Read Online Leave It to Me by Bharati Mukherjee - Free Book Online
Authors: Bharati Mukherjee
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Buzzards, Inc., in the Yellow Pages.”
“Buzzard? Like the bird?”
“If they ask, say Gabriel referred you. As in the archangel.”
We hung together the next couple of days, not doing much, just staking out a square of sidewalk at the corner of Belvedere and Haight, holding up a sign, A BUCK FOR AN ANGEL OR A GODDESS, YOU NEVER KNOW , feeling good about the world, especially good about the dollar bills we collected, and then Gabe took off with the sign and the cash. He stuck a note on my windshield. Hope the Pls can help. Wish we’d met earlier. Just too fucked up .
I looked for Buzzards, Inc., in the Yellow Pages. No Buzzards, but there was a listing for Vulture, Inc. I called and left my name on tape, then realized that I had no phone number for them to call me back at, so I hung up. Next I looked up the Church of Divine Intergalactica in the phone book. The Stoop Man’s church was listed under D, as Divine Intergalactica Worship Facility. I called Vulture, Inc., back, and this time left the DIWF number on the agency’s answering machine.
A whole week went by without any calls for me at the Stoop Man’s. I called the Vulture, Inc., number again, and kept calling until a human voice answered. “It’s Devi Dee again” was all I got in before the voice, a man’s, barked, “No solicitations, no market research surveys, no interest in freebie cruises or other prizes, so goodbye and thanks.”
“And fuck you, too,” I muttered to the dead line.
“All worked up, Goddess?” The Stoop Man snuck up on me on the sidewalk. He had on a beat-up, collapsible top hat and a satin-lined cape.
“Is that what they’re calling me on the street? I’ll kill Gabe!”
“Whoa! Bad nerves! You need something potent.”
“So what’re you selling?”
“Not selling. I’m giving it away today. The abracadabra of happiness.”
“In pill, powder or vial?”
“All of the above.” He flapped his cape, while he tap-danced in his running shoes. “Works like magic. How do you want it, Goddess?”
“I don’t need magic,” I grumbled. “I need a detective.”
Very early the next morning, while I was still asleep in my Corolla parked under a pigeon-free tree on a foggedupblock just south of Haight Street, a film company showed up with a convoy of trailers. Frankie never told me what bullies film crews on location are. They push real people from their homes on real streets and think you’ll be happy being a part of some fantasy you’ll never see. This film crew operated as though location shooting were military conquest. Longhaired guys rang doorbells and ordered sleepy car owners to please move their cars because the film company had paid the city for permits to park their semis and their Range Rovers instead. They told store owners not to open, people not to come out until the all clear was sounded. Funky young assistants put up police barricades. A smart aleck rapped on my papered-over back window. “Hey, man, time to haul ass,” he commanded in his mellow way.
I stepped out of the Corolla. Stoop Man, Duvet Man, Tortilla Tim, Beamer Bob, Snorting Sam, Pammy Whammy, everyone in the neighborhood, were already gathered behind one of the barricades on the far sidewalk. They weren’t looking my way; they were interested in the food table. The laggards, people I recognized from soup lines and doorways, were being encouraged by a woman in purple tights and yellow tank top to drag themselves and their supermarket carts and their milk crates and garbage sacks out of the crew’s way.
The woman fixed a friendly eye on me. “Hi, need help moving your car?”
“Who do you think you are?” I said.
“Locations PA,” she said. “We do have the city’s permission, you know.”
I held my hand out. “Devi,” I announced. “Also known as Goddess.”
The woman gave my fingers an air-shake. “We need you to cooperate.”
“Why?”
“Hey, nothing personal.” She flashed a tense smile. Her lips had been given a
“Buzzard? Like the bird?”
“If they ask, say Gabriel referred you. As in the archangel.”
We hung together the next couple of days, not doing much, just staking out a square of sidewalk at the corner of Belvedere and Haight, holding up a sign, A BUCK FOR AN ANGEL OR A GODDESS, YOU NEVER KNOW , feeling good about the world, especially good about the dollar bills we collected, and then Gabe took off with the sign and the cash. He stuck a note on my windshield. Hope the Pls can help. Wish we’d met earlier. Just too fucked up .
I looked for Buzzards, Inc., in the Yellow Pages. No Buzzards, but there was a listing for Vulture, Inc. I called and left my name on tape, then realized that I had no phone number for them to call me back at, so I hung up. Next I looked up the Church of Divine Intergalactica in the phone book. The Stoop Man’s church was listed under D, as Divine Intergalactica Worship Facility. I called Vulture, Inc., back, and this time left the DIWF number on the agency’s answering machine.
A whole week went by without any calls for me at the Stoop Man’s. I called the Vulture, Inc., number again, and kept calling until a human voice answered. “It’s Devi Dee again” was all I got in before the voice, a man’s, barked, “No solicitations, no market research surveys, no interest in freebie cruises or other prizes, so goodbye and thanks.”
“And fuck you, too,” I muttered to the dead line.
“All worked up, Goddess?” The Stoop Man snuck up on me on the sidewalk. He had on a beat-up, collapsible top hat and a satin-lined cape.
“Is that what they’re calling me on the street? I’ll kill Gabe!”
“Whoa! Bad nerves! You need something potent.”
“So what’re you selling?”
“Not selling. I’m giving it away today. The abracadabra of happiness.”
“In pill, powder or vial?”
“All of the above.” He flapped his cape, while he tap-danced in his running shoes. “Works like magic. How do you want it, Goddess?”
“I don’t need magic,” I grumbled. “I need a detective.”
Very early the next morning, while I was still asleep in my Corolla parked under a pigeon-free tree on a foggedupblock just south of Haight Street, a film company showed up with a convoy of trailers. Frankie never told me what bullies film crews on location are. They push real people from their homes on real streets and think you’ll be happy being a part of some fantasy you’ll never see. This film crew operated as though location shooting were military conquest. Longhaired guys rang doorbells and ordered sleepy car owners to please move their cars because the film company had paid the city for permits to park their semis and their Range Rovers instead. They told store owners not to open, people not to come out until the all clear was sounded. Funky young assistants put up police barricades. A smart aleck rapped on my papered-over back window. “Hey, man, time to haul ass,” he commanded in his mellow way.
I stepped out of the Corolla. Stoop Man, Duvet Man, Tortilla Tim, Beamer Bob, Snorting Sam, Pammy Whammy, everyone in the neighborhood, were already gathered behind one of the barricades on the far sidewalk. They weren’t looking my way; they were interested in the food table. The laggards, people I recognized from soup lines and doorways, were being encouraged by a woman in purple tights and yellow tank top to drag themselves and their supermarket carts and their milk crates and garbage sacks out of the crew’s way.
The woman fixed a friendly eye on me. “Hi, need help moving your car?”
“Who do you think you are?” I said.
“Locations PA,” she said. “We do have the city’s permission, you know.”
I held my hand out. “Devi,” I announced. “Also known as Goddess.”
The woman gave my fingers an air-shake. “We need you to cooperate.”
“Why?”
“Hey, nothing personal.” She flashed a tense smile. Her lips had been given a
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