WHAT ABOUT MY CARD?
No response.
WHAT DO I NEED TO DO WITH THE MONEY?
The machine went dark.
Venn had never had this much cash in his hand before, not even close. He lavished that new bill smell for a time before pocketing the neat stack of fresh twenties, tempted to leave it tucked right there, his ATM card be damned. But something, curiosity as much as anything, made him head down Dyckman Street where it joined with Nagle Avenue, clinging to the shadows to avoid crossing the wrong person’s path.
The rooming house he recalled was indeed there, complete with a faded marquee missing all of its bulbs. No one was about, other than the customers inside an all-night diner who were visible through a plate glass window. Except for a few bars that catered to locals, there wasn’t much else in view to speak of. Nothing but darkness, still and silent.
Okay, he thought, talking to the ATM in his mind, I’m here. No one to save this time.
Then Venn heard a voice.
“Hey, bro, you looking for a date?”
Startled, Venn swung quickly, scaring a kid who looked no more than fifteen.
“’Cause I can give you a good time,” the kid resumed, collecting himself. “Guaranteed.”
The kid could have been him circa his foster and group home days, the resemblance uncanny, right down to the scent of stale soap and unwashed hair that was mussy and long, casting shadows over the kid’s eyes.
“You need a better spiel,” Venn said, because he could think of nothing else.
“Huh?”
“For approaching a trick.”
“Huh?”
“I should know. I was you, I am you.”
Something turned in Venn’s stomach. The wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket seemed to shift.
“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” Venn asked the kid.
“What’s the difference?”
“Lousy corner to work, that’s all. Not enough traffic. And the nearby bars? All locals, guys with families and bills. You might think you could kick ass in these parts but all you’re going to do is get your ass kicked. Where do you really live?” Venn added, an afterthought.
The kid tried to look seductive. “Answers’ll cost you, too.”
“How much?”
THERE’S SOMETHING YOU NEED TO DO WITH IT.
The kid’s eyes bulged when Venn slipped the wad of folded twenties from his pocket.
“You’re new at this and now you’re done, done before you start hating yourself or get something shoved up inside you that won’t come out so easy.”
He handed the kid the cash, pressed it into his hand but didn’t let go.
“Go home. Go anywhere you can that’s not here. Hide the money in your shoe and get lost. You hear what I’m saying to you?”
The kid nodded, but his wide blue eyes remained rooted on the cash Venn hadn’t quite let go of yet.
“This is your golden ticket off the streets. You hear me?”
Venn let go of the money and the kid ran off into the night without answering him, gone from the world inside the fleabag joint sure to be furnished with ratty, cum-stained mattresses covered by similarly soiled sheets. The kid was already long out of sight when he looked back down the street.
YOU’LL KNOW WHEN YOU GET THERE.
The telephone booth light flickered to life again when Venn folded it closed behind him, illuminating his ATM card lying on the steel grated floor like it had landed there after the machine spit it out. He had it back, free to bleed its funds from a normal ATM machine or just hightail it back to the homeless shelter away from this fucked-up night.
But something kept him right where he was, staring at the empty black screen. He tapped the glass a few times, as if to roust it back to life. When that produced no result, Venn slid his card back into the slot and watched it be gobbled up.
The screen glowed to life, Venn focusing on a button that he hadn’t noticed before, or maybe it hadn’t been there, labeled SPEAKER alongside a grid of recessed lines.
“Good work again, Venn,” a mechanical voice said, loud enough to echo through the phone booth’s cramped confines.
“What’s going on? Who are you?”
“You didn’t want your card back?”
“I want to know what the fuck’s going on.”
“You gave it back to me. Another test passed. Congratulations.”
“Are you going to send me someplace else now?”
“Many people need help. Few of them know where to find it.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You found me. You passed the test most fail. You passed twice.”
“I almost kept the money.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You’ve got my card.”
“You want it back?”
“I want this to stop.”
“Then you wouldn’t have given it back to me.”
“Just tell me where to go. Where am I supposed to go this time?”
“You like helping people.”
“What’s the difference?”
“It’s who you are, who you really are. Look at the screen, your reflection.”
Venn did but there wasn’t much to be seen, framed by the screen’s soft glow. “So?”
“You look different.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m talking about on the inside. That’s what I see. Just one more test left.”
“Where should I go?”
“Your favorite number is thirteen.”
Venn suddenly felt hot, almost feverish. “How did you know—?”
“Your mother’s name was Carol. You were with her when she died, before they came and took you away.”
Venn could feel the sweat soaking through his shirt, gluing his jeans to his legs.
“Thirteen Carol Street.”
Five miles from here via Harlem River Drive in what was commonly known as Spanish Harlem. Not the best of neighborhoods but not the worst either.
“Then what?”
“You’ll know when you get there. You’ll need to take a cab.”
And five more fresh twenties popped out of the cash dispenser, followed by his ATM card.
Cabs normally didn’t cruise this part of town much, but he was able to hail one almost immediately.
“Thirteen Carol Street,” he told the driver.
The guy behind the wheel, fat unlit cigar hanging from the side of his mouth, cocked a quizzical glance his way. “You sure?”
“Thirteen Carol Street,” Venn repeated.
The man shook his head, started the meter and drove off.
It read $31.50 when they got there, plus a $2.50 surcharge — whatever that was. Venn handed the driver two twenties and climbed out at Thirteen Carol Street on the outskirts of Spanish Harlem.
It was one of those walk-in clinics, open twenty-four hours a day, a security guard manning the entrance behind the thickest glass Venn had ever seen. The man didn’t look very formidable and held the door open for Venn’s approach.
The waiting area was packed, not a seat to be had. Venn was surprised to see parents with young children plentiful in attendance, including several infants which explained the diaper stench he caught a whiff of on his way to the reception counter. The waiting area was quiet, all voices muffled, and a pair of wall-mounted televisions muted, with the closed-captioning scroll running at the bottom of both screens.