked like cops. The driver of the van was sending text messages. He should’ve had his eyes up, Raymond thought, ready to move.
His mind cycled through a series of strange thoughts. He hadn’t eaten, and he imagined what Gloria would say if he got out of the van, went to the counter, and ordered pancakes. That thought was pushed out by a memory of a childhood friend of his, a boy named Rusty, who had once shit his pants in a parking lot much like this one. The boy had started to cry afterward.
The phone in Gloria’s hand lit up. She looked at it, then looked at Raymond.
“Five minutes,” she said.
Raymond’s forehead was damp. He breathed deeply, trying to relax. Underneath all his nerves and dread, though, he recognized a new kind of
“Let me ask you something,” he said. “How much we dealing with here? How much is it? How much you selling? How much he paying? You never told me any of that.”
Gloria chewed her gum and looked at him like she was trying to understand some deeper meaning to the question. Raymond could recognize her habits now, the way she tilted her chin up and gazed down at him when he spoke. She liked to pause before she answered his questions.
“We’re selling four hundred and forty pounds,” she finally said.
Raymond felt like he’d been hit in the gut. It was a lot more than he’d expected. Ten times more. Arthur had said forty, fifty at the most. Raymond had to stop himself fromreacting. Ten times more? Did Arthur know? “For how much?” he asked, trying to sound unimpressed.
“He’ll give you five-point-six.”
“Five million?”
Arthur should be getting half a million on the deal. His own little cut should be almost three hundred thousand, instead of thirty. Raymond’s heart was threatening to beat out his chest.
“Five-six, yes.”
“I gotta count it?” he asked, still trying for indifference.
“No, no, no. Just look at it. Examine it. Leaf through it. Make sure it’s real. He’s crazy, but he always pays.”
“And then what?”
“After he’s given you the money—you make sure it’s after—you’ll give him the address. The pack is in a storage locker in Vallejo.” Her accent made her pronounce it Ballejo. “Also, the key. That’s all.”
She handed him a slip of paper and a silver key. The paper had a handwritten address on it: 556 Lemon Street #342. Vallejo.
“After they pay you, they’ll give you a ride back to the restaurant. We’ll wait for you there. That’s it. That’s all. Deal done. Time for everyone to go home until we start all over again.”
They bounced along the road for a moment. Then Gloria said, “He’s a racist, too, you know. He called me a Chinese bitch. That’s why you’re here, Mr. Repair Man.”
Mr. Deal Broker. Mr. Repair Man.
They got onto the freeway at South Van Ness, looping around the ramp. Raymond looked at the frosted windowsof the jail as they drove past. He pictured all the men sitting in there, dressed in orange, breathing stale air, kicking themselves for stupid moves. Traffic was thick, but moving. His belly felt racked with nerves. Ten times more! Arthur was sure as hell going to want to know about that.
Quietly, almost to herself, Gloria was singing what sounded like an old disco song: Something in the way you make me feel, it feels so good to me. For a moment Raymond wondered if she was high. He pivoted in his seat so he could take a look at the man behind him: a skinny, older Filipino man with pockmarked cheeks who met his gaze and smiled. They were coming off the Bay Bridge now.
“Exit there,” said Gloria.
The driver pulled off the freeway and pulled into a parking lot alongside a Denny’s. They backed into a spot with a view of the entrance. The driver cut the engine.
“Now we wait,” said Gloria.
Raymond scanned the lot. He looked for occupied cars, looked in the restaurant windows, searched for groups of men that looked like cops. The driver of the van was sending text messages. He should’ve had his eyes up, Raymond thought, ready to move.
His mind cycled through a series of strange thoughts. He hadn’t eaten, and he imagined what Gloria would say if he got out of the van, went to the counter, and ordered pancakes. That thought was pushed out by a memory of a childhood friend of his, a boy named Rusty, who had once shit his pants in a parking lot much like this one. The boy had started to cry afterward.
The phone in Gloria’s hand lit up. She looked at it, then looked at Raymond.
“Five minutes,” she said.
Raymond’s forehead was damp. He breathed deeply, trying to relax. Underneath all his nerves and dread, though, he recognized a new kind of
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