Kitabı oku: «Dark Rooms», sayfa 2
Chapter Two
Nica’s body had been found by Graydon Tullis, a sophomore in Endicott House who’d snuck into the graveyard with a couple of guys from food services to get high before morning detention, the very session my dad was overseeing. Afterward, the food services guys had headed down campus to start their shifts at Stokes Dining Hall, and Graydon had headed east to main campus. He was applying Visine as he walked, chin tilted back, lower lid thumbed down, when he tripped on something, went sprawling into a face-plant. He turned around to investigate, thinking it was a tree root, or one of those baby tombstones your eye can sometimes skip over.
But it wasn’t.
It was a pair of feet in frayed-lace Converse. Slowly Graydon’s gaze traveled upward, all the while the old camp song “Dem Bones”—with the toe bone connected to the foot bone, and the foot bone connected to the ankle bone, and the ankle bone connected to the leg bone … —running through his mind. (A dazed-sounding, pouchy-eyed Graydon told me all this a couple weeks later. Not that I asked. He cornered me as I was ducking out of Stokes, apple in hand, looking for a deserted classroom to eat it in.) And then his gaze arrived at the hipbone connected to the backbone. His first thought was how teeny-tiny the hole was and yet the crazy amount of blood that had leaked from it. His second thought was how the other colors that came out of the body—the greenish beige of snot, the watered-down yellow of pee, the milky off-white of semen—were dull, muted, earth tones. Blood, though, was so vivid. So vivid it looked fake! Like the stuff you squeezed out of a tube on Halloween.
His gaze kept going, up and up and up—with the backbone connected to the shoulder bone, and the shoulder bone connected to the neck bone, and the neck connected to the head bone … —at last reaching the face. The moment he realized who it belonged to was the same moment he realized he could smell the blood as well as see it. All of a sudden, a wave of nausea washed over him, made him vomit (a weak, indefinite brown) where he knelt.
Stumblingly, he ran to my house. He was hysterical, babbling and breathless, but Mom understood him well enough to let him lead her by the hand to the graveyard. She was the one who called 911.
An ambulance arrived only minutes after the police cars. But it was too late. Nica was already gone, a bullet from a .22 lodged deep in her left kidney. Time of death was established as between 6:45 and 7:30 A.M., though she’d likely been shot earlier. The knowledge that it took a while for her to bleed out—hours, possibly—was almost more than I could bear, and I knew if I thought about it, really thought about it, I couldn’t. So I didn’t think about it. Wouldn’t let myself.
It was surprisingly easy not to listen once I set my mind to it. When the details of the murder were told to me, I just sort of let them wash over my brain and out my ears. Which is why I’m not exactly clear on how the police deduced that whoever killed Nica probably wasn’t a stranger to her. But deduce it they did. And when it was discovered that I was the last known person to have seen her alive, they were very eager to talk to me.
Oh, those endless, bleached-out hours going over my story with Detective Ortiz. The stale air of that box of a room at the back of the station, the hard plastic of the chair, the can of Coke gone warm and flat from sitting out too long, me saying the same words in the same order again and again, telling Detective Ortiz everything Nica told me the day before, skipping only the part about the new guy—an omission for Jamie’s sake, it would hurt him to know she’d moved on so fast—just wanting to go to sleep, that total exhaustion, where even my face was numb, and none of the talk mattering anyway because she was already dead dead dead.
Her sophomore year, Nica was named homecoming queen. The victory was a fluke. Not that she wasn’t one of the prettiest girls in school. In fact, she was probably the prettiest. Which should’ve all but killed her chances. A word about Chandler: Chandler, as a school, thought it was too cool for school, too cool for a lot of things. The only way it would deign to participate in any of the traditional rah-rah teen rites of passage was ironically. And Nica, as it so happens, lost the vote. She came in a distant second to Quentin Graham, a Mississippi boy who showed up to class several days a month in a Chanel suit and pillbox hat. But the administration refused to recognize a male, no matter how chicly turned out, as a legitimate contender. (Refused, basically, to recognize the other meaning of the word queen.) And Nica won by default.
It was an utterly forgettable event in her life. She sat next to Mr. McFarlan, the assistant headmaster, wearing a crown—a Burger King one, borrowed for the occasion from Maddie’s boyfriend, Ruben Samuelson—for five minutes at morning chapel the day before alumni weekend. That was it. The only reason the title rates a mention is because it was a detail so seized upon by the media after she died. It put, I think, the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval on her loveliness, made it official. Officially poignant, too. And pretty soon it started to seem as if her full name actually was Homecoming Queen Nica Baker.
Edgar Allan Poe, in his essay “The Philosophy of Composition” (Studies in American Literature: The Rise of the Supernatural, Ms. Laine, sophomore year), stated that, “the death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.” And Nica was not just dead, she was murdered. Raped, too. Her story thus offered up the most potent narrative combination known to man, everybody’s favorite set of lurid extremes: sex and death, Eros and Thanatos, kiss kiss and bang bang. The public couldn’t get enough.
Once Nica’s identity was released, our house was besieged. TV news crews, journalists, and photographers were all camped out on our lawn, waiting for a whimper, a tear, a twisted feature—some scrap they could wolf down, some tasty little bite that would tide them over until the real meat came: a break in the case. Trespassing on private property was illegal, so the police set up a barricade, pushing the motley crew back, forcing it onto the sidewalk and street, which made its presence feel no less oppressive, and getting in and out of our driveway near impossible. I’d say the experience was surreal except I hate that word. It was surreal, though, the merciless intensity of those people calling out my name, my mom and dad’s names, the flash cameras constantly going off, giving the scene the queasy, too-bright, side-tilted quality of a hallucination.
Mom, Dad, and I fought back the only way we knew how. By withholding. After that first day, the police pretty much left us alone. They were very polite, deferential almost, less because of who we were, I think, than because of what Chandler was, the influence it wielded in Hartford. And once they were done probing us, our stories and our alibis, we returned to the house, retreated to our rooms to cry. Well, Mom and I to cry, Dad to I don’t know what. His eyes were bone-dry, as if they were unable to weep or didn’t see the point. But mostly we retreated to our rooms to wait. Eventually, we reasoned, boredom would set in or another sensational crime would be committed—a murder victim who was even younger than Nica, who was actually rich, not just by-association rich, who got violated more egregiously, more bloodily, more kinkily—and the restless pack would move on, leave us to grieve in peace.
Five days passed. Six days. A week. Then two weeks. And, still, the case was no closer to being solved. All the statistically likely guys—Dad, Jamie, Ruben, the two or three male students with a documented history of aggression toward female students, even several of the male teachers who were on campus that weekend—had been ruled out as suspects. Plus, my family was staying mum, giving up absolutely nothing. Sections of the crowd, I noticed, were starting to break off; there were fewer news vans parked along the curb. The strategy seemed, finally, to be working.
And then, Dad got careless.
It was three o’clock in the morning. The street was quiet, almost staged-looking, the houses that lined it resembling props on a movie set, all lit by a moon that was high and round and bright as a lamp, casting a soft golden glow. And Dad, convincing himself that all was as harmless as it appeared, decided to take the garbage out for Tuesday morning pickup.
From a window in Nica’s room I watched him as he carried the bags to the curb, one over each shoulder, seeming to stagger under their weight, three or four pounds at the most. He’d just finished stuffing them into the blue plastic can, was standing under the streetlight, lid still in hand, eyes turned to the ground as if he were trying to remember where he was and how he got there, when a woman emerged from behind the Wheelers’ hedges. She was older than any of the media people I’d seen so far, and sadder, her soft brown eyes baggy, tired-looking, her camera-ready makeup smudged and starting to fade, ending abruptly at her jawline. Heavier, too, her bosomy flesh making her appear almost maternal.
“Mr. Baker! Mr. Baker!” she said. “Do you have time to speak with us?” She was out of breath from running the ten or so yards across our lawn. It put funny spaces between her words. And her skirt had hiked up. I could see the control-top portion of her pantyhose, her chubby thighs. I felt sorry for her.
Dad turned wearily, gave his back to her and the denim-shirted man with a camera trailing in her wake.
“It’s been two weeks and the police still have no suspects,” she said. “Care to comment?”
Slowly he started making the trek to the front door.
“Do you think they’re doing everything they can to find your daughter’s killer?”
He kept walking, maintained his plodding pace, like he didn’t even hear her. He was almost at the porch steps.
A little desperate now, “You want to know what I think? I don’t think they are. I think they’re too scared to conduct a real investigation. I think they’re afraid to go after any of the kids at this school—your school, Mr. Baker, the school you and your wife have devoted your lives to—because they believe that if they do, the kids’ fathers will come at them with a team of high-priced defense attorneys, make sure that the only jobs in law enforcement they’ll be able to get after this case are at the mall.”
This time he heard her, and what she said stopped him cold. My dad’s always been a gentle guy—mild, slow to anger, unconfrontational in the extreme, rarely yells and never swears. So it was something of a shock when I saw him do a sharp one-eighty, march back to where the reporter was standing. He was still holding the garbage lid, and now had it thrust out in front of him like it was a shield and he was charging into battle. When he reached her, he shoved his face in hers. Said, “You want to know if I think one of these rich kids is getting away with murder?” She craned her neck to give herself room but managed to get the microphone in front of his mouth. “The answer is, yes, I do. Jamie Amory. My daughter dumped him months ago and he couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle being said no to, so he decided to make her pay.”
“But Jamie Amory has an alibi,” she pointed out.
“His alibi’s shit! He’s shit! A rapist and a murderer!”
Hearing these words, the reporter’s sympathetic cow-eyed expression vanished and she smiled. When she did, I saw her teeth, and my heart sank. They were small and sharp and inward-sloping: the teeth of a predator. The smile didn’t last long, though. Was wiped off her face when Dad threw down the garbage lid, wrapped his fingers around her wrist.
“Shit!” he said, squeezing. “Do you hear me? Shit, shit, shit!”
She began to arch backward, a panicky look in her eye.
“Hey, pal,” the cameraman said, “hands to yourself, okay?”
Dad spun around. “Who are you calling pal, asshole?” And, letting go of the reporter’s wrist, he swung out.
Unbelievably, he connected with the cameraman’s jaw. There wasn’t much force behind the punch. It probably didn’t feel too nice, though, and, once the cameraman shook it off, he carefully placed his equipment on the ground and threw a punch of his own. He was a middle-aged guy and out of shape. Still, he had a good three inches and thirty pounds on Dad. But as he pitched forward his suede boot slipped on the grass, so that his punch ended up being even weaker and more off-target than Dad’s. Until that moment, I’d thought all violence was agile and sure-footed, almost balletic-looking, as it was in the movies. I was surprised to see how awkward it really was, how clunky and no-rhythm. The two men, panting and grunting, taking time out from combat to bend at the waist, wheeze and suck air, exchanged graceless blow after graceless blow until, finally, Dad fell on the sidewalk with a thud, not because the cameraman landed a KO, but because Dad took a wild overhand right that missed everything and lost his balance.
For a while he lay there on the asphalt, either resting or passed out with his eyes open. Whichever it was, he looked strangely at peace, his chest rising and falling gently. Then the cameramen leaned over to touch him, make sure he was okay, and he let loose with a howl, a gross moan so dense with pain and rage and sorrow that it just stopped time.
I yanked the window curtain from inside my cheek, belatedly aware that I’d been chewing the fabric. I ran downstairs and out the door, pulled Dad away from the cameraman in whose arms he was now sobbing, and took him into the house.
Dad cried for five hours straight. Cried until his eyes dried out and he wasn’t crying tears anymore. Cried until Mom turned on the TV to cover up the ragged, torn-off sounds he was making, after which he was too shocked to cry. There he was on the local morning news, cheeks clogged with blood, mouth frothy with saliva, eyeballs like the kind you buy in a gag shop, calling Jamie Amory a rapist and murderer. Mom and I exchanged sleepless, dread-filled glances. I flashed on a T-shirt that Ruben once wore to class, was ordered to go back to his dorm room and change. Scrawled across the chest in sky-blue letters was the phrase SHIT, MEET FAN.
Only for Dad it never got the chance to because later that morning Manny Flores was discovered in his room by a dorm monitor after he’d missed his first and second period classes. He was hanging from a beam, a ripped-up bedsheet cinched around his neck. Not quite hanging, actually. His room was in the attic, and the ceiling was sloped, making it impossible for his feet not to touch the ground. So he improvised, thrusting his body forward, cutting off his air supply. At any point he could have stopped the strangulation by simply standing up. It was an agonizing—and agonizingly slow—way to die, which means he must have wanted to very badly. Lividity indicated that his death occurred between nine and eleven P.M., several hours before Dad’s run-in with the reporter.
Manny was a day student who’d been living in Endicott House since Christmas when his mother ran off with her boyfriend, basically dumping him on the school’s doorstep. I didn’t know him. Not many people at Chandler did. He kept to himself, didn’t play sports or participate in any extracurricular activities. No gun was found in his room, but, as I said, he was a day student, a local, from the kind of neighborhood where getting your hands on a .22 wasn’t a big deal. And since Chandler was less than half a mile from the Connecticut River, getting a .22 off your hands wasn’t a big deal either.
The papers didn’t print his suicide note, but the police showed it to my family as a courtesy. Here’s what it boiled down to: he loved Nica, Nica didn’t love him. Unrequited affection, the oldest one in the book. As an explanation it was both lucid and murky, coherent and incomprehensible, profound and banal. I wished he hadn’t said anything at all.
The whole thing went to a fast fade from there. The publicity had already hurt Chandler. Several parents, feeling the environment unsafe, had insisted on yanking their kids out, midsemester or not. Something like twenty percent of incoming freshmen had rescinded their acceptances. The school wanted the case closed as quickly as possible. The police couldn’t have been more cooperative. And just like that, it was all over. “Justice was served” when “confessed murderer” of “homecoming queen Nica Baker” acted as his own “judge, jury, and executioner.”
Sound of two hands slapping dust off each other. Done and done.
Chapter Three
When I returned to Chandler, everyone was nice to me: students and teachers, administrators and maintenance workers. And all day long I sat in class, in the dining hall, in the library, hunched under that niceness, cramped and stiff. I expected things to be easier, or at least more natural, with Jamie, Maddie, and Ruben, but they weren’t. The three of them rallied behind me, made a point almost of claiming me, of showing everybody at school that nothing had changed, that we were still best friends, though we’d only ever been sort-of friends, me never quite able to fit in or keep up. They loyally sat with me at lunch, walked with me to class, saved me a seat in the snack bar. Yet when we were alone, there was a tension, a hostility even—all of us trying to sound polite, but with an edge, my edge just as sharp as theirs—and it surprised me because I didn’t know what it was or where it was coming from.
Until, all of a sudden, I did. My dad, what he said to the reporter about Jamie—that was the source of tension between them and me. Actually, not what Dad said, but what I didn’t say in response to it: that I never believed it. Which I never did, not for a second. (Jamie rape and murder Nica? Not in a million years!) And in the conversation we were having under every other conversation we were having, the one that was conducted in tones of voice and pauses and breaths rather than spoken language, they were asking me to say it. Not publicly. There was no need to embarrass my dad further. Not even out loud. A nod or a look at the right moment would have been enough. It was fair and valid and entirely within reason that they wanted me to say it. I didn’t want to, though. I don’t know why I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want to and, what’s more, I wasn’t going to. And no matter what words I was saying to them on top, underneath I was only saying one word, No, and they heard me loud and clear.
A week or so into my return to Chandler, I was sitting on the quad with Maddie during a free period. The school newspaper was between us, opened to the horoscope page, and we were splitting a kiwi-strawberry Italian ice. Our sunglasses were on and we were talking. She was talking anyway, telling me about a trip she was planning to take to Glastonbury to pick up a pair of pants for Ruben for his birthday, or maybe a pair of pants for herself to wear to Ruben’s birthday. One or the other.
Maddie was a pale girl, angular and beaky-faced, but she had a body that was blade thin and a gaze that was cool and contemptuous, which was better than pretty somehow, and in her presence I usually felt self-conscious to the degree that eye contact was difficult. Usually but not that day. That day, I guess, I couldn’t be bothered. I looked down. Saw ants marching out of a crack in the pavement in an orderly black line. I poked at them with the wooden spoon from my Italian ice. They began to swarm.
Maddie, I suddenly realized, was no longer speaking, was looking at me in an expectant way, and I understood that she must have asked me something. I looked back at her, hoping her face would offer a clue as to what the question was. She was wearing pearls and a T-shirt that said LOVE SLAVE. Her long blond hair was heavily gelled. “Sorry,” I said, giving up, “what did you say?”
“I said, do you want to go with me?”
A beat, then, “To Glastonbury?”
“Jamie told me I could borrow his car. Or we could take your shit heap.”
I threw down the spoon, wiped my sticky hands on the patch of grass in front of me. “Yeah, all right.”
“How about after school since there’s no practice today? We could get dinner while we’re there. Check-in at Archibald isn’t till nine.”
Another beat passed. Maddie lowered her sunglasses. I could tell she was waiting for me to do the same, but I didn’t want to look at her without the dulling amber tint.
“What do you say?” she said.
“I’d like to go. I would. It’s just, today’s a little tough.”
“What about tomorrow then?”
“Yeah, tomorrow’s no good either.”
“Oh really? And why’s that?”
“Well, see, because—”
We talked in this way for a while, and then suddenly we weren’t talking anymore. I don’t know who turned away from who, but I do know I didn’t care.
That moment marked my official break from Jamie, Maddie, and Ruben, after which I was pretty much on my own. But then, apart from Nica, I’d always been on my own as far as that crowd went. I had friends who weren’t Nica’s, of course. A group of girls I talked to after class, met up with on weekends, took my yearbook picture with. Margret, Lydie, and Francine. But the sad truth was, the connection between them and me wasn’t real. I hung out with them because I had to hang out with someone and, on the surface, we had things in common—quiet natures, serious about school, neither popular nor unpopular. (“Wow,” Maddie once said when she walked in on us sprawled out on the family room floor, doing our homework, “it, like, boggles the mind how nondescript you all are.” She was wasted at the time. Stoned, too, I think. Still, though.) Basically it was a relationship of convenience. We offered each other warmth and comfort, the protection of safety in numbers. Law of the jungle: stay part of a pack and you’re more likely to live to see another day.
Sometimes there’d be a house party that was in the vicinity of local, a party Nica, Jamie, Maddie, and Ruben would regard as hopeless if they bothered regarding it at all, and Margret, Lydie, Francine, and I would go together. But as often as not I’d leave early, bored after a couple hours of wandering in and out of other people’s rooms, looking at the photos on mantels, the books on shelves, pretending not to notice the uncool debauchery going on around me. I’d either call my dad, ask him to pick me up, or, when I was old enough to have my license, simply drive off. Occasionally my cell would ring later with questions about where I’d disappeared to. Mostly not, though. Even at a second-rate gathering, my presence—or lack of—didn’t really register. I was included. I just wasn’t necessary.
After I came back to school, Margret, Lydie, and Francine made an effort to be supportive too. Let me know they were there for me. The thing is, I didn’t want them there for me. I wanted them away from me. They got the message pretty quick. There’d be the odd hurt or wondering look cast in my direction. But mostly they respected my wish for space and kept their distance.
And there were other people, too, people I didn’t know except to nod hello to in the hall, and they’d come up to me out of goodwill or kindness or curiosity, and that was fine. Usually they’d try to start a conversation, but their words would quickly turn into blah blah blah, and I’d lose the thread, stare into space until they’d get uncomfortable and leave. Soon no one came up to me and that was also fine.
One new person, however, did enter my life during this period: Dr. Karnani, the psychiatrist I’d asked my parents to find. Asked because I thought I was having a nervous breakdown, and if I wasn’t, I could be, should be. An anxiety disorder of some sort was, I figured, my best bet for getting shipped off to a mental institution. Not a One-Flew-Over-the-Cuckoo’s-Nest nuthouse-type deal, state-run for hardcore crazies—I didn’t want that, no straitjackets or horse tranquilizers for me—but something low-key, gentle. A sanatorium maybe, the kind of place that catered to people with quote sensitive natures unquote who needed quote rest unquote. I’d sleep in a room with white walls, look out the window for hours at a time, be guided to meals by nurses with soft hands and voices, nothing expected of me, every decision made by somebody else.
Though most days I felt numb and in a fog, I would, every so often, experience these attacks that would just completely undo me. Something would happen, some small thing—a T-shirt of Nica’s would turn up under my bed, or a movie she liked would play on TV—and, before I knew it, the door to the cell I kept my memories locked behind would burst open, and the vicious little thugs would swarm me, push me to the ground, hit me, kick me, violate me in any way they could think of. And for hours afterward, I’d be weak and shaky and without defenses, jumping at every noise, ready to cry at the drop of a hat. What I wanted was to be protected from these attacks. What I wanted was to feel numb and in a fog not most of the time, but all of it.
And I got what I was asking for from my sessions with Dr. Karnani. Or at least from the prescriptions she wrote me at the end of them. Benzodiazepine derivatives, the most miraculous of the miracles of modern medicine, as far as I was concerned: Xanax, Valium, Klonopin. On these drugs, I didn’t just feel numb and in a fog, I felt sealed off, like I was behind a pane of glass and no one and nothing could touch me.
But the day came when I could no longer stomach Dr. Karnani’s wrinkly neck and breath that stank of garlic and constant questions about my feelings and my feelings about my feelings, and I stopped showing up for our appointments.
So what, then, did I do for drugs?
Well, I wasn’t being totally honest before when I said I broke with Jamie, Maddie, and Ruben because I did still see quite a bit of Ruben. Our relationship now, though, was less personal than professional. Ruben dealt—mainly prescription drugs, but a little ecstasy and ketamine, too, the occasional popper—out of his room on Friday evenings between five and seven thirty, dining hall hours. I started swinging by.
Each exchange followed essentially the same script.
As I walked up to his door, I’d pull out my cash, a portion of the over-thousand dollars I’d saved from my summers teaching tennis at the rec center, have it ready in my hand. I’d knock twice. He’d make me wait a little, but then he’d open the door. More often than not he’d be dressed in a filthy kimono, the one his dad bought him on a business trip to Tokyo, and a pair of high-top sneakers with no laces. He’d be stuffing his face with potato chips or cookies or SpaghettiOs or one those microwavable pizza things shaped like a fat stick with the crust on the outside. When he’d see me, he’d smile wide, say, “Gracie,” drawing out both syllables of my name. “Nice of you to stop by.”
“Hi, Ruben,” I’d say.
He’d hold up an uno momento finger, making me wait again as he swallowed, ran his tongue along the line of his teeth, top and bottom. Then he’d say, “You look a little under the weather today. How’re you feeling?”
“Okay. Having trouble sleeping, though.”
“Huh. Bummer.”
“Bummer,” I’d agree.
“Not sleeping’s becoming a regular thing with you. I’ve got to say, that surprises me. You don’t seem like the kind of girl who would develop that sort of problem.”
“Yeah, well, just goes to show you.”
“Is it better this week or worse?”
“Worse.”
“Oh my my. Worse again? You’re turning into quite the little raging insomniac. You know, I have trouble sleeping, too, but I keep it under control. Don’t have trouble sleeping every single night.” When I wouldn’t say anything back, “Not sleeping, you pay a high price for that.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Can you afford it?”
My voice tight, “I’ve managed so far, haven’t I?”
He’d shrug, say, “Just trying to look out for you.” Then he’d reach inside the pocket of the school blazer hanging next to the door. As he’d start to hand over the pocket’s contents, though, he’d slap a palm to his forehead and squeeze his eyes shut, like an idea lightbulb had switched on in his skull and he was blinded by the brilliance of it. “Hey,” he’d say, “have you ever given yoga a shot?”
At this point in the exchange, I’d be getting impatient but would be doing my best to hide it. If he saw it, he’d drag things out even longer. “I haven’t,” I’d say.
“It’s supposed to work wonders on you high-strung types. Keeps you from sweating the small stuff.”
“Then I’ll have to look into it.”
“It’s good for your body, too. Gets you nice and skinny. Not so skinny, though, that you lose your breasts. Man, there’s something about a thin girl with big tits.”
“Yeah,” I’d say.
“There is one thing that definitely won’t work for you, Grace. Know what that is?”
I’d shake my head, but inside I’d be perking up because I knew he was about to say the magic word, the word that meant I was getting what I came for.
“Drugs.” He’d wag a stern finger at me. “I want it on record that I’m anti-narcotics, pro-family values.”
“Noted,” I’d say.
He’d nod, satisfied, then place in my hand several pamphlets, the ones with titles like So Help Me God: Substance Abuse, Religion and Spirituality and Understanding the Agonies of Ecstasy that fill guidance counselors’ offices, and in each of which was folded a clear plastic baggie containing ten pills—Xanax, Valium, or Klonopin, depending on what he had in stock—as I placed in his hand twenty-dollar bills, a twenty per pamphlet. He’d always hold on to the pamphlets for an extra couple seconds, make me really pull before he’d release them.
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