The ringing of the doorbell startled Coulter out of a deep sleep.
The afternoon sun streamed into the room, and he covered his eyes and groaned.
He’d spent the previous night and most of the morning carousing, and stumbled into Scott’s place a little after ten A.M. with a bag full of donuts, a large coffee, and a vague sense he was supposed to be somewhere else.
Right. Working.
Then again, he’d never held an honest job in his life and couldn’t expect to get into the swing of things right away. With that justification he’d fallen into the deep sleep of the innocent.
The ringing continued. With a muffled curse, he slid out of bed and into a pair of jeans. He never bothered with pajamas. Why should he when nature had created the perfect skin for him to sleep and stroll around the house in. Much to Wilder’s annoyance.
Stumbling down the stairs, Coulter swung open the front door and glared into the face of a kid who looked like the teenage version of Spike Lee. “What in hell do you want?”
The kid gazed back at him with heavy-lidded brown eyes and began to speak in a monotone. “Hello sir, my name is Marcus. I live in a bad area with lots of crime. My mom is a single parent. I’m working hard to keep myself off the street.”
Coulter yawned.
Unfazed, Marcus continued in the same dull tone. “That is why I am selling magazine subscriptions. So I can go to sports camp. Because sports keep troubled youths like myself off the street. With just one subscription—”
“Christ, you suck.” Coulter leaned back against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “How you expect to earn a dime is beyond me.”
“So you gonna buy anything or what?”
Coulter smirked. “Not on your life.”
“Whatever.”
“Just out of curiosity, where is this so-called sports camp?” Coulter asked.
Marcus turned to leave. “Hawaii.”
Coulter whistled. “Nice. You’ll never get there though. You’re not hungry enough. The most you’re gonna make is a bus ticket back to the projects.”
Marcus glared at him.
“I can help you,” Coulter offered. “Rich neighborhood like this filled with liberal white people—you could be flyin’ first class to the Islands.”
“Why would you want to help me?”
Coulter shrugged. “To get into heaven. Why do you care?”
Marcus stared at him suspiciously.
Coulter couldn’t blame him. Why did he want to help the kid? Maybe because he remembered a time when handouts and hustling were the only way he could earn a living.
Hell, that was just last week.
But he also remembered what it was like being Marcus’s age and on your own, trying to get a slice of what everybody else had for yourself.
Coulter held the door open. “Might as well come in.” Marcus now looked wary. Coulter sighed. “See here, you woke me up from a sound sleep, and the fact that I’m offerin’ to help you instead of keelin’ over from a bitch of a hangover is a stroke of luck for you. Now I plan on eatin’ something and you’re welcome to join me.” He yawned and stretched. “Come in or leave. Either way, shut the door.”
Coulter walked back into the house, scratching his armpit and heading for the kitchen.
After a moment he heard the door shut and the sound of sneaker-clad feet following him.
They ended up ordering a pizza.
Coulter had taken one look in the fridge and turned away with disgust. Marcus had peered in after him. “I’ve never seen so much organic stuff in my life. What’s tofu chocolate?”
Coulter shuddered. “A sin.”
Now after five slices and two beers—two Cokes for Marcus (ordered along with the pizza because Wilder didn’t have a drop of caffeine in the house)—Coulter sat back and rubbed his stomach. “So what’ve we learned so far?”
Marcus scratched his head. “The trick isn’t to push. The best salesmen in the world are the ones who look casual and make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“And?”
“Smile and be charming.”
“But?”
“None of that crazy smiling,” Marcus added. “And none of that slick charm either. It has to be genuine. So find something about the other person you genuinely like—even if it’s something dumb like their breath doesn’t stink—and let that show through.”
Coulter smiled. “Exactly. You want them to give you their money and then thank you for taking it.”
Marcus looked down at a sheet of paper. “About the new pitch, do I have to say I live in the ghetto? I mean, my neighborhood is bad and it’s not safe at night or during the day sometimes—”
“You’ve got maybe a minute to grab someone’s attention,” Coulter explained. “You want to appeal to their emotions. The word ghetto does that. Low-income urban area doesn’t have the same grab factor.”
Marcus nodded and smiled. “I think I might actually get to Hawaii.”
Coulter lifted a bottle of beer. “You’ll have a hula girl on each arm before you know it.”
“I wish I could see you in action though. You know, like a demonstration.”
Coulter grinned. “You think I was gonna toss you outta the nest so soon? There’s a diner around the corner that calls itself a bistro. Lots of sidewalk seating. We’ll start there.”
Marcus frowned. “But what if they don’t allow soliciting?”
Coulter shrugged. “We’re not solicitin’. We’re providin’ people with the opportunity to help a fine young man change his life.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Give me a sec to get changed.”
“Thanks man, I mean really,” Marcus said.
Coulter waved away the thanks and then had a thought. “If you don’t sell enough today, come back to the house tomorrow and hit up the dude who lives here. You can’t find a bigger bleedin’ heart.”
Marcus reached for another slice of pizza. “The ghost hunter?”
Coulter raised a brow. “He took me in, didn’t he?”