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Authors: Joseph Hansen
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crumpled cigarette in the red jacket and lit it with a paper match. "When my dad died, you know what I got? I got to pay all his bills. I'd made out a little better than he did. No wife and kids to support. I made a liar out of that book. For a while, anyway. Of course, that was quite a while ago." He was holding the burned match. Dave tilted open the ashtray under the dash. Taylor put the match into it carefully. "I was in architecture too, you know? Well, contracting, really. Draftsman. Tom and I took drafting together. Sat right next to each other. Anyway, I had enough to pay what my dad left owing. Then. If he died today, I don't know what I'd do. I'm no draftsman anymore."
"What do you do?" Dave asked.
"Wash dishes," Taylor answered in a thin voice. But when Dave glanced at him, he was smiling. Hard. Like a brave little kid with a skinned knee. "At the marina. They've got a lot of fancy restaurants there. I mean, what I do, really, is load up these big machines. They do the washing. But what they call you is still a dishwasher. I'll bet Tom eats where I wash dishes. How about that for a joke? His dad worked at Sears too. Lived in the same kind of crummy little house right up the block from us."
"He won't be eating in restaurants for a while," Dave said.
"Oh, you mean his legs. Was that why you were there today? Looking into the accident? Boy, that was really careless of that contractor. Imagine —a beautiful house like that. A hundred thousand dollars, I'll bet. And he couldn't even bolt the porch rail."
"It could have been worse," Dave said. "Owens could have been killed."
"I don't think so," Taylor said.
Dave glanced at him again, brows lifted.
"Seriously. I read in some book how if you've got a lot of money, you rarely have fatal accidents. Or illnesses. Unless you're old, of course. And they don't even age as fast as other people. Isn't that interesting? I mean, there are statistics about it, charts. There's magic in money. It's the magic of our acquisitive society. Protects you from all evil. Nothing can get the better of money. Suppose Tom killed someone."
Dave squinted. "You think he killed someone?"
"No, no. But I mean, what if he did? He'd get off. People like that can hire expensive lawyers and they know how to delay and delay, and appeal and appeal. They can go right up to the Supreme Court if they have to, you know? And if they still said he was guilty, all he'd get would be a light sentence. He'd be out in a few months, maybe. Poor, you're jailed for months even before your trial can come up." Suddenly he wasn't chattering like a wound-up kid. He sounded bitter. "And then they really nail you."
At a traffic halt where, on the right, the charred stakes of a collapsed and burned-out amusement pier stuck up through the flat blue slide of surf, Dave swung the Electra left onto Jetty Street. At the corner a chili stand raised a make-believe lighthouse, plaster scaling off it, grimy windows red-framed at the top. In lots with rusty chain-link fences, forgotten boat hulls reared up on scaffolds deep in weeds.
Auto junkyards shouldered vacant store buildings. Tiller wheels tracked and warped in the fretwork of cottage porches. "Maybe you should read another book," Dave said.
"Oh?" Taylor pulled a little dime-store notebook from a hip pocket and began patting his jacket for something to write with. "What's the title?"
"Any title," Dave said. "Just a different book."
Taylor put the note pad away. "You don't agree? No. You're rich yourself. I mean, psychologically, that would be natural. Just like it's natural for me to believe what the book said. Because I'm poor."
"Where do you want me to drop you?" Dave said.
"Oh, turn at the next stop. Cortez. Right. It's down in the middle of the block." On a bleak, sunlit corner, black women in bright headcloths waited in a skirmish of small children outside a brick store building where a cardboard window sign said food stamps. Taylor's arm came up stiff.
"What do you do?" Dave asked.
"Wash dishes," Taylor answered in a thin voice. But when Dave glanced at him, he was smiling. Hard. Like a brave little kid with a skinned knee. "At the marina. They've got a lot of fancy restaurants there. I mean, what I do, really, is load up these big machines. They do the washing. But what they call you is still a dishwasher. I'll bet Tom eats where I wash dishes. How about that for a joke? His dad worked at Sears too. Lived in the same kind of crummy little house right up the block from us."
"He won't be eating in restaurants for a while," Dave said.
"Oh, you mean his legs. Was that why you were there today? Looking into the accident? Boy, that was really careless of that contractor. Imagine —a beautiful house like that. A hundred thousand dollars, I'll bet. And he couldn't even bolt the porch rail."
"It could have been worse," Dave said. "Owens could have been killed."
"I don't think so," Taylor said.
Dave glanced at him again, brows lifted.
"Seriously. I read in some book how if you've got a lot of money, you rarely have fatal accidents. Or illnesses. Unless you're old, of course. And they don't even age as fast as other people. Isn't that interesting? I mean, there are statistics about it, charts. There's magic in money. It's the magic of our acquisitive society. Protects you from all evil. Nothing can get the better of money. Suppose Tom killed someone."
Dave squinted. "You think he killed someone?"
"No, no. But I mean, what if he did? He'd get off. People like that can hire expensive lawyers and they know how to delay and delay, and appeal and appeal. They can go right up to the Supreme Court if they have to, you know? And if they still said he was guilty, all he'd get would be a light sentence. He'd be out in a few months, maybe. Poor, you're jailed for months even before your trial can come up." Suddenly he wasn't chattering like a wound-up kid. He sounded bitter. "And then they really nail you."
At a traffic halt where, on the right, the charred stakes of a collapsed and burned-out amusement pier stuck up through the flat blue slide of surf, Dave swung the Electra left onto Jetty Street. At the corner a chili stand raised a make-believe lighthouse, plaster scaling off it, grimy windows red-framed at the top. In lots with rusty chain-link fences, forgotten boat hulls reared up on scaffolds deep in weeds.
Auto junkyards shouldered vacant store buildings. Tiller wheels tracked and warped in the fretwork of cottage porches. "Maybe you should read another book," Dave said.
"Oh?" Taylor pulled a little dime-store notebook from a hip pocket and began patting his jacket for something to write with. "What's the title?"
"Any title," Dave said. "Just a different book."
Taylor put the note pad away. "You don't agree? No. You're rich yourself. I mean, psychologically, that would be natural. Just like it's natural for me to believe what the book said. Because I'm poor."
"Where do you want me to drop you?" Dave said.
"Oh, turn at the next stop. Cortez. Right. It's down in the middle of the block." On a bleak, sunlit corner, black women in bright headcloths waited in a skirmish of small children outside a brick store building where a cardboard window sign said food stamps. Taylor's arm came up stiff.
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