Benjamin Corcoran was a born hustler.
He was adept at the short-con. He cheated at
cards, he carried a set of fixed-dice, he had a double-sided coin and he played
the shell game with tourists in the red-light district on account of he was
deft at slight-of-hand.
Benji was a hustler, but he always did the
right thing and kicked up to the street-boss, he kicked up no matter what…you
have to pay to play, he told himself.
Tonight,
it was raining hard, and the only action to be had was honest work delivering
brown paper bags to the cars that pulled-up looking for a score, and holding
doors open for the dames that were jumping into the back seats of cars to turn
a trick.
On
a lucky night, a big-spender might hand Benji a tip for his troubles, or he
might get an offer to turn a trick himself.
He
was happy to make a dollar anyway he could; because he knew that if he wasn’t
earning, he was spending, and he was always a day away from being broke. If
there was no other action to be had he would take it, whether the interested
party was a woman or a man.
Benji
watched the street like a predator watches a flock of sheep, he followed a
group of college guys as they parked their car, a whole gang of them climbed out
and went into the Round-up. They looked to be his age, and they were neatly
dressed. He figured they were stupid as hell and would be easy to fleece if the
storm would let up and the street dried out.
He
kept his eye on the Round-up, in case they should leave and go somewhere else;
if it was opportune he determined to follow them and see what might come of
it.
Beji
looked down the block and saw a strung-out, needle thin, skinny blonde-girl, she
was soaking wet and shivering; theoretically trying to turn a trick, but she
was standing off the corner, in the shadow of an awning.
She
was young and new to Lake Street, she looked hungry and sick, sick enough to
die right there on the corner. She was sick enough so that her rooming house
matron wouldn’t let her in if she didn’t have the money she was expected to
earn.
It
won’t be long for her, Benji thought.
The poor in St. Anthony weren’t just the great
unwashed, they were the great unloved. She’ll be forgotten when she’s gone.
Benji
scanned the street again, and from where he had posted he recognized someone he
knew, Johnny Holiday, a fellow he grew up with at the Washburn Home for Boys.
They had lived in the same dorm for a time.
Benji
recognized him right away but didn’t want to let on, or be the first to say
hello; when the moment came that they made eye contact, Johnny looked right
through him as if he was invisible.
They
had both come up through the orphanage, they had been on the streets together.
Johnny hustled newspapers, while Benji hustled anyone and anything he could,
and he was bothered by the fact that his old pal had not given him a nod of the
head or even a hello.
He
didn’t think Johnny was being rude, he didn’t think his old friend was snubbing
him on purpose. He was self-conscious and thought perhaps he had changed too
much from his years of grifting, and no-longer looked like the same person, while
Johnny looked like he had only became more himself.
Benji considered the disappearing girl on the
corner and had a moment of self-doubt, like maybe he had disappeared.
He
watched Johnny buy a flask of whiskey in the drug store and take a long shaky
pull off the bottle.
Johnny
has his demons too, Ben thought, with a little bit of satisfaction. He’s
a drunk, He’s my age and he’s a drunk…
He made a mental note of it, like scratching NB
in the margins of a book…it was something to take advantage of.
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