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Annie lit a cigarette, cupping the match to shield it from the briny wind. The East River was a greasy, wrinkled skin. Near the Brooklyn side, a cargo ship bristling with cranes plied slowly south.
She sat on the weathered edge of the pier. It felt good to take the weight off her feet. She let her hand rest, palm down, on her rounded belly. A small kick, then another, less tentative.
Hey, Spud.
Her feelings were a moving target – wistful, resentful, afraid, vulnerable in a way she could not articulate. The money seemed abstract, unconnected with her present condition. As was the life that would unfold from the scrap of blood and meat clinging like a leech to her insides.
If the Williamsons found out she was smoking it would void her contract.
Not that they’d actually do anything. Their desperation was so acute it sometimes made Annie actually wince.
She spotted Sanchez across Avenue C and waved. He dodged through traffic and cut across the parking lot underneath the FDR Drive overpass. His white-boy dreadlocks bounced with the shuffling bop of his gait and Annie knew he was high.
“Hey.”
“If the fucking Williamsons catch you smoking they’ll void your contract.”
Standing in front of her, his bop persisted as a slight rocking off the balls of his feet, a low frequency vibration.
“Fuck off, Sanchez. Hey, where’s our lunch?”
He stopped rocking. “Oh, shit.”
The expression on his face was so comically bereft that Annie had to laugh.
“You get stoned without me, then you meet me on the pier for lunch and you forget to bring it. You’re such an airhead.”
“Man, I’m really sorry. I was going to get a couple of meatball heroes at Sal’s. I ran into Robbie –“
“– which explains why you’re an hour late and fucked up.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said again.
They both knew she was just jerking his chain about getting stoned without her. No more junk for Annie Day. She’d cleaned up before doing the surrogate Mom thing. It wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be, but the idea of operating with constraints was scary until she started walking the walk. She hit a NA meeting about once a week. The old timers told her that constraints were actually freedom, which sounded like bullshit to her. But some of the people were cool and the stories were pretty funny. They also told her she wasn’t supposed to hang out with junkies any more. She thought that was bullshit too. Most of her friends were musicians. What was she supposed to do?
“No worries. Let’s head back to Sal’s and eat in Tompkins Square Park.”
She stood up and kissed him on the cheek.
“Schmuck,” she added.
#
The meatball heroes were good, even though Sanchez barely touched his. They washed them down with bottles of Big Dog Stout – a bitter, dark beer from a microbrewery in Queens. The old timers wouldn’t like this either, Annie thought, taking a long, cold pull.
The park was crowded for a weekday afternoon. Nearby, two old men hunched over a chessboard. They slammed the clock ferociously and cursed each other after every move.
On the next bench, a young Puerto Rican nanny bounced a ball in front of a blond, slack-jawed toddler.
“Ball,” she said listlessly. “Vea la pelota.”
Annie wiped a gob of sauce from her cheek. “How was the gig last night?”
“Not bad. The lead singer from Mondo Pussy got stuck behind a pileup on the Major Deegan, so we got to do an extra set. We sold fourteen CD’s.”
Annie nodded. “Good. Get that word of mouth going.”
Sanchez gave her his squinty ‘fuck you, moron’ look. Took a sip of beer. Wiped his lips.
“I said fourteen. What are you, irony deficient?”
“Don’t start, all right? A year ago you were playing The Trolley Song at the Perth Amboy Ramada -- ”
“ –- and making better money -- ”
“ –- and hating every minute of it. Dilaudid Tango is it, Sanchez. You guys are gonna make it.”
Sanchez was shaking his head, almost smiling.
“Annie Day, Annie Day …”
Annie paused dramatically. She’d stumbled into it, but it was a good line.
“In six months, Sanchez, Pussy will be opening for you.”
Sanchez choked on his beer. “Oh man, I hope so.”
The pigeons found them. Half a dozen fat, greasy birds massed in front of them, cooing threateningly. Annie ripped of a piece of bread and tossed it. The pigeons swarmed like piranha.
“Don’t do that, man, you just encourage them.”
She shrugged. “What’s wrong with encouraging them?”
She suddenly felt very tired. The mood shifts were like that these days, the turning of a page. She supposed it was connected to Spud, but she wasn’t sure.
Sanchez sensed it.
“How’s the Spud?”
“Kicking. Okay, I guess.”
The pigeons were advancing again. He stomped his foot. They continued, utterly unfazed. Their cooing sounded to Sanchez like it was coming from inside his head.
“You’re making how much from this, twenty thousand?”
Annie’s eyes narrowed. This was Scheming Sanchez, a familiar modality. She didn’t like it.
“That’s right, twenty thousand. You know exactly how much I’m making from this. Let’s cut right to the chase. What’s on your mind?”
“How would you like to make a hundred thousand?”
“I’d love to make it a hundred thousand,” Annie said. “I’d also like world peace and a decent Knicks season. That doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen.”
“Look, these people are rich, right?”
Annie shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, actually. I mean, they’ve got some money, but they’re not loaded.”
“Come on, they can afford to hire someone to have their baby for them. They’ve got money, believe me.”
Annie didn’t like the direction this was headed.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Maybe they do. So what?”
“You keep telling me how desperate they are for this kid, right?”
Annie didn’t say anything.
“What if you were kidnapped? How much ransom do you think they could come up with?”
“You are fucking stoned, Sanchez. Who’s gonna kidnap me?”
This time Sanchez was silent. The pigeons clustered around their feet, cooing. The chess players were taking a breather between games. One of them lit a cigar. The toddler dropped the ball and began to cry.
Annie looked at him and for an instant his familiar features looked completely foreign, his thin lips and pale skin the face of a stranger, his junkie cool a veneer to a smoldering meanness.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” She shook her head. “No way, Sanchez. No way.”
“Come on, Annie. This is easy money. They’ll be out here in a couple weeks. You meet them, sing Kumbaya, whatever you do with them. Then you disappear and they get a message at their hotel. A hundred grand or the girl gets whacked. What are they gonna do, let you die?”
“This is such a bad idea I’m not even gonna talk about it with you. First of all, I told you, I don’t think they have that kind of money. Second, they’re okay people. I wouldn’t do this to them. Third, even if they had the money, what makes you think they’d pay?”
Even as she spoke, though, Annie knew the last point was lame. They’d pay, all right. If they could come up with the money, they’d pay.
Sanchez smiled. Scheming Sanchez, reading her thoughts. She stood up.
“I have to go. Thanks for renewing my faith in how fucked up the human race is.”
Sanchez stayed seated, leaned back, spread his arms on the back of the bench. Still with that smug grin.
“You know it’s a good idea, Annie.”
She gathered the trash from their lunch and dropped it with a loud crash into a nearby bin.
“Don’t call me for awhile, okay?”
Sanchez watched her walk away. She lit a cigarette and turned left on Avenue A, trailing a plume of smoke. He half expected her to look back, but she didn’t.
Man, she’s really pissed, he thought. This will take some work.
He noticed the nanny giving him the hairy eyeball.
“The fuck you looking at?”
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