not far away, and I was tempted to go visit my money. It was still hard to believe, and I wanted to refresh my mind to the fact that I was now almost rich. Let us be brutally honest: You would have a hard time finding someone who did not enjoy looking at a big pile of cash that belonged to them.
As Mary suggested, though, I had to be careful. Very careful. Perhaps I was being followed, and I did not want to lead them to the cash. What worried me even more was what to do with the key to the locker. It had a bright orange plastic handle with the number of the locker on it and the name of the storage place. I had been keeping it temporarily under the floor mat in the rear of my car, but as I said before, I was not comfortable leaving things in my car, knowing that it was likely to be searched—even as I hoped that the Prick was searching my apartment at that moment, getting it over with.
I considered burying the key in the park, or putting it in a tree. But what if the grounds workers somehow stumbled upon it?
After much thought, I decided to hide it in plain sight and to remove the plastic handle. In the parking lot of a White Castle, I found a hammer in my trunk and smashed the orange plastic, reducing the key to just an ordinary-looking key. I slid this key onto my key ring between my car keys and apartment keys. I was sure the people at the storage place would not be happy with my decision to alter their key. Considering the options, though, I did not really care—let them charge me twenty bucks for my wanton destruction of their key. If someone stole my keys, they would have no idea where in Brooklyn to look for the locker, if they even thought that I had a locker.
The paperwork for the locker was another matter. If I threw it away, I would have no backup in case the key were lost, and if someone found the rental agreement, they would know which locker to bust into. So I slid it into a sandwich bag and placed it under the battery in my car. This is an old trick from my foreman, Speedy. His father in Central America somewhere used to keep the family’s meager savings under the battery of a Ford Fairlane.
My mind turned toward more pleasant thoughts: Fanny. Ah, what a gem, and to stumble upon her the same day I discovered the thirty-two tight ones.
You may be wondering just how I felt about her—was love, marriage, and domestic glee a shimmering mirage in the distance?
I will tell you, the thought had crossed my mind. She was beautiful and, with a little gentle encouragement and training in certain departments, a superb lover. Fanny certainly had all the right parts in the right places, but Fanny posed a complicationas well as a delight. How she would fit in with my plans . . . it was early yet. You see, now that my ship had come in, I felt I had sufficient resources to realize my dream of moving away from Brooklyn, of leaving the feeler business.
As I was in this frame of mind, I left the White Castle parking lot and drove to the library to go online.
I guess you would have to say that my dream to move away came from my father. He claimed that we were descended from the conquistadors who founded La Paz, where you are, Father, on the Baja peninsula. He told me he was raised there, and he would tell me stories of this tropical paradise, of the cool breezes, blue waters, majestic mountains, and the beautiful hacienda where he grew up. His stated mission in life was to buy that hacienda—Casa Martinez—and regain what he called “our birthright.” I remember asking him what that meant, and he said that as the descendants of conquistadors, we come from noble blood that does not thin through generations and is bound to history, and thus to certain places, like Casa Martinez.
My mother did not really like my father, and I have no idea how they ever came to be married. She said we were never going to leave Brooklyn, that my father was a fool, and that my father was never in Mexico, that he grew up in Jersey City.
As Mary suggested, though, I had to be careful. Very careful. Perhaps I was being followed, and I did not want to lead them to the cash. What worried me even more was what to do with the key to the locker. It had a bright orange plastic handle with the number of the locker on it and the name of the storage place. I had been keeping it temporarily under the floor mat in the rear of my car, but as I said before, I was not comfortable leaving things in my car, knowing that it was likely to be searched—even as I hoped that the Prick was searching my apartment at that moment, getting it over with.
I considered burying the key in the park, or putting it in a tree. But what if the grounds workers somehow stumbled upon it?
After much thought, I decided to hide it in plain sight and to remove the plastic handle. In the parking lot of a White Castle, I found a hammer in my trunk and smashed the orange plastic, reducing the key to just an ordinary-looking key. I slid this key onto my key ring between my car keys and apartment keys. I was sure the people at the storage place would not be happy with my decision to alter their key. Considering the options, though, I did not really care—let them charge me twenty bucks for my wanton destruction of their key. If someone stole my keys, they would have no idea where in Brooklyn to look for the locker, if they even thought that I had a locker.
The paperwork for the locker was another matter. If I threw it away, I would have no backup in case the key were lost, and if someone found the rental agreement, they would know which locker to bust into. So I slid it into a sandwich bag and placed it under the battery in my car. This is an old trick from my foreman, Speedy. His father in Central America somewhere used to keep the family’s meager savings under the battery of a Ford Fairlane.
My mind turned toward more pleasant thoughts: Fanny. Ah, what a gem, and to stumble upon her the same day I discovered the thirty-two tight ones.
You may be wondering just how I felt about her—was love, marriage, and domestic glee a shimmering mirage in the distance?
I will tell you, the thought had crossed my mind. She was beautiful and, with a little gentle encouragement and training in certain departments, a superb lover. Fanny certainly had all the right parts in the right places, but Fanny posed a complicationas well as a delight. How she would fit in with my plans . . . it was early yet. You see, now that my ship had come in, I felt I had sufficient resources to realize my dream of moving away from Brooklyn, of leaving the feeler business.
As I was in this frame of mind, I left the White Castle parking lot and drove to the library to go online.
I guess you would have to say that my dream to move away came from my father. He claimed that we were descended from the conquistadors who founded La Paz, where you are, Father, on the Baja peninsula. He told me he was raised there, and he would tell me stories of this tropical paradise, of the cool breezes, blue waters, majestic mountains, and the beautiful hacienda where he grew up. His stated mission in life was to buy that hacienda—Casa Martinez—and regain what he called “our birthright.” I remember asking him what that meant, and he said that as the descendants of conquistadors, we come from noble blood that does not thin through generations and is bound to history, and thus to certain places, like Casa Martinez.
My mother did not really like my father, and I have no idea how they ever came to be married. She said we were never going to leave Brooklyn, that my father was a fool, and that my father was never in Mexico, that he grew up in Jersey City.
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