Garbage by Stephen Dixon Read Free Book Online Page A

the bar—can I have that back?” He gives me the envelope and I leave the bank and go to the phonebooth on Second and Prescott another block away and wait for a young woman in the booth to finish arguing with her father about how it’s none of his damn business where she was last night and earlier today—“Do I ever ask you where you are or what you do? No, so shut up or I won’t come home,” and slams down the receiver and scoops up her change. I look at her, maybe coldly because I’m suddenly sorry for her dad, and she stares at me as she leaves the booth and says “What do you want?” and I shake my head and step out of her way and go inside, turn around, see that she’s gone and nobody else seems to be looking at me, feel under the shelf, find the tape which is so sticky that my fingers have difficulty getting off it, and fasten the envelope to it and leave the booth and go around the corner and head back to the bar. But I stop, a block away, say “Hell, came this far, let me see who they are,” and hail a cab and have him drive me to the opposite side of the busy oneway avenue about thirty feet up from the booth, and doublepark.
    Couple of seconds later a man goes into the booth, seems to jiggle the coin return button same time he sticks a finger in the return slot and pockets what he gets and moves on.
    â€œCabs don’t make money standing,” the driver says.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll make it pay.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œA good tip.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œListen, standing is also part of the cab-driving job and I said I’ll make it pay.”
    â€œBut how much?”
    â€œFive bucks. Nothing happens a few minutes more, I’ll walk.”
    Three minutes later, meter still running, cabby never stopping his grumbling, my stomach nervous from the excitement of what I’ve done with that envelope on the tape and this wait and what I might find and head clotted not with the idea of stomping the guy or guys but to grab whoever they are just to see who so I know them if I already don’t and maybe to ask lots of whys, a man goes into the booth, gets the envelope, opens it and looks inside, drops it to the floor and leaves. Few feet away he snaps his fingers, goes back, picks up the envelope, opens it almost prissily this time, takes out a withdrawal slip by one of its corner tips, rubs it on the sidewalk back and forth and puts it in his wallet and throws the envelope into a trash can near the booth but misses and it lands on the street and the slips fall out and are picked up by the wind and sail in circles around the can and a couple up in the air and away.
    â€œHe’s who you’re waiting for?” the cabby says.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThere’s to be trouble between you of any kind, pay up and get out now. I don’t want to spend the rest of my day filling out police forms on what might turn out to be a lucrative snowstorm for my cab.”
    I give him fifteen dollars and tell him to keep it all if he just drops me a little ways behind the man on the man’s side of the street and that there’ll even be more if the man jumps in a car and we have to follow him by cab. Meter reads $2.85 and he puts the flag up and says “Cop comes, tell him you were just stepping out and then leave.” We cross the avenue and follow the man for a minute. He walks fast, wiping his hands with a handkerchief, and when I decide no one’s with him and he’s not going to a car I say “Now,” and the cabby says “Now what?” and I say “Where’d you go to school? Stop right here!” and he does and I get out and walk after the man. The man hears the cab accelerate and stares after it as it passes and twists around and sees me and walks faster. I recognize him I think but don’t know for sure. I walk faster after him thinking where have I seen him if I have? In the bar?