The Merchants of Zion by William Stamp Read Free Book Online Page A

across the table to her. She thanked me and insisted I pour myself a glass as well. When I'd done so she pulled a pack of cigarettes—cloves—and a lighter from her purse.
    “Would you be a dear and fetch my ash tray. It's in the cupboard above the sink.”
    “I didn't know you were a smoker.”
    “I don't, usually, but today... Would you like one?”
    “No thank you. I don't smoke.”
    She smiled softly. “Forgive me. Of course you don't. No one does anymore.” I set the ash tray on the table and sipped on the wine. It was sweet and... buttery, maybe? In college I'd taken a wine tasting course with a good friend, had tried to learn all the adjectives, their corresponding postures, and exaggerated facial expressions. Like a true New York sophisticate. I hadn't enjoyed the class at all, and found the crowd we encountered on field trips to be... bland and snotty, with a full-bodied aroma of smug.
    Helen and I talked about how overworked she was, and how the money in the culture business wasn't like it used to be. She said her job felt like adding a new room to a house while the rest burnt to the ground. I tried my best to reassure her. Everyone said the economy was going to pick up soon, and there would always be a market for articles about the quixotic pursuits of minor celebrities and the quotidian pet peeves of web personalities. Once people had more money to spend subscriptions would pick up. Right now, every spare dollar went toward liquor and prescription drugs. Anything to dull the senses.
    Another clove, another glass of wine. She wondered aloud why I'd hardly touched my drink, and scooted her chair closer to me. “Cliff, Do you think I'm pretty?”
    “What? um... I don't really... I think you've had too much to drink, Mrs. Felkins,” I stammered.
    “No need to be coy. Answer the question. Preferably honestly.”
    “Well... um... Yes. Yes, I think you are.” The only satisfying answer.
    “Thank God,” she said, cupping her forehead. “At least there's one person.” She moved her face closer until it was inches from mine. The smoke from her cigarette tickled my nose and the heat emanating from it played on my lips. Her eyes bored through my mind, exploring for reserves of mendacity. I felt sorry for her. She was even lonelier than her daughter. Seeing whatever validation it was she needed, her face softened and the lines around her eyes drooped beneath the burden of life.
    “I'm sure there are lots of people who think you are,” I said.
    “You're so sweet.”
    “Really, Mrs. Felkins, I'm not. I'm just a good suck-up.”
    That made her laugh, and she put out her cigarette. “All right, you can go. Thanks for the pep talk.” When I finished packing and got up to go, she slipped an MTA card into my hand. They were practically legal tender; when the city had privatized the subways unlimited rides had been the first to go.
    “Thanks, Helen.”
    “You're welcome. There's at least fifty on it. Maybe closer to a hundred. I know how hard things are for young people today.”
    Hard indeed. The extra money meant a night of conscience-free drinking. Not enough for bottle service, but I knew a bar or three where I could kick back and black out.
    “Bye Helen.”
    “Bye Cliff.”
    Outside, I ran into Mr. Felkins getting out of a car. He thanked the driver and turned towards me. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and he snorted when I said hello.
    “Is Helen home?” he asked.
    “Yeah, she got back a few minutes ago.”
    “I'm sure. You smell like you've been smoking,” he said, and stumbled up the stairs.
    “Good night,” I called as I headed off towards the subway. He didn't return the favor.
    Elly's father had receded further from her life every day since Ryan's death. If he wasn't working he was drinking, and the various expensive bottles of scotch and gin stocking his bar underwent frequent rotation. I knew from Helen that he'd recently lost a fair bit of money on some real estate investment, and