Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (21 page)

Better to wait. Better to surprise her with it. Better to see if it’s possible first before bringing it up. But he needs to set up the meeting. See if he can work it out for tomorrow afternoon. Before Angela arrives.

One more phone call. Roy lifts the phone again and dials Information. This isn’t a number he knows by heart, and he’s glad for that.

This man Glasser is dressed better than Roy is, even with the new suit from the mall. The fabric is better, Roy is sure. The cut is better. The tie isn’t as bold, as garish. He’s understated, but classy. It’s not just the suit, though. It’s the leather furniture. The burnished wood. Even the paint on the walls. Roy doesn’t often feel intimidated. In here, he’s not on solid ground. In here, he’s not comfortable.

The man can tell. “Is the chair fitting you?” he asks. “I can have Sandra bring in a different one.”

“It’s fine,” says Roy. Doesn’t want to be a bother. He fidgets with the paperweights on the man’s desk. Heavy. Odd. Pictures of the man’s children line the walls of the office. Vacation photos. Graduation snapshots. A wife, here and there.

“So what’re we looking at, Mr. Glasser?” Roy asks. “This a hard thing to do?”

Papers on the desk. Roy’s papers, all of them. The man shuffles them around, glasses perched on the end of his nose. “It’s never easy,” he says. “It’s always a strain, especially if there’s pull from the other side.”

“There might be.”

“Then that’s an added problem we should account for.” The attorney pushes his glasses back toward his face, secures them tight around his ears. “But to start with, the court is going to want to see an income.”

“Money, I got. That’s not a problem.”

“I understand that. But they’re going to want to see something … verifiable. A job. A career. Do you have one of those?”

Roy shakes his head. “Not so we can tell the judge, no. I got fronts, but …”

Glasser nods. “I understand. That’s item number one to fix up. Along with that, I can’t seem to find any of your income tax statements over the last few years.”

“I got statements. Self-employed. Antiques dealer. Fronts again.”

“Mm-hmm. You’ll want to bring those in, then. We can look at them together.”

“I can do that. I got that down.”

Mr. Glasser sits back in his chair. Rubs the bridge of his nose. Looking up at the ceiling, not at Roy. “Stable home environment?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess.”

“No arrests? No drugs?”

“No, no,” Roy says quickly. “Nothing like that.”

“Good. Character witnesses?”

Roy shrugs. “Again, not so many you’d wanna bring in front of a judge. Unless you count my shrink.”

The attorney shakes his head, comes upright in the chair. “Let’s not mention the therapy if we can avoid it. You get an old judge, they can be skittish about that sort of thing. Tell me: How does the girl’s mother feel about this?”

“She won’t talk to me.”

“So you haven’t discussed it.”

Roy squirms more in the chair. “I’m telling you she won’t even speak to me, how’re we gonna have a discussion?”

Glasser backs off. “Hey, I’m on your side here. Just trying to get all the ducks in a row.”

Roy understands. But he’s not comfortable with all the questions. With all the maneuvers. “Tell me straight,” says Roy. He
wants the truth. Needs to hear an answer one way or the other. “I got a shot at this?”

The glasses are off now. Elbows on the desk. “I’ve handled cases like yours before. Lots of them worse. Each one different. It depends on the judge and on the day and sometimes I still think they make their decisions based on the shape of the moon. But it’s not unheard of that you should get joint custody of your daughter. If everything comes out the way we’d like, you very well might.

“But we’ve got a lot to work on before filing anything with the courts. To be more specific, you’ve got a lot to work on. I don’t like to go in front of a judge with my hands half-tied behind my back. I don’t want to have to say that you’re
going
to get a job and that you’re
going
to show community involvement. I want to have that track record going back at least a few months from the moment we step into that courtroom. In short, you’ve got to be willing to change your lifestyle—your house, your car, your means of employment—everything—in order to get joint custody of that little girl. If that’s what you want, then that’s what you need to do.

“So you tell me, before we go any further with this: Are you prepared to do that?”

Roy doesn’t tell Angela where they’re going, and she doesn’t figure it out until they’re already well inside the parking lot. In the distance, past the entrance booths, she can make out the top half of the towering Ferris wheel. Smell the corn dogs. Hear the music.

“But you hate carnivals,” she says to Roy.

He shrugs. “Never been to one with you. Maybe I just haven’t seen ’em right.”

Angela laughs and grabs Roy’s hand, pulling him through the parking lot, toward the main gates. She’s got on overalls today, and Roy can’t help but think they make her look younger. More vulnerable. More in need of his protection. She’s just a little girl, after all.

“If they’ve got it here, you’re gonna love this one roller coaster,” Angela begins, “with a double loop, and then it comes down into this twisty thing—”

“Whoa, whoa, we’re gonna have to see about roller coasters.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” she chides.

“I got a real nervous stomach.”

“You’ll love it. I promise.” She stops in the parking lot. Turns. Catches his eye. “Trust me, okay?”

Roy nods. Realizes a second later that he means it.

The line at the ticket booth is short; business hasn’t picked up yet for the day. Angela and Roy quickly make their way to the front, where an older woman waits to take their money. She’s sixty, easy, hair bleached, a charm necklace hanging out of her sweatshirt. A ready smile for Angela when she approaches the booth.

“One adult and one student,” Angela says. Roy gave her money in the parking lot so she could feel like she was treating him. Taking him out for the day.

The cashier rings it up. “That’s twenty-one fifty, darling.”

Angela reaches into her pocket and pulls out two twenty-dollar bills. “That’s funny,” she says. “All I’ve got is twenties. I thought I had some change around here.…”

“No problem, dear,” says the older woman. “I’ve got all the change you need right back here.”

Roy looks down. Realizes exactly what she’s doing. He grabs her shoulder, squeezes, and Angela looks up. Mischievous grin on that face. Sparkle in those eyes. Roy shakes his head. She nods back. He shakes it again, and Angela turns away, back to the cashier.

The woman pushes the carnival tickets toward Angela and passes her the correct change. “Y’all have a great time at the fair,” she says, and prepares to go on to the next customer.

But Angela’s not budging. “That’s a great necklace,” she says, leaning in.

The woman beams. “Thank you, honey—my grandkids got it for me.” She points to the charms dangling from the thin gold rope. “Each one of these is another one of my babies. Three boys, two girls.”

“Gosh,” says Angela, “that’s amazing. Five grandchildren …”

“And another on the way. I get any more, and I won’t be able to keep my neck up.”

Angela laughs along with the woman, and starts to move away. Roy’s glad. It’s what he was hoping for.

But she stops a moment later, her hand digging into her pocket. “Oh, wait a second. I think I found some change.”

That’s it. She’s running the twenties on this old lady at the carnival. Roy grabs her wrist, gently but purposefully. Pulling her away. “No, you didn’t.” Turns to the cashier. “She didn’t.”

“I did,” Angela insists. “I found a dollar fifty—”

“No. You didn’t. Not today. Okay? Not today.”

Angela looks up at Roy, her eyes narrowing. Head cocked. Trying to figure him out. He doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t
need to. Just looks back, hoping that they can get through this without a scene. “You’re right,” she says eventually. “I didn’t.” And she lets Roy lead her into the park.

“Okay,” she says once they’re inside, “what was that all about?”

“I didn’t want to start off that way.”

“You’re not making sense.”

They fall into a large group of people heading toward the midway. “The thing is,” says Roy, “I’d like to see if we can get through the day without running any games.”

“At all?”

“At all.”

“Why?” she asks. “It’s fun.”

“Sure it’s fun, but it’s … it’s not what fathers and … their daughters do. Together. It’s not done.”

“So what? We’re different.”

“We are. And I like that. But … Look, can we just do this? You and me? Try to make it through the whole, entire day without playing the con? No grift, nothing?”

“I guess,” Angela says. “If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

Roy sticks out his palm, and Angela stares at it. Not upset. Thinking it over. He smiles down at her, opens his hand wider, and she takes it. Grins. Enthusiasm back in her voice, her body, her motions.

“C’mon,” she says, pulling him off into the heart of the carnival. “I know a great ride we can throw up on.”

The day passes in a seemingly endless stream of loops and twists, rolls and shivers. Roy can’t believe that he’s making himself
nauseated on purpose. But it doesn’t result in vomit. It doesn’t carry with it that stinging taste of bile. It doesn’t have the head spins and the confusion. Nausea, in this manner, isn’t all that bad. Roy can almost understand the thrill of the rides.

Angela doesn’t seem to be affected by the same gravitational forces. She’s not dizzy, she’s not green. He wonders if she’s from some other planet. Sent down to trick the humans into spinning themselves into a stupor. First wave of attack, incapacitating the native population.

For lunch, they have food on a stick. Roy nibbles on skewered meats; Angela eats anything fried. She has trouble balancing her tray of food along with the six stuffed animals Roy won at the game booths. Easy pickings, every one. Roy had worked the carny scene for a few months in the days before he met up with Hank. He knows the tricks, the ways to win. Hit the back corner of the bucket. Push out on the bottle instead of pulling up. That sort of thing. A prize for Angela every time. It’s not quite fair, but Roy doesn’t consider it running the grift. You can’t con a con man.

“You got real lucky with that metabolism,” Roy says as they sit on a splintered wood bench. The horse show is only a few hundred feet away, and when the wind shifts, it takes away Roy’s appetite. He eats in shifts. “That stuff would kill most people on the spot.”

“Yeah,” mumbles Angela through the fried crust of her sugarcoated elephant ear. “I can eat almost anything.”

“Your mom still like that? Thin as a pin?”

Angela shrugs. “She’s normal, I guess. I don’t do meals with her, so I dunno what she can eat anymore.”

“No dinners at home?”

“Not really. I get something from the fridge and take it back to my room. Or I go out. Or she goes out.”

“And Joe?”

Angela’s eyes cloud over. “What about him?”