Sugarland - Chapters 1-5 - Page 30

     “A few minutes tonight,” Bembo said, directly to me. So skinny, the sharkskin hung on him. The collar of his shirt was frayed. “A few minutes only, boss.”

     “It's all right with me,” I said. “Come by the hotel.”

     “Very good,” he said. “Excellent. And by the way, the long distance to San Francisco—I was forced to bill it to my personal telephone. An individual there refused to accept the charges.”

     “We'll talk about it.”

     “Actually, it is the telephone of my cousin. I sometimes use his. The toll was five hundred twenty-two pesos.”

     “We'll figure it out later,” I said.

     “Thank you. Excellent. Absolutely.”

     We left him where he stood. Dalzell's car was parked along the taxi ramp, a blue Dodge with diplomatic plates. He turned on the air-conditioning and turned into traffic that flowed sluggishly for a few blocks and clotted in a flaking district of shops and beer gardens and massage parlors. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalks and wended through traffic.

     It might almost have been America. Newark, maybe. Parts of Cleveland, or Detroit, or Brooklyn: most big cities have thronged backwaters where money never seems to stretch for potholes and faded paint. A 7-Eleven on the corner, Stevie Wonder on a boom box, Coca-Cola signs above a café, a Marlboro placard on the side of a bus. One quick hit, I could believe I was home.

     But only one, and only if it was very quick. The street-lights were sparse and too dim. Buildings leaned a few degrees out of plumb. There were few cars, many of those dented and scraped; traffic was mostly taxis, buses, motor tricycles, and dozens of a creation that Dalzell called a jeepney: like a stretch Jeep with a pair of facing bench seats in the back, most of the bodies bright unpainted steel,