Twenty Bucks and Some Uppers

I walk in the front door of the Lincoln. Hank Crow’s at the desk.

“Any messages?” I say.

“That strange little girl you see came by.”

“Tara?”

“You see other strange little girls?”

“Not to my knowledge,” I say. “Define strange.”

“The little black girl with all the earrings.”

“She’s Hawaiian,” I say.

“She looks black to me,” Hank says. “You sure we’re talking about the same friend?”

I point to my ear. “About ten earrings all the way up?”

Hank Crow says, “That’s her—those ears look like you could hang shower curtains off them.”

“Tara,” I say. “What did you tell her?”

“Told her you were out with that Russian criminal friend of yours,” he says. “Then I let her in your room.”

“She still there?” I say.

“She is, unless she zipped down the fire escape.” He looks at me suspiciously. “What the fuck you got a kiddie pool for?”

I can’t think of anything to say. “I don’t,” I say.

“You do. I saw it in the box. That little friend of yours got all excited.” Hank Crow mimics a little-girl falsetto that sounds nothing like Tara. “‘Oh, he got the kiddie pool, he got the kiddie pool.’” Hank snorts. “Seemed like she was about to bust.”

“Listen, Hank,” I say. “How about pulling a double tonight?”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s Christmas?” I say.

“It’s not,” he says.

“It’s the Christmas season,” I say. “The season of giving.”

“It’s Kwanzaa.”

“I don’t mean disrespect,” I say. “But isn’t that a made-up religion?”

“What the hell do you call Christmas?” Hank Crow says.

“Fair enough,” I say.

“An all-nighter?” He thinks for a minute and looks up at me. “You in love, son?”

“Something like that.”

“Something close?”

“Something very close.”

He shrugs. “Get me twenty bucks and some uppers and thank me.”

I tell him it’s a deal.