don’t know. You might try Artie Bellman over there. He sometimes loans money, five for four.” Flynn pointed him out.
Cole went over to Artie Bellman and said, “Mister Flynn told me you sometime loan money.”
“You strapped?” Bellman was short and wiry, with a pinched face. He looked as though he could move very fast.
Cole said, “Yes. I need money for food and a room.”
“How much?”
“I won’t get any money till next Friday.”
“So how much?”
Cole thought about it. Two dollars a day for food, say. Three dollars a day for a room. Ten days till next Friday. “Fifty dollars,” he said.
Bellman shook his head. “Too much,” he said. “I can let you have thirty. Make it thirty-two.”
“All right.”
“What you got for security? You got a watch?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see it.”
Cole took off his watch, and showed it to him. Bellman took it and studied it, dubiously. “I don’t think I could get thirty for it,” he said, “but what the hell. Let’s sign the paper.”
Bellman led the way to the office cubicle, and inside. There was no one in here now, and Bellman got a sheet of paper and a pen from one of the desks. “You write it,” he said. “It’s got to be in your handwriting.”
“All right.”
“Write, ‘IOU forty dollars, to be paid ten dollars a payday.’ And sign your name.”
“Forty dollars?”
“Five for four. Didn’t they tell you? You get thirty-two, you pay back forty.”
“Oh.” Cole wrote it, and signed it. He was thinking that he wouldn’t be here more than two or three paydays anyway, so Bellman would be lucky to get the money back he was loaning, much less the interest. Cole felt no compunction about it; Bellman was loaning money, but Bellman was a usurer and Cole was feeling the atavistic revulsion toward the usurer. He needed Bellman’s money, and was grateful to get it, but wouldn’t feel badly about cheating Bellman out of his profit.
Bellman took the paper and put it in his pocket. He already was wearing Cole’s watch. He took out his wallet, and gave Cole two tens, one five, and seven ones. “See you payday,” he said.
“I won’t get any pay this week.”
“I know.”
Then they went back to work.
When Cole punched the time clock on his way out, his card read 12:02. He put it back in its place, in alphabetical order with the other cards there, and walked out of the building.
His clothing hadn’t been right for the work. He’d taken off his tie and suitcoat, but he’d still been working in his white shirt and suit trousers. Tomorrow he would wear his slacks and a sport shirt. And he would buy some bread and cold cuts to keep in his room, and make sandwiches to take to work. It would be cheaper than going out.
He’d forgotten he wasn’t staying at the Wilson Hotel any more, but when he started across the intersection where he should turn right to go to the bus depot he suddenly remembered. He stopped in the middle of the street, flushing with embarrassment and anger. He remembered the young clerk now, and the stupid series of events. He shouldn’t have let it happen. He was very tired now, after working, and he shouldn’t now have to go look for a room.
He turned and walked down to the bus depot, and looked at the locker key to find out what number his locker was. He reclaimed his luggage and then turned to the counter. An elderly man without teeth was sitting on a high stool behind it, reading a comic book spread open on the counter in front of him.
Cole said, “Excuse me. Can you tell me where I can find an inexpensive room at weekly rates?”
“What’s that?”
Cole repeated it, a little louder, and the old man said, “Wilson Hotel.”
“No, not there. Someplace else. Is there anything near the tannery?”
“Everything’s near the tannery, sonny. Don’t you smell it?”
“Yes.”
“Wilson too cheap for you?”
“No. I want something cheap.”
“We don’t have no YMCA. Try the Belvedere.”
Cole
Cole went over to Artie Bellman and said, “Mister Flynn told me you sometime loan money.”
“You strapped?” Bellman was short and wiry, with a pinched face. He looked as though he could move very fast.
Cole said, “Yes. I need money for food and a room.”
“How much?”
“I won’t get any money till next Friday.”
“So how much?”
Cole thought about it. Two dollars a day for food, say. Three dollars a day for a room. Ten days till next Friday. “Fifty dollars,” he said.
Bellman shook his head. “Too much,” he said. “I can let you have thirty. Make it thirty-two.”
“All right.”
“What you got for security? You got a watch?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see it.”
Cole took off his watch, and showed it to him. Bellman took it and studied it, dubiously. “I don’t think I could get thirty for it,” he said, “but what the hell. Let’s sign the paper.”
Bellman led the way to the office cubicle, and inside. There was no one in here now, and Bellman got a sheet of paper and a pen from one of the desks. “You write it,” he said. “It’s got to be in your handwriting.”
“All right.”
“Write, ‘IOU forty dollars, to be paid ten dollars a payday.’ And sign your name.”
“Forty dollars?”
“Five for four. Didn’t they tell you? You get thirty-two, you pay back forty.”
“Oh.” Cole wrote it, and signed it. He was thinking that he wouldn’t be here more than two or three paydays anyway, so Bellman would be lucky to get the money back he was loaning, much less the interest. Cole felt no compunction about it; Bellman was loaning money, but Bellman was a usurer and Cole was feeling the atavistic revulsion toward the usurer. He needed Bellman’s money, and was grateful to get it, but wouldn’t feel badly about cheating Bellman out of his profit.
Bellman took the paper and put it in his pocket. He already was wearing Cole’s watch. He took out his wallet, and gave Cole two tens, one five, and seven ones. “See you payday,” he said.
“I won’t get any pay this week.”
“I know.”
Then they went back to work.
When Cole punched the time clock on his way out, his card read 12:02. He put it back in its place, in alphabetical order with the other cards there, and walked out of the building.
His clothing hadn’t been right for the work. He’d taken off his tie and suitcoat, but he’d still been working in his white shirt and suit trousers. Tomorrow he would wear his slacks and a sport shirt. And he would buy some bread and cold cuts to keep in his room, and make sandwiches to take to work. It would be cheaper than going out.
He’d forgotten he wasn’t staying at the Wilson Hotel any more, but when he started across the intersection where he should turn right to go to the bus depot he suddenly remembered. He stopped in the middle of the street, flushing with embarrassment and anger. He remembered the young clerk now, and the stupid series of events. He shouldn’t have let it happen. He was very tired now, after working, and he shouldn’t now have to go look for a room.
He turned and walked down to the bus depot, and looked at the locker key to find out what number his locker was. He reclaimed his luggage and then turned to the counter. An elderly man without teeth was sitting on a high stool behind it, reading a comic book spread open on the counter in front of him.
Cole said, “Excuse me. Can you tell me where I can find an inexpensive room at weekly rates?”
“What’s that?”
Cole repeated it, a little louder, and the old man said, “Wilson Hotel.”
“No, not there. Someplace else. Is there anything near the tannery?”
“Everything’s near the tannery, sonny. Don’t you smell it?”
“Yes.”
“Wilson too cheap for you?”
“No. I want something cheap.”
“We don’t have no YMCA. Try the Belvedere.”
Cole
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