Chapter 8
Martin John Smithson lives in the basement apartment of a small house a few blocks from the water in Oyster Bay. He’s waiting outside for me when I arrive. He’s got on shorts and sandals despite the fact that it is in the low forties today. A hoodie is keeping his top half warm and he’s got a head of hair–bushy, full beard, unkempt–that would keep several small animals warm all winter. . .and may be doing that right now.
“You Teddi?” he asks me, throwing what’s left of his cigarette onto the pavement. I nod. “You got cash?’
“Sure,” I say. “Where’s the lamp?”
He looks down the block, which is empty, and starts to lead me behind the house. I’m thinking about what my father will do when he finds out I’ve been sexually assaulted and murdered by this guy while he sat in my kitchen arguing with my mother.
“You’re not a cop, right?” Martin asks me.
I decide that I don’t want to be one of those Too Stupid To Live women, so I tell him I’ll just wait by my car while he gets the goods.
He seems to like it better that way, too. “So how much do you want?” he asks me.
I figure he’s either stupid or high. “I think that’s my line,” I say. “But I thought we agreed on the price over the internet,” I add.
“Well, if you want more, that would be okay,” he says.
“You have more? I mean good stuff?” I ask.
“Primo,” he says. “Just like in the picture.”
The lamp is gorgeous and I’m wavering – against my better judgment – about going into his apartment with him when a middle-aged woman comes out on to the front porch in a nice pants suit and waves at Martin. “Don’t forget to pick up my laundry, Sweetie,” she tells him. “And your father’s shoes are ready at the repair shop.”
“Okay, Mom,” he says.
“And you got your notice from the Board of Health. Time for a shower, according to them,” she says and smiles at me. “Kids! You think they’d outgrow their bad habits.”
“They just trade them for new ones,” I say, doing the mom-bonding thing. I should introduce myself so that she can identify my body, but since it might be her furniture he’s selling – and I want it – I don’t give her my name or tell her why I’m here.
“Doing a little business,” Martin says and his mother smiles.
“Good. Then you’ll be able to fill my gas tank when you’re done with the car.”
She goes back into her house and Martin heads for the back yard, swiveling his head to see if I’m following.
Yeah, yeah, I know that kidnappers and perverts have mothers, too – but having met Martin’s mom, I feel safe following him around the back and down the steps into his basement apartment.
It teems like a jungle, all hot and humid despite the coolness of the autumn day. At least it explains the shorts and sandals he’s wearing. There are probably a dozen lamps scattered around the room. And the man loves plants.
“I assume you want it dried,” Martin asks over his shoulder, and I say that of course I do. I mean, it’s amazing it isn’t ruined in all this moisture.
“And top grade, right?” he asks.
I nod. “My clients are pretty particular,” I admit.
Martin stops and turns around. He looks upset. “You sell the shit?” he asks me.
“Well, I can only use so much,” I explain, sorry if I’ve spoiled his dream of a good home for his cast off lamps. “And then there’s the matter of taste. . .”
“Thirty dollars,” he says, and I hand him the cash.
“And just so you know, nobody’s ever complained,” he says, handing me several small baggies. “Enjoy.”
“The lamp?” I say, wondering what I’m supposed to do with the bags I’m holding for him.
We hear footsteps on the porch and Martin freezes. We both strain to listen to the voices, but I don’t know what we’re listening for until Martin says, “Shit! Shit! She called the cops on me!”
And there I stand, five bags of marijuana in my hand when Bobbie’s sister Diane comes barreling down the stairs with her gun drawn.
