pig-feet-and-pork-rind breath as he told me what would happen if I didn’t fork over some cash.
Of course, any reputable place would’ve booted me out weeks ago. Luckily, Nilo had a hard time holding onto tenants. Not that he was the slightest bit compassionate or flexible regarding payment arrangements. He was merciless in his pursuit of back rent and took every available opportunity to extort it from me. Countless times I’d tried to explain to him the nature of freelance work, how when it rained, it poured. I also tried to make it clear that, for the moment, I was too broke to pay attention and that he couldn’t get blood from a stone. Unfortunately, analogies were lost on Nilo. He’d stare at me stupidly, muttering a seemingly random mix of threats and obscenities, and go back to ogling his porno mags.
I decided that rent was in the lower third of my list of priorities and turned my attention back to the pieces of mail. The second item was from the Zebra Speeder Finance Corporation. I knew what they wanted. Unfortunately, I didn’t have it. With any luck, their repo man wouldn’t stop by until I’d manage to get a case that actually paid off. The third bill was from West Coast Bell. Even without any long-distance charges, the amount due seemed unreasonable. Next in line was an application for a Master Express credit card. I’d have been tempted to send it in if it weren’t for that annoying disclaimer: subject to credit approval. My credit rating had gone bad about the same time as the cartilage in my right knee and my hopes of playing first base for the Red Sox.
I continued on through an ad for a dating service, a form requesting a donation to the Humane Society, and a coupon booklet featuring discounts on dry cleaning and Et Tu Brute pizza. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the pile that I found anything of interest. First, there was another credit card application, this one for the Radioactive Shack. What made it different was the word Pre-approved stamped on the form. I’d never really thought much of Radioactive Shack, but they’d recently opened an outlet (no pun intended) just down the street, which made it convenient. Besides, I’d always wondered what it would be like to charge something. I decided I might give it a try and stuck the form into my desk drawer.
The final envelope wasn’t a bill or junk mail. My name and address were handwritten in block letters. There was no return address. It had been postmarked at the downtown USPS office on November 30, exactly one week earlier. I crushed the last inch of my Lucky Strike into an ashtray and tore open the letter. Inside was a blue card, the size of a standard index card. On one side, the anonymous correspondent had written BXK
+A261184. I turned the card over. There was nothing written on the back. There was nothing else in the envelope.
I wouldn’t be in analyzing mode for several more hours. I set the blue card aside. There were other, more pressing things on my mind. Coffee, for one. I poured myself some instant breakfast and walked to one of the windows that looked out over majestic Chandler Avenue.
Chelsee Bando was chatting with a stocky, middle-aged gent at her newsstand. Even from three stories up, I could almost smell her perfume, and primal urges stirred within me, like a den of bears around Easter. It had been a long time since I’d performed the forbidden dance of love, but that wasn’t the only reason Chelsee made my toes curl. Of course, looking at her was like holding an AA meeting at a bar. I’d sworn off women -
they were worse than alcohol. Maybe they wouldn’t kill your liver, but they’d done one hell of a job on most of my other organs.
I sipped the java and looked around the rest of the street. Things were pretty dead, as usual. The only unusual thing I saw was a police speeder parked toward the end of the block. It was unmarked, but it might as well have had C-O-P-S painted on the hood in canary yellow.
Of course, any reputable place would’ve booted me out weeks ago. Luckily, Nilo had a hard time holding onto tenants. Not that he was the slightest bit compassionate or flexible regarding payment arrangements. He was merciless in his pursuit of back rent and took every available opportunity to extort it from me. Countless times I’d tried to explain to him the nature of freelance work, how when it rained, it poured. I also tried to make it clear that, for the moment, I was too broke to pay attention and that he couldn’t get blood from a stone. Unfortunately, analogies were lost on Nilo. He’d stare at me stupidly, muttering a seemingly random mix of threats and obscenities, and go back to ogling his porno mags.
I decided that rent was in the lower third of my list of priorities and turned my attention back to the pieces of mail. The second item was from the Zebra Speeder Finance Corporation. I knew what they wanted. Unfortunately, I didn’t have it. With any luck, their repo man wouldn’t stop by until I’d manage to get a case that actually paid off. The third bill was from West Coast Bell. Even without any long-distance charges, the amount due seemed unreasonable. Next in line was an application for a Master Express credit card. I’d have been tempted to send it in if it weren’t for that annoying disclaimer: subject to credit approval. My credit rating had gone bad about the same time as the cartilage in my right knee and my hopes of playing first base for the Red Sox.
I continued on through an ad for a dating service, a form requesting a donation to the Humane Society, and a coupon booklet featuring discounts on dry cleaning and Et Tu Brute pizza. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the pile that I found anything of interest. First, there was another credit card application, this one for the Radioactive Shack. What made it different was the word Pre-approved stamped on the form. I’d never really thought much of Radioactive Shack, but they’d recently opened an outlet (no pun intended) just down the street, which made it convenient. Besides, I’d always wondered what it would be like to charge something. I decided I might give it a try and stuck the form into my desk drawer.
The final envelope wasn’t a bill or junk mail. My name and address were handwritten in block letters. There was no return address. It had been postmarked at the downtown USPS office on November 30, exactly one week earlier. I crushed the last inch of my Lucky Strike into an ashtray and tore open the letter. Inside was a blue card, the size of a standard index card. On one side, the anonymous correspondent had written BXK
+A261184. I turned the card over. There was nothing written on the back. There was nothing else in the envelope.
I wouldn’t be in analyzing mode for several more hours. I set the blue card aside. There were other, more pressing things on my mind. Coffee, for one. I poured myself some instant breakfast and walked to one of the windows that looked out over majestic Chandler Avenue.
Chelsee Bando was chatting with a stocky, middle-aged gent at her newsstand. Even from three stories up, I could almost smell her perfume, and primal urges stirred within me, like a den of bears around Easter. It had been a long time since I’d performed the forbidden dance of love, but that wasn’t the only reason Chelsee made my toes curl. Of course, looking at her was like holding an AA meeting at a bar. I’d sworn off women -
they were worse than alcohol. Maybe they wouldn’t kill your liver, but they’d done one hell of a job on most of my other organs.
I sipped the java and looked around the rest of the street. Things were pretty dead, as usual. The only unusual thing I saw was a police speeder parked toward the end of the block. It was unmarked, but it might as well have had C-O-P-S painted on the hood in canary yellow.
Similar Books
