Free Frankenstorm: Category 8 by Ray Garton Page A

that. And you never listened because how could you take her seriously while she was married to that asshole? But she’s ’s right, you’re just too trusting, too fucking trusting. Now, how long have you been standing here staring at this angry ginger like you’re in a trance?
    She remained calm and quiet, in spite of her panic, as she said, “Leland told me you would pay me for the delivery.”
    “Oh. Well . . . you want, I can cover your gas.”
    “Leland said it would be five thousand dollars.”
    His facial expression became almost cartoonlike in its shock. “Five thou—what the fuck is he—when did Leland start doin’ drugs? ’Cause he musta been doin’ some good shit if he told you I was gonna pay you five thou—oh, wait.”
    He frowned down at the floor for a moment and scratched his head, deep in thought. Then he cocked a brow and studied her with suspicion.
    “Leland said he was gonna call me and explain all this?” he said.
    “He said he already had, but he’d missed you, so he left a message.”
    “Yeah, he left a message, left me a couple , but he didn’t tell me nothin’. Just that there was some kinda change in plans and we needed to talk. Well, uh . . . it just so happens I owe Leland some money. Comes to about five grand. But I ain’t givin’ it to you till I talk to Leland. I mean, he wants me to give it to you, I will, but he’s gonna have to tell me himself. I’ll try to get him again, but he hasn’t been answerin’ and it’s pissin’ me off.”
    Latrice felt guilty for doubting Leland. He’d tried to cover up the fact that he was giving her five thousand dollars owed him by his friend. She was touched by his generosity, and his attempt to avoid embarrassing her with charity. But at the moment, she wanted to kick him in the junk for sending her to this place. There was a torchiere lamp glowing in the foyer, but through the archway ahead, she could see nothing but darkness with occasional flickers of light—a television playing somewhere in the next room.
    “Take your coat off and I’ll try to reach Leland again,” he said.
    Once she’d hung up her coat, he led her into the living room, which was lit only by the fifty-two-inch flat-screen TV on the wall, where two voluptuous, naked women were mud-wrestling in a ring surrounded by a screaming crowd. Two young men slumped on a couch watched the TV with heavy-lidded eyes. In front of them, a coffee table was cluttered with boxes of crackers, bags of potato chips, a few handguns, beer bottles, and a lot of drug paraphernalia. A young woman was curled into a sleeping ball on a love seat and sitting next to her was a fat, stubby Japanese guy with long hair and thick glasses, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, reading a book.
    There was a brick fireplace in the corner that looked like it hadn’t been used as a fireplace in a long time. Instead, it was being used a storage space. Books and magazines were sloppily piled in the fireplace as if wearily waiting to be burned for outliving their usefulness. At the right end of the hearth stood a four-piece set of black iron fireplace tools—poker, shovel, broom, and tongs—hanging on a rack.
    “I’m Giff, by the way,” her host said as he sat down in a recliner and put the package on his lap. He nodded toward the love seat. “That’s Jada, but she’s wasted. Next to her is Tojo, but he’s reading. He’s always reading.” He turned on a lamp beside the chair, produced a pocket knife, and cut the box open. Once he looked inside, he closed the box and put it on the floor, saying, “Yeah, that’s the shit Leland was supposed to bring.” Removing a cell phone from his pocket, Giff waved toward the men on the couch. “That’s Jimmy and Marcus, by the way. Turn that fuckin’ thing down, guys.”
    Jimmy aimed a remote at the TV and lowered the volume. He was so small and wiry that, at first glance, he looked like a boy, especially in the torn jeans and plain white T-shirt he wore.