Bluff City Pawn Read Online Free PDF
Author: Stephen Schottenfeld
roll up.” He scans the rooftops where thieves keep ripping up the A/C units, going for the copper.
“Everybody split but you.”
I’m working on that, Huddy thinks. He looks next door at the construction, thinks of the needles sticking skin and the livid blood running all day, through veins and up tubes and into Huddy’s mouth, thick and heavy, a coppery taste. “You know what’s going there? Blood bank.”
“That’s good, right? It’ll bring a crowd.”
“The worst kind. Night of the living dead. They gonna hang out in my shop because it’s warm and they think they belong here.”
“You know what I think? I think the city ain’t never recovered from King.”
“I ain’t talking about King. I’m talking about me .”
“You ever think what this city’d be if King got killed somewhere else?”
And Huddy knows Harlan’s saying it wrong—how some assassination should’ve been farther—and now a panhandler is creeping close. This lurker, working his way over, with a hurt dip to his legs, like every step’s gonna make him take a knee. “Here comes the birdman.”
Harlan shrugs. “That guy’s just a methhead. He looks sprung.”
“Huh?”
“Sprung. Where you done so much, you ain’t coming back.”
“Good to know.”
The man reaches them. Eyes wasted and hungry, face mauled with sores. Huddy waits for the dirty hand, this guy looking like he’s standing, hustling, and sleeping all at the same time. “Look here now, I’ve got a wife and—”
“No, you don’t,” Harlan says, and Huddy watches his brother stare him down, daring. “Here’s a buck,” he says and reaches into his pocket, thrusts it forward.
The man examines Harlan and the dollar, the bill folded up so it looks like only a piece of something real, some trick money that couldn’t open and be whole. The meth mouth—rotten, jagged teeth, the crocodile smile flashed at Huddy, and Huddy’d like to fend him with the gun, but his eyes are enough, pushing the man to go. And he does, away, but hardly making space with his injured steps, swerving like he’s following a trail of switchbacks and it’ll take him all the way to the next night to get distance.
“See, I usually say no to that,” Huddy says.
“The city ain’t got no loose money. Rich folks have it all tied up to themselves.”
“So now you’ve come back to Memphis to give some away. You’re in the right place.”
Harlan smiles. “It was your money he wanted. I was just trying to distract him.”
“Me? Don’t got none. Pawnbroker with cash in his pocket ain’t gonna live long. I already got enough of a bull’s-eye coming out of there.” Huddy checks around for more bum traffic while Harlan looks back at the store.
“I thought you might’ve changed the name to Huddy’s. Unless it’s supposed to say Joe’s.”
“Ain’t Joe’s,” Huddy says, glaring. “You don’t put names on it. You give it something neutral like Capitol, Empire. Liberty.”
“Well, you can call it Harlan’s.” He makes a sign with his hand, then stops smiling. “You tell Joe I left Florida, coming back?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, I bet he’d say, ‘That Harlan can cut and run with the best of them. ’ ” Huddy watches his brother’s mouth clamp shut, his body held still to kill the insult.
“Why you back?”
“Well,” Harlan says and closes his eyes, tilts his head like he’s draining water. “I guess I stayed too long to where my tail got torn off. Might see Joe, go watch him eat. Same house?”
Huddy nods. “It’s bigger.”
“Yeah, I gotta get me one of them houses that grow.”
“I was thinking you’d come over to mine tonight. See my family.” But Huddy needs a face-to-face with Joe now, not at week’s end, when Joe gets his payment. “Let’s go out there. Joe’s.” Not waiting to get robbed by Barnes’s men, not waiting for no blood bank. I ain’t a dead carcass on the side of the road for somebody to tear a piece out of. Ain’t
“Everybody split but you.”
I’m working on that, Huddy thinks. He looks next door at the construction, thinks of the needles sticking skin and the livid blood running all day, through veins and up tubes and into Huddy’s mouth, thick and heavy, a coppery taste. “You know what’s going there? Blood bank.”
“That’s good, right? It’ll bring a crowd.”
“The worst kind. Night of the living dead. They gonna hang out in my shop because it’s warm and they think they belong here.”
“You know what I think? I think the city ain’t never recovered from King.”
“I ain’t talking about King. I’m talking about me .”
“You ever think what this city’d be if King got killed somewhere else?”
And Huddy knows Harlan’s saying it wrong—how some assassination should’ve been farther—and now a panhandler is creeping close. This lurker, working his way over, with a hurt dip to his legs, like every step’s gonna make him take a knee. “Here comes the birdman.”
Harlan shrugs. “That guy’s just a methhead. He looks sprung.”
“Huh?”
“Sprung. Where you done so much, you ain’t coming back.”
“Good to know.”
The man reaches them. Eyes wasted and hungry, face mauled with sores. Huddy waits for the dirty hand, this guy looking like he’s standing, hustling, and sleeping all at the same time. “Look here now, I’ve got a wife and—”
“No, you don’t,” Harlan says, and Huddy watches his brother stare him down, daring. “Here’s a buck,” he says and reaches into his pocket, thrusts it forward.
The man examines Harlan and the dollar, the bill folded up so it looks like only a piece of something real, some trick money that couldn’t open and be whole. The meth mouth—rotten, jagged teeth, the crocodile smile flashed at Huddy, and Huddy’d like to fend him with the gun, but his eyes are enough, pushing the man to go. And he does, away, but hardly making space with his injured steps, swerving like he’s following a trail of switchbacks and it’ll take him all the way to the next night to get distance.
“See, I usually say no to that,” Huddy says.
“The city ain’t got no loose money. Rich folks have it all tied up to themselves.”
“So now you’ve come back to Memphis to give some away. You’re in the right place.”
Harlan smiles. “It was your money he wanted. I was just trying to distract him.”
“Me? Don’t got none. Pawnbroker with cash in his pocket ain’t gonna live long. I already got enough of a bull’s-eye coming out of there.” Huddy checks around for more bum traffic while Harlan looks back at the store.
“I thought you might’ve changed the name to Huddy’s. Unless it’s supposed to say Joe’s.”
“Ain’t Joe’s,” Huddy says, glaring. “You don’t put names on it. You give it something neutral like Capitol, Empire. Liberty.”
“Well, you can call it Harlan’s.” He makes a sign with his hand, then stops smiling. “You tell Joe I left Florida, coming back?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, I bet he’d say, ‘That Harlan can cut and run with the best of them. ’ ” Huddy watches his brother’s mouth clamp shut, his body held still to kill the insult.
“Why you back?”
“Well,” Harlan says and closes his eyes, tilts his head like he’s draining water. “I guess I stayed too long to where my tail got torn off. Might see Joe, go watch him eat. Same house?”
Huddy nods. “It’s bigger.”
“Yeah, I gotta get me one of them houses that grow.”
“I was thinking you’d come over to mine tonight. See my family.” But Huddy needs a face-to-face with Joe now, not at week’s end, when Joe gets his payment. “Let’s go out there. Joe’s.” Not waiting to get robbed by Barnes’s men, not waiting for no blood bank. I ain’t a dead carcass on the side of the road for somebody to tear a piece out of. Ain’t