Read Online Gagliano,Anthony - Straits of Fortune.wps by Unknown - Free Book Online

rich boss. The money he offered me would shock you, so I won't even men- tion it, lest you think I'm nuts for turning it down. But look at it this way: You have multiple clients, you have multiple options. That means you can always tell at least one person who gets on your nerves to kiss your ass, without going bankrupt. Anyway, there's more to life than a great dental plan and a 401(k)--at least until you get old and your teeth start falling out. Later, after I got dressed again, Anwar walked with me 51
    to my car. Neither of us said very much, but I could feel his concern. He had a depth of presence that came through most strongly in his silences. They were like the atmosphere inside an empty church. He was my age, and yet he seemed much older. Sometimes it seemed to me that I had known him forever. We shook hands in front of my ride. His dark eyes were solemn. I slapped him on the shoulder, hoping to bring on a lighter mood, but he wasn't buying it. "I'll see you when you get back," I said. "Tell your father I said hey." We embraced, and I got into the van with a completely different mood from the one I wanted. I wanted to be breezy, cavalier, but there was no changing the climate in Anwar's expression. He stood back listening as the engine of the Ford sputtered, then caught. "You should know when something is over, Jack," he said. "Sometimes it's dangerous to go back once the dance is done. Even if only five minutes have passed, it will not be the same." "Yes, I know," I said. "But what if the music is still play- ing?" "Then it will be a different music from the one you heard before." As I drove away, I glanced at the rearview mirror. The Sheik was standing there, watching, just as Williams had.
    N othing went right after that. The Ford died as I was going southbound on the Don Shula, and I had to push it off to the side of the road in the middle of a rainstorm that lasted just long enough to soak me to the bone. I used my cell phone to call Tamara, the German singer, to tell her that I wouldn't be making it that afternoon. Then, as I was call- ing for a tow truck, the battery in the phone died, too, and 52
    the spare in the van didn't work either. It was lucky for me that the rain had stopped, because I had to walk half a mile to the nearest call box. By the time the tow truck dropped me off in front of my friend's garage in Overtown, the afternoon, while still hot and bright, was all but gone, along with any hope of profit. And by the time the traffic started crawling the other way, I was sitting in the thrift-store clutter of the garage's office, sipping a cup of coffee and talking to Paul March, the owner, who sat across from me cleaning one of his guns. March liked to clean his guns at his desk so his custom- ers could see that he was a serious person. In the past he'd had trouble with some folks who wanted their cars back but couldn't afford to pay for the repairs. It was Paul's opinion that the timely appearance of a firearm in plain sight brought a new sense of reality to such negotiations and was worth a lot more than the sign on the wall that said no credit. "That car of yours needs a new transmission," he said. "Whoever sold it to you must have seen you coming." "I think his name was March." "Never heard of him." He had finished putting the gun back together and was reloading it. "Come on out back with me," March said. "I got something you might like." We went out to the lot behind the garage and walked toward a row of beaten-down-looking old cars parked near the fence. A tag team of Dobermans ran out from under a white truck and raced at me, their teeth bared, their small brains charged with inbred malice. Then they recognized Paul and started prancing around him as though he were a one-man party. Paul, who had the same manner with animals as he did with people, smiled and kicked the male in the ribs. The bitch sat on her haunches and looked bemused. Paul made a sweeping gesture with his arms, and the