The Chinese Jars by William Gordon

door asking for you, and they don’t look like altar boys. I already told you what I think about the way you dress. I also think you should do something about the company you keep.”
    â€œThanks, Melba. I’m real sorry they came during working hours. It won’t happen again.”
    He went out the back door and closed it tightly behind him, making sure no one from the bar followed him. The only light in the alley was a single sixty-watt bulb surrounded by a cone-shaped protector, which pushed the light down and out, giving some illumination to the otherwise dark passageway.
    Two Mexican men got out of a black ’55 Chevrolet sedan with tinted windows. The rear end was lowered and there was a single stripe of red painted on both sides of the car. The seats were upholstered with fake tiger skin, and there was a large crucifix hanging from the inside mirror.
    â€œÃ“rale pues,” said Rafael, “What are you vatos doing here at the place I work? I told you we do our business down in the Mission.”
    â€œListen man,” said the bigger of the two. He had a slight paunch and a black mustache. “We got to unload this piece of shit. It’s really hot, and the cops are after us,” he said nervously. He pulled a cigarette out of his black leather jacket and lit it by striking a match with his thumbnail and cupping his hands in the shadowy darkness of the alley. Then he looked around furtively to see if he could perceive any movement.
    â€œThat’s great, pendejo. So you lead them right up here to your old buddy, Rafael. That’s real smart. I told you I couldn’t get a buyer for that X-ray machine until next week, and I told you not to come up here looking for me. You guys are fucking with my livelihood, man.”
    â€œCalm down, ese,” said the shorter one. “It was my idea. We can’t wait more than a day, and we wanted to give you one last chance.”
    â€œI don’t know, man,” said Rafael, “I’ll have to see if they can get the money by then. Like I said, they told me it wouldn’t be until next week. That thing is as big as a house. “
    â€œAll right,” said the big one. “Call me before noon tomorrow or we’ll unload it to the next in line.”
    â€œYou didn’t come here because you like me,” said Rafael. “You must like the bread my people are willing to pay.”
    Rafael went back inside as the black car crept down the alley with its lights still out. Those fuckers just don’t listen, he told himself, as he walked into the office where Melba was counting the day’s take with Excalibur lying at her feet.
    â€œLike I’ve told you a thousand times, son,” Melba blurted out, “you’re gonna end up in trouble dealing with people like them.”
    â€œWere you spying on me?”
    â€œI don’t like your friends. I don’t want to see them around here. Got it?”
    Rafael shook his head. He knew she was right, but he also had his own reality to deal with, and the world that he shared with Melba was only a small part of it. Before he left that evening, he went to the wastebasket, retrieved the net, and put it in his jacket pocket.

5
Blanche
    W HENEVER he thought of Blanche, Melba’s daughter, Samuel felt romantic. In fact, he thought about her all the time but had to make an effort to suppress his sugary sentiments in public so that his knees wouldn’t buckle. He was also aware that his obsession was ridiculous: they were totally different. But in his eyes, Blanche wasn’t really a head taller than he was; instead, she was a slender reed whose freckles weren’t freckles but rather a golden halo. Her eyes, blue like her mother’s, were transparent lakes that he didn’t dare dive into for fear of drowning. In her presence he became withdrawn and speechless. For her part, Blanche always walked erectly, not at all ashamed of her height, which