CHAPTER 19

When Bento was back there suffering in the hole he’d have been delighted to hear the voice of a bill collector. And shortly after taking the job he began stumbling upon shut-ins starved for human interaction, just as he had been. There was only so much time he could devote to these poor souls, especially the ones who spun pointless narratives. Some were quite adept at leaving no spaces in their discourse, apparently believing this would prevent his escape. At this moment a schmo, taking his time on the road to nowhere, was trying to sell him business advice. “I just work here,” Bento replied. The man’s LinkedIn account described him as a consultant and “results-oriented decisive leader with proven success in developing and implementing business strategies.” He looked about fifty in his online photo, which meant he must be around sixty-five or seventy. His credit score was practically down to two digits. He was still maundering through his hopelessly inept spiel when Bento got away and pondered, not for the first time, his role as collector, confessor, healer, and scolder. It’s not what you expect, Phil had told him that day in their cell. And on his next call he ran into Norah Schulz:

“Poor, poor . . . Mr. White is it? Your plight is truly lamentable. Every moment you spend on your pitiable headset inflicts additional injury to your already egregiously damaged karma. You remember Scrooge’s partner? What was his name?”

“Jacob Marley.”

“Right. Marley. Had to carry around that big heavy chain for all his creepy deeds? Same principle. You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. White, and I’m honestly sorry you’ve had to take such a shitty job. I’ve got one too. It’s at a car lot, sort of.”

“A car lot sort of? What’s that mean?”

“It’s not worth explaining.”

“Maybe we should trade shitty jobs,” Bento said. “At least we’d be working new ones. But what I’d really like to trade is apartments.”

“No you wouldn’t. Mine’s got my parents in it. And ants.”

“Did you try traps?”

“My parents won’t fall for them. Besides, I need all my cash to pay villainous bill collectors.” All this was pronounced in a melodic, captivating soprano. The file told him Norah Schulz was twenty-seven and owed $2,000 and change on a Discover card. No photo. Probably a cruiserweight. That’s usually the way it worked with lovely telephone voices. But so what? He knew of no specific rulings on social interaction with schmoes, though it sounded faintly offensive.

“If you’ve got a job we can clear up your credit.” That tended to be the schmoes’ Achilles heel. They wanted to repair their credit and climb back on the hamster wheel.

“Speaking of my job, if I don’t leave in five minutes I’ll be late.”

“What about I call you tomorrow? A little earlier.”

“Your intentions, Mr. White. They wouldn’t happen to be on the creepy side, would they?”

So she was thinking what he was thinking. “Fear naught,” Bento responded.

“Naught? No one says naught. And you knew the name of what’shisname with the chains.”

“Marley.”

“I’m guessing you’ve been to college, Mr. White.”

“I’ve watched a lot of old movies. Same time, tomorrow?”

“Get lost, pervert.”

“But . . .”

“Kidding. I’m kidding. I know the bill isn’t your fault. But I had a little something I had to go to an emergency room for, and like a fool I let them have my Discover card. I had to. They were like Mafia leg breakers. Not amusing like you. Correction. I meant somewhat amusing.”

“I find you amusing too,” he said. “Also cruel, but I can take it.”

“I’m cruel? You’re the callous bill collector.”

“True, but we’ve already agreed I’m a somewhat amusing callous bill collector.”

Had she carried a policy, her insurance company would be billed for much less, but she, a hapless individual with no financial clout, must pay retail. She probably knew all that, yet she didn’t gripe about it. The file informed him Norah Schulz was employed at a car rental agency south of the airport. Nothing about her background. The files told sketchy stories, summing up lives like the ledgers of Scrooge and Marley. Yet they already were sharing a measure of intimacies. It’s what Bento did all day, going from one stranger to the next sharing intimacies. It was like working in a cathouse.

“Tell me what’s shitty about your job,” said Bento.

At this point an exasperated Phil gave him the cutoff sign.

“Look, you have to get to work. We’ll talk another time, okay?” He clicked off without waiting for an answer, which he already was sorry for.

“Want to tell jokes?” Philyaw said. “Try The Tonight Show.”

Bento knew Philyaw wasn’t really upset but sometimes considered it his duty to play hard-headed boss, as though they were all being recorded for a sitcom.

Norah Schulz had no Twitter account, but Facebook informed him she’d attended college in Montana and lived in California. The rest of her information was private, except for her photo, which showed a little girl on a tricycle with her chin in the air as though she’d just been offended. Bento stared at it until he decided it was vaguely depraved to be enticed by the photograph of a little girl.

THEY’RE TAKING turns with the guy on the floor curled up like a baby. One stomps an ear with the heel of his shoe and another kicks the small of the back. One, two, one, two . . . They swing their body weight into the mayhem, and there’s a rhythm to it. Kick, stomp, kick . . . like timed pistons. Bento opens his mouth to scream and a centipede scampers across his lip. He clamps his mouth tight, trying to shut it out, but it’s half in, half out, and scrambling around, strong enough to do what it pleases . . . Who’s down there getting the shoe leather? Maybe him, maybe someone else. It changes. No sound, not enough light. Now he knows it’s someone else, someone Bento had tried to warn. Turn around and run, man, back to the last gate where the guard buzzed you in. But the poor dumb fish thought he had all the time in the world. Huh? He said, huh? No, no, do it now! Don’t think. Run, run.

The wolf pack went to work. They were waiting, the rule keepers. What was this guy? A snitch? Child molester? The centipede scurries across Bento’s tongue. It feels electric. He’s stepped back, out of the way as they stomp and kick the new fish. Two of the cons take over. They wear what look like Halloween masks. It’s a friendly contest, like musicians taking turns on solos . . . Stomp, kick, one, two, one, two . . . Bento should have explained it to him better, quicker . . . The victim’s inert, not covering up any more, completely out . . . Turning away, Bento hides his face . . . And now he’s falling, flying, his feet churning without effect. Rocks below . . . but somebody’s hugging him and speaking softly, chasing away the fearful unconscious. Darkness turns soft, and there’s a gentle voice. He’s not hurtling through the air or locked behind steel and concrete. “Pobrecito, pobrecito, sweet dreams will come. I promise. Sweet dreams, guaranteed, pobrecito.” It’s Liz.

He explained it to her over breakfast. When you’d been sorted for entry into the general population you had to provide evidence you belonged with stand-up cons. Thieves? Murderers? Cool. Mi casa, su casa. But you must prove you weren’t out there snitching or raping children, and it was all in the fish’s paperwork that formed a vital nexus between the official Gulag and the convicts’ system operating within it.

By the time the guards got to him, the new guy was paralyzed and half blind. The joke was, he could have passed the test. He was in for manslaughter, but he’d torn up the paperwork. It reminded him of a situation he didn’t want to remember.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Liz said.

But mistakes were made, said Bento.