Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (38 page)

I back away. “I don’t need help. Just work.”

“Got a work permit?”

I don’t answer. He says, “A work permit. It’s the law. To protect kids. They used to force kids to work, not anymore. Not in the United States.”

So he’s not going to help me. I start to leave.

“Hold on—you want work? Fine.”

I stop. “What do you have? How much do you pay?”

He smiles again. “A businessman. Okay, listen, the shul here—the synagogue”—he points over his shoulder—“is not used much during the week, but it would be good to have someone to clean the place up before Friday services. Keep an eye out on things, know what I mean?”

“A watchman?”

“Not a night watchman, a day watchman, because there’s nowhere to sleep—you have someplace to sleep?”

“Sure.”

“It’s dangerous around here at night,” he says, coming even closer. “You been on the streets awhile, haven’t you?”

I don’t answer.

“I’m not trying to be nosy, sonny, but maybe I can help. ’Cause I been there, believe me.”

The way he says that, the change that comes over his face—like something I learned in science. Metamorphosis. I know he’s telling the truth.

“That must have been a long time ago,” I say.

He stares at me. Cracks up. “Yeah, a real long time. Back in the Stone Age.”

His laugh is funny—deep, like it comes from way down in his belly. I can’t help myself. My mouth turns up.

“Ah, he can smile, too. So maybe life’s not so bad after all, eh?”

That wipes the smile from my face.

“It is?” he said. “Someone hurt you that bad?”

Inside the shul he shows me a little closet in the men’s bathroom where the cleaning stuff is kept. A broom, a dustpan, a mop and pail, Windex for the glass, Lemon Pledge for the wood. Some silver polish, too, but he leaves that there. Sees me looking at it.

“C’mere, sonny—do you have a name, by the way? I’m Sam Ganzer.”

“Sonny is fine.”

He shrugs, holds out his hand, and we shake. His hand feels like a hunk of dried meat.

“Nice to meet you,” he says.

“Same here.”

He brings me into the main room of the shul. At the front is this big carved-wood cabinet that I never had a chance to open, reaching to the ceiling and covered by a blue velvet curtain. He pulls a cord and the curtain opens. Behind it are these doors with twelve little carved scenes—Bible scenes. I recognize Noah’s Ark, Moses in the cradle. Some other stuff doesn’t mean anything to me.

Nothing about Jesus. Of course. I think: This is weird; what am I doing here?

Behind the carved doors are three things also covered in blue velvet with Jewish writing with wooden poles sticking out on top and bottom and silver handles, just on top. The closest one says,
Dedicated by Saul and Isidore Levine in memory of their father, Hyman.
Hanging over the front are silver plates.

“Know what these are?” Sam asks.

“No.”

“Torahs. The Jewish Bible—you believe in the Bible, don’t you?”

I don’t know what I believe in, but I nod.

“So you understand these are holy, right?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t steal the silver,” I say.

He turns red as a tomato. “That’s not what I was implying, sonny. I just want you to know that this is important stuff we’re dealing with. So when I ask you to polish the silver, you’ll be extra careful. Got it?”

“Got it.” Even though I know what he was really saying.

We arrange it this way: I’ll sweep and mop the entire shul, including the bathrooms, Windex the windows, and Lemon Pledge the wood. The last job will be polishing the silver, because he needs to bring me more rags.

“Also,” he says, “the silver polish is pretty strong, so don’t breathe it in too close, got it?”

“Got it.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “You don’t sniff stuff, do you? Glue, paint—you don’t do that, right? No drugs?”

“Never,” I said. “Not once.”

“I believe you,” he said. “You seem like a nice kid. I’d like to know what you’re doing out on the streets, living on crackers, but it’s your business.”

I say nothing.

He says, “I just don’t want to come in here, find you knocked out by silver polish fumes. Believe me, I know about these things, owned a hardware store for forty years. At the end, junkies and lowlifes were coming in buying all the glue and fixative—it was pretty obvious none of them ever installed a commode.”

Boy, he can really talk.

“I’ll be careful,” I say.

“Another thing. Today is Thursday, tomorrow night we have services. Saturday, too, so I can’t use you at all on Saturday.”

“Fine. After today, I don’t think there’ll be anything to do.”

He puts his hands in his pockets. “So now the important part: How much do you want?”

“Whatever you think is fair.”

“Whatever
I
think? Meaning if I say two pennies an hour, you’ll be happy?”

“I think you’ll be fair.”

“Flattered, sonny, but if you’re gonna be a businessman, learn to set a price.”

I think for a while. How much do they pay kids to flip burgers at McDonald’s? I don’t know. I really don’t know. “Two dollars an hour.”

“Two dollars an hour? Minimum wage is over five. You don’t think you’re minimum wage?”

“Okay, six.”

“Five-fifty.”

“Fine!” I shout, and it surprises me.

“I’m not deaf,” he says. “Five-fifty an hour, and I figure you’ve got, what, eight, nine hours—let’s say fifty bucks total. Here’s an advance.”

Out comes his wallet and suddenly there’re two ten-dollar bills in my hand and, not believing my good luck, I stick them in my pocket.

“The rest you’ll get when you finish—I’ll come by in a few hours to check.”

He moves closer again, stops. “One more thing: This is a cash deal, no withholding for taxes, Social Security. So don’t report me to the government, okay?”

CHAPTER

The way Motor Moran figured it, if he’d had a
good scoot, he’d nevera noticed it.

He was thirty years old and, except for those four months guarding that junkyard in Salinas, had never worked a real job. Arts-and-crafts prison shit didn’t count—he’d never been in a real pen, anyway, just local shitholes, DUI, drunk and disorderly, a month here, a month there.

Life owed him something before he died. This could be it.

The kind of scoot his dick was quiverin’ for cost. Like a ’72 Shovelhead, Zenith carbs, nuclear displacement, polished cases
—everything
polished,
satin
chrome. Somethin’ chopped, Paughco Fishtails, unleaded valve seats, powder-coated frame with a lot of flake in it. Give the whole thing a nice big stretch with some Kennedy long-forks, or just some wide-glides if you didn’t want to hard-on that much. Skirted seat with a backrest, because his back hurt, specially in the mornin’.

A double seat. Chromed passenger pegs, ’cause you had to have a chick in back, holding on for dear life as you took her on a face-blasting putt.

Not Sharla, that stoned-out skank. One of those wenches you saw in
Easy Rider.
The putt would turn her on, and pulling over at some rest stop, he’d serve her some Motorized pork for lunch.

Oh, man, if he had the dough, he could have it all.

His current scoot was an Abomination Before the Lord, thrown together from corroded spare parts, fastened with Bondo and rewelds and prayer. He’d even snuck some Jap parts in places you couldn’t see. H-D emblem on the frame, but for all the Harley parts in there, the fucking thing might’ve said Slant Special.

At least it made noise. The Jap stuff never made noise.

The day he took the bus into Bakersfield, the bucket o’ bolts hadn’t started for three days straight. He found the trouble quickly enough.
Troubles:
starter gear so rotted there was a fucking hole in it; spark coil stone-dead; plugs wasted. The worst thing, the voltage regulator had wires that were coming apart, rattier than Sharla’s hair. A hundred bucks minimum, so far, and the belt assembly looked ready to go, another two C’s.

All he had left of Sharla’s FDIC was sixty bucks, and he took it, left her snoring, and began the painful walk to the Bolsa Chica bus station.

Knowing sixty wouldn’t get him far with Spanky, but maybe he could haul trash outta the shop, do some construction work over at Spanky’s house—his bitch was always remodeling.

Anything to be rollin’ again.

Riding the fuckin’ bus, all those greasers staring at him. Those drippy brown eyes askin’ the question any retardo would ask: Where’s your scoot, man?

’Cause he was a putter, you could tell by lookin’ at him he didn’t take no bus. If there was a roof on a ride, it sucked.

He
looked
like a putter, goddamnit. Independent jeans—so oil-soaked they stood by themselves—black XXXL T-shirt with the death’s- head Angel insignia—when no Angels were around. Nailheads, steel boots, leather, leather, leather.

Nice bandanna-style ripper cap—fuck the helmet law!

The bus ate twelve of the sixty bucks, came late, made stops along the way to drop greasers off at orchards. Half the day to get to Bandit Cycles and when he arrived at the store it was crowded, weekend warriors glomming the new stuff Spanky had customized. Guys in suits drooling over outrageous ’95 Rigids, coupla Softtails, a few antiques that tightened his ball sac. Lookit that Knuckle/Pan—black-cherry lacquer with a dancing chick in pink.

Rich pussies checking out the merchandise like they knew what it was. Spanky pointing out details, kissing ass.

And if a pussy bought one, what would he be? A pussy on a scoot.

Motor cruised around the showroom, examining parts, leafing through the latest
Rider—
the Fox of the Month was a greaser, but lookit them brown nipples!

Then back to the grease room behind the store, where two mechanics were working on bikes. Bolting away, two assholes he’d never seen before.

More Mexicans!
What got into the Spankster?

Finally, the pussies left with brochures and Spanky went back behind the counter, untied his ponytail, and shook out two feeta hair—shit, the guy had gotten gray. No meat on him, face like a skeleton, those rotten teeth, asshole looked like a death’s-head. When did he start wearing glasses?

Motor walked up to the counter. Spanky had a bottlea Bud in one hand, his right arm was covered with tattoos from shoulder to fingertips. Not the left one, though, that just had Spanky’s old lady’s name, Tara, on the bicep. Once Motor had asked him about it and Spanky had said, “Use the left one to wipe my ass. Like the Hindus.”

Weird.

“Hey, man,” said Motor.

Spanky didn’t look up. Draining half the Bud, he picked up a flyer about the Chillicothe meet, pretended to read. Motor read the back. Primo putt, Labor Day, all the way to Ohio. Lord, that was one he woulda loved to do, cruise in formation by the penitentiary, brothers behind the fence lifting their fists in solidarity.

Spanky kept reading, paying him no attention.

“Chillicothe,” said Motor. “Only thing better would be Sturgis, right? Or maybe Memorial Day at Laconia, hey?”

Spanky continued to ignore him.

Motor coughed and finally the skinny bastard looked up.

“Hey, man,” he said. “What’s happening?”

Spanky waited a while before he muttered, “Buell.”

Using the name Motor hated.

“Hey, Spank.” Motor raised his hand for a high five. Spanky didn’t move. Then he slipped a ring through his beard, turned it into a gray horsetail. Finishing the rest of the beer, he tossed the bottle over his shoulder onto a pile of trash.

“No credit, Buell. You’re still into me for those switchblade wheels.”

“I paid you, man.”

“Yeah, right—took you two years. Wheels like that, coulda moved ’em in two days. You take two years.”

Which was bullshit—the wheels were used, pulled off a wreck and reshaped, onea them totally skanked where kickback gravel had knocked out a chunka rim.

“Spank—”

“Forget it, Buell.”

“Listen, it’s only a few small ones. And I got dough.”

“How much dough?”

Motor peeled off a twenty and a ten. Spanky looked at the money like it was dogshit.

“C’mon, man, you know I’m good for it.”

Spanky sighed and his chest sucked in like a ho’s cheeks givin’ head. No hair on his chest or his arms, but that gray beard growing up to his eyes was thickern Santa’s.

“It’s a down payment,” said Motor.

“Yeah, sure—tell you one thing, you ain’t gettin’ no virgin pieces. If I let you have anything, it’ll be off the spares pile.”

“Fine,” said Motor. “Lemme scrounge.”

“Scrounge? You think for thirty bucks you can scrounge?”

“Thirty down, man. Old lady’s got a check comin’ in next week.” Total lie; Sharla had no income till the enda the month. “First thing the check comes in, you get it—I’ll bring it in person.”

“In person?” Spanky smiled and the ringed beard moved around like ten pounds of lint. “Why don’t you FedEx it to me, Buell? Everything comes FedEx now—ever use FedEx, Buell?”

“Yeah, sure.” Total lie.

“Got your own FedEx account, do you? We got one. Got a computer, too.” Spanky slapped the register. “Everything’s computerized, Buell. Got another computer in back for ordering parts. Got E-mail, too. Know what E-mail is, Buell?”

Motor didn’t answer. What an asshole. It dawned on him that Spanky looked . . . Jewish. Like onea them rabbis with that beard—put a hat on him, send him back to fucking Israel.

“E-mail, Buell. You send messages through the computer, phone calls, doesn’t cost. You can get dirty pictures on the computer too, Buell. Amateurs, anals, facials, anything. Or just use your E-mail to write ‘fuck you’ to some asshole—anything you want. What I’m saying, Buell, is it’s a new world out there, dude’s gotta change with the times. Once upon a time a dude could sit on his ass, scrounge himself a scoot, live free. Now you got to have more than gas money.”

Spanky looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. What was the asshole getting at?

“Nowadays you gotta produce something, Buell. Goods and services—like making a scoot or tuning it. I get doctors, lawyers, already have the Mercedes, but they’re heavy into the putt. People
producing
something.”