Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (13 page)

R
oy has never been inside this store before. It’s a boutique. Low lighting, strange music. One of those places they talk about on television. He has always bought his suits in department stores. Once, he bought a suit at one of those bulk-order discount places, one of those warehouse stores. It still fits him fine. But this place is inside the mall, and this is a place with a famous name. Roy didn’t know it was a famous name, but Angela recognized it right off the bat. She squealed and grabbed his hand and led him inside and introduced him to a man wearing satin. Suddenly, Roy was trying on jackets and pants and ties.

“I really don’t need this,” he says to her. He’s got on a blue suit, light pinstripes. Red tie.

“You do. Trust me, you do.”

“I don’t see what was wrong with my old suits.”

“They were old suits.”

“They were fine,” says Roy.

“I’ve seen them. And I’ve got a reputation to maintain. You should, too.”

Roy looks at himself in the mirror. The jacket hangs nicely across his chest, hiding the paunch of his stomach. Sleeves don’t ride up on his arms. Pants sit on his hips, not squeezing at his waist. It’s not such a horrible thing to have something that fits. Something that looks proper.

They find two more suits he likes, two sport coats, some shirts and ties. Angela shuttles back and forth between the dressing room and the racks, throwing things over the top for Roy to try on. She hangs it back up when he doesn’t like it, bundles it up to the register when he does.

When they’re all done, Angela escorts Roy up to the front. “This is what we call a cash register,” she says playfully. “Did they have those last time you bought suits?”

Roy smiles at the clerk. “My daughter. At least until the orphanage takes her back.” Angela punches Roy in the gut, and he laughs.

The clerk doesn’t care. He rings up the clothes and announces the total. “Six thousand, four hundred eighteen and sixty-five cents. Check or charge?”

“Cash,” says Roy.

The clerk isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh. He’s not. Roy dipped into the horse before coming to the mall. He’s got bigger bills, but the pile of hundreds still makes a show on the narrow counter. Roy counts it out and waits for his change. Angela watches the clerk try to stuff the wad of cash into the register; it doesn’t quite fit.

“He’s an antiques dealer,” she tells the young man. “Business is good.”

After three more stores, Angela convinces Roy to get his hair cut. The stylist’s name is Daphne, and she and Angela keep up
a furious chatter about movie stars all through the session. Roy is relieved. He didn’t want to talk.

The joys of the food court are relatively new to Roy. He’d always seen people eating there, but never tried it for himself. He and Angela both choose Chinese, both choose the lo mein. It’s her favorite dish, she says. It’s his, too. Something else she got from him. The eyes, the turkey on rye, and the Chinese dish of choice. It’s a start.

“You got me beat,” says Roy. “I never knew shopping was such a workout.”

“ ’Cause you never went shopping with me. If you want, after lunch, there’s a Prada store up in the nicer section.”

“Uncle. Lemme digest first, then we’ll talk about it.”

Angela picks at her lo mein, twirling the noodles around her chopsticks. “Back there, in the store … that was real cash, wasn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“That’s a lotta money to just have … you know, around. Checks work okay, you know. Lotta people use ’em.”

“I don’t trust banks.”

“In general?”

“In general. I don’t trust ’em.”

“I don’t understand,” she says. “You think they’ll steal your money or something? Banks are gonna fold on you?”

Roy takes a bite of his food, slurps the noodles into his mouth. “They take your money and they put it out on the street. Car loans, mortgages, whatever. And they give you two percent off their ten percent. They’re stealing eight percent from you.”

“I don’t know anything about that stuff,” Angela admits. “I got
a C in Math last quarter. All I know is that’s a lotta money to have around the house.”

Roy shrugs. The small hairs on the back of his neck rub against his shirt collar. “I think she cut it too short.”

“She cut it fine. It looks nice.”

Roy runs his fingers through the top. There’s barely any hair there to muss. “It’s like a crew cut.”

“It’s not. It’s nice, trust me. You look nice.”

They eat their lo mein. They sip their soda. They watch the people walk by with their trays. Shoppers. Happy consumers.

“If you’re a drug runner,” Angela says, “you can tell me.”

The noodles catch in Roy’s throat. He coughs once, twice. Spits into a napkin, swallows what’s left. “Excuse me?”

“ ’Cause it’s all right with me. Everyone’s gotta make a living.”

“What makes you—I’m not a drug runner.”

“It’s not like you find a lotta antique dealers running around with huge wads of cash in their pockets.”

“It’s a cash business.”

“So long as you don’t sell to kids. That’s not cool. You don’t sell to kids, do you?”

“For chrissakes,” Roy says, trying to keep his voice down, “I’m not a drug runner.”

“Then what are you?” The question is simple, precise. She’s not kidding this time. Angela leans in.

“I’m—look, what difference does it make?”

“None. I just want to know. What do you
do
, Roy?”

He looks around the food court. Housewives, eating their calzones. Businessmen, getting in a quick gyro and fries. No one seems to be paying attention to them. No one cares.

“I tell you,” Roy says, “and then we drop it and finish lunch?”

“Deal.”

“I’m talking we drop it, drop it. End of conversation.”

“Yes. Deal.”

“I’m a con man.”

Angela’s eyes open wide as she sits back in her molded plastic chair. “Cool,” she says, drawing it out.

“It’s not cool.”

“You’re a grifter.”

“Yes.”

“A bunco artist.”

“Yes.”

“A flimflam man. Playing the C. Stroking the mark. Taking the chump.”

“You know the lingo,” says Roy.

“I go to the movies. Oh, man, this is so cool.”

“What I do is not a movie. It’s not funny, it’s not a game. It’s—it’s what I do, and most of it is wrong. Now I told you what I did for a living, you live up to the deal and finish your food.”

“Teach me something.”

“Drop it, Angela.”

“C’mon, teach me.”

“You’re out of your—I’m not teaching you anything.” Roy doesn’t want to eat his Chinese food anymore. He wants to feel the bile rising in his throat. Wants to be angry with her. She shouldn’t be asking these questions. Shouldn’t be wanting to learn the con. But there’s no bile. There’s no pressure.

“One trick,” she begs. “One, so I can use it at school.”

“Jesus. No.”

“Okay, I won’t use it at school. I won’t use it at all. I swear, I just want to know. I want to know how you do it, it’s so cool—”

“Listen,” he says, pulling her out of the seat, pulling her close. His hand is tight around her, gripping the soft flesh. He can feel her small biceps flex under his fingers. “What I do is not cool. It’s not fun. It’s taking money away from people who are too stupid not to have it taken from them. And you’re too good—you’re a good girl, a good person—and I’m not going to teach you something like that.”

He releases her. She stands there. Pouting. Not going back to her seat, not eating her food. Pouting.

“Go,” he says. “Sit down, eat.” But she doesn’t budge. Arms down by her sides, shoulders slumped. Staring through him, past him.

“Fine,” says Roy, returning to his lo mein. “Stand there. Make that face. I’m hungry.”

It’s not until they’re in the car, four blocks past the mall, that Roy realizes he’s getting the silent treatment. It’s been years. Fifteen, at least. He can hardly remember what the silent treatment sounds like. Angela sits in the passenger seat, arms folded across her chest, staring at the road ahead. Not pouting anymore, just staring.

“Where you wanna go next?” There’s no answer. That’s enough answer for him. “You wanna listen to the radio?”

She doesn’t even move. Roy is impressed. He leans over and flicks on the radio. Spins the dial. Finds a classical station. He doesn’t like classical music, but he’s sure Angela likes it less. He turns up the volume. Violins fill the air.

“If you want me to turn it down,” he yells over the music, “just say so.”

Nothing. Roy tries again. “You want the windows down? I can put the windows down.” When there’s no response, he hits the
electric window switch, and the car is filled with a rush of air, whipping through Angela’s hair. Blowing it into her face, across her eyes. Still no movement. The kid is good. Her mother would have cracked by now. Screamed or yelled or laughed, any of the three good enough for Roy. Not Angela. He’s proud, in a way.

Roy takes her to a movie. A comedy. People in the theater are laughing. They’re laughing so hard they’re gasping for air. Nothing but a straight face outta the girl. Roy throws popcorn at her; a piece sticks in her hair. She reaches up and brushes it away. Folds her arms again. Pouts.

And it goes through dinner. Pasta, taken out from an Italian deli near Roy’s place. Roy turns off the TV halfway through the meal to see if she’ll talk. She doesn’t. He turns it back on again. Needs some noise, something happening. Anything. That night, when he puts her to bed, she doesn’t ask him questions. She doesn’t pester him. She doesn’t kiss his forehead. She doesn’t do any of the things Angela used to do. She doesn’t tell him good night.

Roy goes to sleep, telling himself she’ll crack by morning. She’s stubborn, she’s good at being stubborn, but she’s a little girl. She’s got to talk eventually. She’s got to break down sooner or later.

Breakfast is a silent affair. Like eating in a vacuum. Roy tries, tries hard. “Okay,” he says finally, pushing away his cereal. Angela sits opposite him at the table, still in her nightgown. “Okay, two can play at this game.”

And that’s when Roy starts his own silent treatment. He’s quiet. She’s quiet. They stare at each other over uneaten bowls of cereal. Eyes locked. Battle of wills.

The kid behind the counter at the convenience store has just been dumped by the only girl who’s ever let him get to second base. Jessica. His Jessica. She had glasses and spit a little when she kissed and was in the smart classes, but she was his. He’s sixteen, skinny, pimply, and hates his job. It’s the only job he could get, other than bagging at the local grocery. But when he’s working, he doesn’t want to see anyone from school, and this store is way outside of his neighborhood. He hates the job, but he likes the money it gives him. He can go out on dates with that money. If he had someone to go out on dates with.

It’s nearing noon when the girl enters the store. She skips inside, barely waiting for the door to open before dancing into the aisles. Freshman, it looks like. Maybe a sophomore. Pretty. Reddish-brown hair down to her waist, a lot like Jessica’s. Better body than Jessica, though. Thin. Long legs. Beautiful lips.

Angela flits down the aisles, making sure she’s noticed. Spins up to the counter, running her fingers over the display racks of chewing gum. “You got a favorite?” she asks the young man.

“Favorite gum?”

“Yeah. I wanna buy some, but I don’t know what kind. You have an idea?”

The clerk clears his throat. No one ever asks for his opinion. Pretty girls never ask for his opinion. “I like Dentyne,” he says.

“Dentyne! Oh, yeah, I love Dentyne.” She giggles. Sounds like she means it. “We’re like gum twins,” and the clerk nods along. Grins. He doesn’t know what she means, but he likes it. “What is that, like forty-five cents?”

He knows the gum costs fifty cents, but wants to seem like he’s doing his job. Wants to impress. So he runs the gum past the scanner, and the price pops up on the screen. “Fifty cents,” he says, voice cracking in the middle. “Fifty.”

Angela digs into her pockets, twisting her torso around as she looks for change. The boy tries not to look at her chest, at the soft breasts gyrating right in front of his face. He looks away, beyond her, to the aisles. Back to her face. Concentrate on her face.

“No change,” she says eventually. “All I got is this.” She hands him a twenty-dollar bill and smiles abashedly. “I feel stupid giving you a twenty for something that costs fifty cents.”

He waves it off. “Don’t, we do it all the time. Guys come in here with hundreds, they just want water.” Pops open the register, makes change. Gives the girl her $19.50 and tries to touch the skin on her palm when he transfers the money. It’s smooth, just as he knew it would be.

“Thanks,” she says, pocketing the cash. Rips open the gum and pops a stick in her mouth. She leans against the counter, face a mere two feet away from his. “So you go to school around here?”

The young man swallows, prays that his voice maintains its register, and says, “Sorta. I go to Hamilton.”

“Really? Cool. I had some friends who went there, they took me to some games. Hey—that’s where I know you from. You’re on the football team, right?”