Bring that with you after you’re all dolled up. Bar’s all out and Fletcher probably will want a few cups.”
The big woman turned away and lumbered back to the unicorn van. She stopped half way to the van and turned around again. A long limb of ash detached from her cigarette and fell onto her generous bosom.
“Theresa Winkle, by the way.”
“Issabella.”
“Yep. Okay, you go get put together. And don’t forget the coffee, ok?”
*
The passenger-side window wouldn’t roll down. Issabella jounced along as the van trundled its way back toward Detroit. It shuddered and quaked over each pot hole and dimple in the road. That, coupled with the cigarette smoke Theresa was blowing around the interior of the van, was threatening to pitch Issabella’s already quivering stomach over the edge. She closed her eyes and started breathing through her mouth.
“You’re Darren’s new partner, huh?”
“Not exactly.”
Theresa glanced at the sea-sick lawyer next to her. She rolled her window down and Issabella felt a rus h of refreshing outside air on over her face. She breathed deeply and her stomach settled.
“Not partners?”
“Not partners, no.”
“Huh. He sure seemed to think you were partners.”
“Well, we’re not.”
The big woman shrugged and scratched her chin idly.
“Then why’re you riding back with me to meet him?”
Issabella blinked and stared at the big woman next to her. Who was this person? She certainly wasn’t any sort of legal receptionist or office manager. Had she mentioned a bar?
Was she being taken to a bar ?
*
Malcolm Mohommad looked up from his sketchbook long enough to spot Darnell Gimson pulling up into the parking lot of the Coney Island on Whitacker and Abdell. He recognized Darnell’s car, an old black Monte Carlo boat that the drug dealer kept in mint condition.
While Darnell crept around for a spot to park, Malcolm’s attention returned to his little corner of the restaurant. His bulk shifted in the booth as he leaned over the little girl who was plopped down next to him, sorting through the treasure trove of art supplies Malcolm had spilled out on the table.
“Have you found what you want yet?” He said.
“Uh-huh,” She nodded her head and held up a little rubber stamp. It was heart-shaped.
“Alright,” he said, not betraying the disappointment he felt inside.
Hearts were a trite symbol. Like rainbows and plus-signs and peace signs and smiley faces. Malcolm included all of those tired, cliché images among his stamps, inter-mixed with a variety of stamps that produced more refined and abstract patterns-- things like interwoven leaves, Aztec bands and other imagery that could not be readily defined as a certain “thing”, but which nevertheless left interesting marks on a page.
“Can I?” the little girl said. She was maybe nine or so, with fat almond cheeks and hair that had been straightened, ironed and chemically-burned so that it approximated a white girl’s style. Her mother occasionally glanced up from across the restaurant, smiled vaguely at Malcolm, and kept talking to whoever it was she was eating with.
“You may,” Malcolm said. He reached over and flipped open the little tin ink pad and set it in front of the girl.
Malcolm sipped at his coffee and watched as the girl took Malcolm’s sketch pad and set it on her lap. With a destructive sort of enthusiasm, the girl began to plaster little black ink hearts all over the sketch Malcolm had just finished-- a thin old man in an old tweed suit who was at the counter. Malcolm had been taken with the man’s long, irregular nose and hunched posture.
He never drew beautiful people. Beautiful, healthy people were uninteresting to him. He liked women with gigantic backsides, old people, crooked people, and ugly people. He liked to see their poverty etched into the lines of their faces, to see their weaknesses on display in their obesity or their dull, cowish eyes.
Malcolm had been
The big woman turned away and lumbered back to the unicorn van. She stopped half way to the van and turned around again. A long limb of ash detached from her cigarette and fell onto her generous bosom.
“Theresa Winkle, by the way.”
“Issabella.”
“Yep. Okay, you go get put together. And don’t forget the coffee, ok?”
*
The passenger-side window wouldn’t roll down. Issabella jounced along as the van trundled its way back toward Detroit. It shuddered and quaked over each pot hole and dimple in the road. That, coupled with the cigarette smoke Theresa was blowing around the interior of the van, was threatening to pitch Issabella’s already quivering stomach over the edge. She closed her eyes and started breathing through her mouth.
“You’re Darren’s new partner, huh?”
“Not exactly.”
Theresa glanced at the sea-sick lawyer next to her. She rolled her window down and Issabella felt a rus h of refreshing outside air on over her face. She breathed deeply and her stomach settled.
“Not partners?”
“Not partners, no.”
“Huh. He sure seemed to think you were partners.”
“Well, we’re not.”
The big woman shrugged and scratched her chin idly.
“Then why’re you riding back with me to meet him?”
Issabella blinked and stared at the big woman next to her. Who was this person? She certainly wasn’t any sort of legal receptionist or office manager. Had she mentioned a bar?
Was she being taken to a bar ?
*
Malcolm Mohommad looked up from his sketchbook long enough to spot Darnell Gimson pulling up into the parking lot of the Coney Island on Whitacker and Abdell. He recognized Darnell’s car, an old black Monte Carlo boat that the drug dealer kept in mint condition.
While Darnell crept around for a spot to park, Malcolm’s attention returned to his little corner of the restaurant. His bulk shifted in the booth as he leaned over the little girl who was plopped down next to him, sorting through the treasure trove of art supplies Malcolm had spilled out on the table.
“Have you found what you want yet?” He said.
“Uh-huh,” She nodded her head and held up a little rubber stamp. It was heart-shaped.
“Alright,” he said, not betraying the disappointment he felt inside.
Hearts were a trite symbol. Like rainbows and plus-signs and peace signs and smiley faces. Malcolm included all of those tired, cliché images among his stamps, inter-mixed with a variety of stamps that produced more refined and abstract patterns-- things like interwoven leaves, Aztec bands and other imagery that could not be readily defined as a certain “thing”, but which nevertheless left interesting marks on a page.
“Can I?” the little girl said. She was maybe nine or so, with fat almond cheeks and hair that had been straightened, ironed and chemically-burned so that it approximated a white girl’s style. Her mother occasionally glanced up from across the restaurant, smiled vaguely at Malcolm, and kept talking to whoever it was she was eating with.
“You may,” Malcolm said. He reached over and flipped open the little tin ink pad and set it in front of the girl.
Malcolm sipped at his coffee and watched as the girl took Malcolm’s sketch pad and set it on her lap. With a destructive sort of enthusiasm, the girl began to plaster little black ink hearts all over the sketch Malcolm had just finished-- a thin old man in an old tweed suit who was at the counter. Malcolm had been taken with the man’s long, irregular nose and hunched posture.
He never drew beautiful people. Beautiful, healthy people were uninteresting to him. He liked women with gigantic backsides, old people, crooked people, and ugly people. He liked to see their poverty etched into the lines of their faces, to see their weaknesses on display in their obesity or their dull, cowish eyes.
Malcolm had been
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