Chapter Three
“Where does this money come from?” I asked the teller the same question every time I went in to withdraw from the account.
The teller, always a slick-haired boy-man or a sophisticated lady, always told me that I’d have to talk to the bank manager. I talked to the bank manager a few times.
“Where does this money come from?” I asked the bank manager.
“It comes from a special account, a trust fund,” he said.
“Where does the trust fund come from?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. I can only tell you that the information on the account indicates that the payments will end when you turn 18,” he always said. Like a role he had memorized. One day when I was seventeen, he asked, “How old are you Ms Martinez?”
“None of your damn business,” I said. “Look it up. You’ve got it in your super computer there.” So it was going to run out. I knew that. I had come to trust it. After all it was the one constant in my life. Somehow, no matter how many times I was told, no matter that I knew it would end, I was still struck dumb when it did. By that time I was hanging out with Loser all the time. My pet name for him. It keeps me from feeling sorry for him. If I went down that road, I’m not sure when I’d get back or what I’d look like, or who I would be. Identity is a troubling thing.
Loser was the low-life who first showed me heaven. Putting that needle in my arm. Making me believe that he loved me. Harlan says, chances are Loser did love me, he just didn’t have a very good grasp on what it meant to love someone. “Loved himself more,” Harlan said. But Harlan was wrong on both counts. Loser hated me, he hated himself more. He beat on me because he hated himself. He beat on me because he couldn’t beat on himself. I saw him try to beat himself. The best he could do was bang his fists into the wall and hit his head. I don’t know what twisted up bullshit put Loser in the shape he was in, he told me all kinds of lies. Somewhere in those lies is something distantly related to the truth.
Harlan rescued me. That’s not why I love him, but it’s how I ended up with him. When I first met Harlan it was because Loser was one of his dealers. I don’t mean Harlan bought from Loser, I mean Harlan supplied him. Not heroin. That’s not Harlan’s style. Not for years, anyway. Strictly pot. Kilos that Loser broke up and sold. I know he didn’t want to sell to Loser. He’d been burned by him and he didn’t like working with someone on the street level. Harlan preferred to be further away from the actual end user. Especially, someone like Loser. The first time I met him, Harlan was arguing with Loser.
“I got the money. It’s across town. It’ll take me an hour to get it. I’ll bring it to you.” There was a whine in Loser’s voice. I could hear it all the way down the hall in the bedroom where I was nodding.
“Do I look like an idiot?” A man’s voice. Deep, and so reasonable it frightened me. “Maybe you should just give me the title to your piece of junk car out there.”
“No, man. I need that.” Then, “Hey, I got something else you might like.” I really didn’t like the sound of that, but I was feeling pretty good and it was all a little vague.The next thing Loser said made it all come into focus. “I got a girl in the bedroom. She looks real young. She’s real pretty. You can have her anytime you want, man.”
The next thing I heard was the door slamming. Then I heard his Harley and then he was gone. Loser came into the bedroom and he had tears running down his face. “Oh, man, I’m fucked. Fucking shit I’m fucked. You bitch!”
Apparently, it was my fault and ten minutes later I had the bruises to prove it.
I don’t think Harlan would have killed Loser, but Loser thought he would. That’s the way the drug world is, isn’t it? You pay or you die. You don’t rip off your supplier. Loser hadn’t actually ripped him off, not intentionally. Somehow, Loser managed to get the money together that he spent on heroin for the both of us, which is why he blamed me–after all half of it went in my veins. He tried to get me to walk 82nd, but I told him to shove, so he gave me a few more bruises, then he went out and came back a few hours later all happy like nothing had ever happened. I know he ripped someone off or he sucked a few men off. When Harlan came back the next day, Loser gave him his money.
“We’re finished,” Harlan told him.
“Ah, man. I promise it won’t happen again. How am I gonna make it?” Jesus, Loser, I thought, why don’t you go down on your knees? I came out of the kitchen with a plate of cookies and set it down on the coffee table. It was the first time I saw Harlan. He was standing by the door ready to take off. A big man. I mean a really big man. Our living room was small and there was this man in it taking up the extra space. I don’t mean he was fat, though he had a little belly going for him. He was tall and broad and Loser and me are small people so we just seemed like leprechauns to me and Harlan seemed like the jolly green giant. I could see why Loser was scared shitless.
“Want a cookie?” I asked.
“Jesus, Cyn, he don’t want no cookie.”
“I believe I do,” Harlan said looking right at me and not just at my tits and ass. He was looking at my face, at the bruises.
I put a hand up and touched my swollen cheek. I didn’t say the usual bullshit about falling down. I just picked up the cookie plate and held it out for him. “I made them myself,” I said.
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