Gotham (5 page)

Na
ti Boi laughs, treating it as a compliment.

‘That's why I'm here,' Smokey says, ‘playing the dual roles of Mr Straight and Mr Narrow.'

Lydell Senior was gone early. ‘He got messed up in some shit,' is all that's been said about that by his son, spraying it like smoke over the question as a means of escape. I read it in a print interview. The body language was all recorded, and as expected, drawbridge up. When his son was four, Lydell Senior's body was found in a dumpster with two bullets in it and his hands cable-tied. No one says that's a robbery, or someone ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

‘Is it good, working with family?' I try to make it sound like conversation rather than a question.

‘Always,' he says. He smiles.

And that's it. I open a small door that might take us to the subject of his parents, his childhood, and he shuts it without drama.

He stands and hands the bag to Eloise. ‘I'll take it.'

‘No problem, sir.'

She folds the strap over carefully and carries the bag to the counter, where Andie has started scanning the clothes. She puts the bag down with its tag barcode up and starts folding the items Andie's already processed and placing them in one of two Big Brown Bags.

The bill comes to
11,700 for not much. Na
ti reaches into one of his pockets and brings his hand out like a poker player covering an ace. His credit card clicks against the glass when he sets it down on the counter.

Andie swipes it and watches the small screen on the machine. She presses a button and swipes
again. She takes a look at the magnetic strip on the card and rubs it before trying for a third time.

‘There seems to be a problem with this card,' she says, tentatively. ‘It's reading okay, but I'm not getting authorisation.'

‘The card is good,' Na
ti tells her. He shuts his mouth firmly and works his jaw muscles.

‘I'm sure it is, sir.' She swipes again, then taps the card on the counter while she waits, her eyes fixed on the screen. She is wishing she could be anywhere else, home, on the subway.

Smokey steps across and places his hand over hers, extracting the card.

‘I'll just put in a call,' he says quietly. ‘Or we could try splitting it and use one of my cards for some.'

‘We're not using your cards, man,' Na
ti says. He swaps weight from one foot to the other and gives an exasperated sigh. His body's still wired for all the young people's gestures. ‘We're
not doing that shit. This is my spree. This is Bloomingdale's.'

‘I know it.' Smokey turns the card so that it's face up and runs his eye over its details. ‘I'll put in a call.'

He takes his phone from an inside jacket pocket, scrolls and finds the number he wants.

‘Voicemail,' he tells us once it's connected.

I'm close enough to make out the beep at the end of the outgoing message.

‘Hey Aaron,' he says. ‘We got a minor credit card thing going down here, LyDell's card. We're at Bloomingdale's and it's declining eleven seven. Be good to get it fixed ASAP.'

He finishes the call and flicks to another screen. Na
ti watches him, focuses on him, pushing Bloomingdale's to his peripheral vision, blocking it, blocking this brass and gold and black-and-white-tiled institution that has given him exquisite attention and frozen yoghurt but
rejected his card. Smokey's still working on his phone.

Eloise has gone, I realise. She's silently ducked out behind the grey yachtsmen, like an actor stealing an exit from the stage the instant the focus is elsewhere. Andie is motionless at the counter, the lack of expression on her face more deeply embedded than ever.

Na
ti lifts and then drops his arms in a half-question half-shrug, a mime to get Smokey's attention.

‘He's workin' on it,' Smokey tells him. ‘Chill LyDell. It'll be cool.' A text message pings through. His thumb slides up and down. ‘Okay, so there's a certain limit, like ten K…Probably a security thing.' Na
ti goes to talk, but Smokey doesn't stop. ‘Not about you. He's going to see what he can do. Now, I got my cards…'

Na
ti's right hand clenches into a fist and he leans forward, then rocks back and taps the fist
against his thigh. He has a glare fixed on Smokey, which Smokey is matching with a smile as close to beatific as he can make it.

‘Gentlemen,' Eloise says as she crab-walks past the purse trolley and the yachtsmen and into view. ‘Drinks?' She's holding a tray carrying a shapely crystal jug of green turbid liquid and three high-ball glasses, each with an inch of crushed ice in it. ‘Some refreshments while we get everything finalised. Kale, ginger, celery and green apple.'

Na
ti Boi is a juicer. He's talked about that. She's done her homework.