Meter Maids Eat Their Young by E. J. Knapp Read Free Book Online Page B

conversation with Wesley.
    â€œMy name is Teller,” I said to the room. “No ‘sir’, no ‘mister.’ Just Teller. Okay?”
    I turned and walked out the door.
    I cut across the street and was about to walk into the Coney Island place when a woman, dressed in a halter top with shorts so tight they looked painted on, handed me the single leaflet she was holding and quickly walked away.
    The word CARPE was splashed across its width. I remembered my mental note to check out these folks. Now seemed as good a time as any, see if they could add anything to what I had. As I entered the restaurant, I read through the material, hoping for a phone number or address and getting nothing but information on an upcoming meeting. I was about to toss it away when I noticed the handwritten scrawl at the bottom of the page: Hock It To Me Pawn, Grospecke Highway.
    I looked out the window for the woman who had handed me the flyer but she was nowhere in sight. She had been alone. She had walked right up to me. With nothing but the single flyer in her hand. Had I just been given an invitation to meet with the folks at CARPE?
    I did a quick geographic calculation in my head, feeling my stomach churn over as I did. That part of Grospecke Highway was west of city center in the old, and mostly forgotten, industrial part of town. I’d been avoiding that section since my return. I’d spent seven years there in a little cinder-block apartment building off Rose Street, less than a brisk walk from that pawnshop. Five of those years with Robyn.
    You’re a journalist, Teller, a voice in my head nagged. You go where the story takes you. Yeah, yeah, I nagged back, easy for you to say. But I knew I would go. Had to go. I folded up the leaflet, ordered the dogs to go and hurried to my car.

Chics Dig Guys Who Pawn
    The day was warming up. I had the windows down as I navigated my way along the slowest route I could think of to get to Grospecke Highway. Paul Simon slipped from the speakers and whispered that he was heading to Graceland. I felt like I was heading into memory’s minefield.
    It’s strange how the geography of a city can change so abruptly. One minute you’re moving down tree-lined streets of mid- and upper-class homes; baby carriages, swing-sets, Beamers and bikes with training wheels, then within a single block and a set of railroad tracks, you’ve crossed over into The Land Time Forgot.
    As I made that transition, the air thickened with the smell of rusting iron and diesel fuel. What sunshine there was seemed purged of warmth and vitality. Ancient wooden warehouses hugged the old rail line, their heavy plank sides and thick beams crumbling in on them.
    Abandoned cars, rusted, dented, their windows cracked and broken, most on cinder blocks or bare brake drums, lined the rutted streets like rotted teeth. An ominous wind had kicked up, as if welcoming my return, scattering beer cans and scraps of paper in endless eddies.
    Despite having been born and raised here, Robyn had no notion this part of town existed before meeting me. After, she took to it like a big game hunter finding virgin wilderness. We made love in several of the old warehouses, even spending a Halloween night in one, telling ghost stories and drinking Bloody Marys.
    Many were the evenings we trod the broken sidewalks and overgrown rail line. She’d found a lover for Dinger here. Dinger was my cat at the time and I hadn’t understood then why she needed a lover. Time hasn’t enlightened me any. But that was Robyn, the way she was, the way her head worked. The affair between Dinger and the old, orange tomcat Robyn had lured back to my apartment didn’t work out. Dinger nearly tore the old boy apart. Maybe some relationships are never meant to be.
    Though I had sworn I wouldn’t, I found myself cruising down Rose Street. After HL’s talk and my increasing immersion in the Robyn Zone, you’d think I’d