Easy Money

16

Spanish dreams. “Jorgelito, I’ll sit here till you fall asleep. Jorgelito, wait here and I’ll get the storybook. Jorgelito, have I told you you’re my prince? Paola’s my princess. You’re my own royal family.”

Jorge woke up.

It was light outside. Hot in the room. Sweet dreams were over. He lay on a mattress that he’d pulled off a bed. Reduced the risk that someone would see him from the outside. Double safety measures-tall bushes outside the window blocked the view.

He’d spent a total of six days in the cottage. Bored. Soon time to call that Yugo. He thought about Rodriguez. One day, Jorge-boy’d be back. Redecorate his face. Make him crawl. Lick mom’s feet. Beg. Creep. Cry.

Maybe he’d been stupid. Careless. For instance, he’d run out of food the day before. He’d walked out to the road. Followed it until he reached a bigger road. Kept going. Saw water. Boats that people were taking out of the water. Haloed autumn panorama. About an hour and a half later: a grocery store, ICA Nygrens. He went in.

Never felt as dark as there, in the Aryan Swedish national store. The blatte stood out, sharp contrast. No one said anything. No one seemed to care. But Jorge, el negrito, thought he was gonna be lynched, dipped in poisonous boat paint and rolled in granola.

He bought spaghetti, chips, bread, sandwich meat, eggs, butter, and beer. Laundry detergent and hair dye. Paid cash. Didn’t say thank you to the lady working the cash register. Just nodded. Thought everyone was eyeing him. Hating him. Planning to turn him over to the cops.

Already on his way out of the store, he felt like an idiot. Tried to walk through the woods on his way home. Didn’t fly. Kept hitting private property, houses. Got scared that people might be home. Get suspicious. Get pissed off. Report the nigger to the police. Walked back out to the main road. Hoped no one would take note of him, el fugitivo.

Jorge fried two eggs. Buttered five pieces of bread. Added sandwich meat. Drank water. A tower of plates and silverware balanced precariously in the sink. Why bother doing dishes? The house’s rightful owner could take care of that later.

He sat down at the kitchen table. Ate the sandwiches quickly. Ran his fingers over the tabletop. It looked old. He wondered if poor people owned the cottage, or if they’d chosen an old table on purpose.

Then: a sound outside. Jorge’s ears perked up.

A voice.

He hunched down.

Slid off the chair, onto the floor.

Lay flat on his stomach.

Crawled toward the window. If someone was on the way in, he could be cooked. If it was the cops outside, he was definitely cooked.

Goddamn it, why hadn’t he prepared better? Nothing packed. His clothes, hair dye, food, toiletries-everything was spread out in the room where he slept. Fucking idiot. If he had to run now, he wouldn’t manage to take a fucking thing.

He tried to look out the window. Didn’t see anyone outside. Just the tranquil garden, surrounded by trimmed hawthorn bushes and two maple trees. Again: the voice. Sounded like it came from the little road leading up to the house. Folded in half, he slunk over to the other window. Through the hall. The broad wooden planks in the floor creaked. Fuck. Didn’t dare look out the window. They might be able to see him from the outside. Listened first. Heard another voice, closer now, but not right outside. At least two people talking to each other. Was it the 5–0 or someone else?

Listened again. One of the voices had a slight foreign accent.

He peeked cautiously. No parked car. Couldn’t see the people. Looked up the road that continued past the house toward a dark red barn behind the garden. There. Three people were walking toward the house.

Jorge fast-forwarded through his options. Weighed the advantages and the risks. The cottage was good. Warm, relatively shielded from view, far from the city and the cops’ searching. He could bunker down here until all his money ran out. On the other hand, the people on the road from the barn. He couldn’t really make out who they were.

They could be the owners of the house. Maybe it wasn’t their house but they were just curious. Took a look-see through the windows. Saw the mountain of dishes, saw the mattress on the floor, saw the mess.

It could be the cops.

The risk was too big. Better to pack up his things and clear out before they got here. There were other houses. Other warm beds.

Jorge shoved his stuff into two bags, food in one and clothes and toiletries in the other. He went to the door. The upper half was made of painted glass. He looked out. Didn’t see the people. Opened the door. Walked quickly to the left. Not the gravel path out to the little road. Pushed through an opening in the bushes instead. Got caught on thorns.

Thought the voices sounded closer.

Fuck.

He ran without looking back.