Free Lucky Bastard by S G Browne Page B

not on vacation or, more likely, at work.
    Ten seconds later, a young boy, maybe ten years old, opens the door and stands back several feet from the doorway. Normally I’d abort any planned poaching when kids are part of the equation, but I’m desperate for a score. Even if it is just questionable medium-grade luck.
    “Good morning,” I say, flashing a smile.
    “It’s afternoon,” he says.
    I look at my watch and see that it’s almost one o’clock. Fuck. Where has the day gone? You get drugged twice by a Chinese Mafia overlord and you lose all track of time.
    “Right you are,” I say with a smile. “My mistake.”
    He just stands there and stares at me, his arms folded, unimpressed.
    I’m getting a lot of that today.
    “What do you want?” he asks.
    It’s not surprising that he doesn’t have any manners. Most kids today don’t. But if you ask me, it’s a direct reflection of bad parenting. I can say this with complete certainty because I’ve never parented a day in my life and I enjoy making sweeping generalizations about how other people do a piss-poor job at something about which I have absolutely no experience.
    “May I speak with James Saltzman, please?”
    “Junior or Senior?”
    “Senior,” I say. “Is he home?”
    “Who wants to know?” asks the kid, who I’m presuming is Junior.
    “Paul Jefferson.”
    Names are important when poaching. You don’t want to make up a name on the spot and end up with something like John Smith or Fabio Delucci. You want a name that’s benign and forgettable but that makes your marks comfortable and gets them to relax.
    Paul was the primary public-relations mouthpiece for Christianity, and I’ve found that even those who aren’t religious respond to the name favorably. And Jefferson still commands admiration and a sense of patriotism for the third president of the United States nearly two hundredyears after his death. Even if he did grow pot and have sex with his slaves.
    I figure a ten-year-old kid has heard the names enough that his subconscious will be put at ease.
    “Paul Jefferson? That sounds like a made-up name.”
    Or maybe not.
    I can feel my face growing warm and my T-shirt beginning to stick to my back, which is unsettling because I never sweat during a poaching. Sweating is a sign of nervousness. And being nervous is bad for business.
    I look at him and smile without meaning it.
    “Is your father home?” I ask.
    “That depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On what you want him for.”
    In addition to feeling unusually warm, I’m beginning to get a little light-headed and I’m suddenly beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea.
    “I was hoping to talk to him about some important neighborhood issues.”
    “What kind of issues?”
    This is why I refuse to deal with kids. With an adult, it’s just a quick introduction and a handshake and the rest is gravy. With kids, it’s a series of whats and whys and hows. Especially, it seems, with this one.
    I never was good with being patient.
    “It’s regarding planned development in Russian Hill.” I don’t know what I’m saying. Or where I’m going with this.
    “What kind of development?”
    “Anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?”
    “Anyone ever tell you that you smell like cat pee?”
    “Look,” I say, barely editing out the accompanying phrase you little shit, “I’d just like to speak with your father.”
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “What? No. I don’t have an appointment.”
    “Then come back next week.” He closes the door.
    I stand there a few moments, staring at the door, wanting to give it a good kick or ring the doorbell a hundred times, but instead I just stick out my tongue and walk away.
    Well, that was productive.
    Feeling deflated, not to mention a little humiliated, I walk up Lombard Street to Hyde to take in the view of the Coit Tower and the Bay Bridge and to try to clear my head, cool off, and figure out my next move. Maybe see if I can