Читать книгу Saffron’s Menagerie - Phil Stevenson - Страница 4

A bright red Porsche coupe turns into Bank Street from Greenwich Ave, and slowly drives down the dark grey cobble stone street. It stops outside a line of Greek Revival townhouses. It is a warm, cloudless summer’s day in Greenwich Village, downtown Manhattan. The curbside trees are providing a glorious contrast of green and shade against the red brick buildings. A few pigeons from the local park are cooing in a nearby tree. There are people going about their way this mid-afternoon. A few couples chat to each other and a nanny, with headphones in her ears pushes a stroller with a dozing baby wrapped in a light cotton shawl.

The Porsche comes to a stop outside Number 462. A young man, in his twenties, gets out of the passenger’s side and runs up the stone front stairs to the entrance pediment that adorns the old heavy oak front door. A button is pressed, passwords exchanged and the door is unlatched.

A few minutes later the visitor walks back down the front stairs, clutching a brown paper folder, gets into the Porsche that drives away.

It is Friday, which entices a number of cars into the street with occupants that also make their way to the same townhouse door. They also stay only minutes and then disappear back into the great metropolis.

Ten minutes after the Porsche, a green Chevy Camaro that contains a sole driver goes through the same procedure as before.

Inside the Bank Street townhouse an overweight man, fiftyish, known as Lucky, a name he coined himself, counted dollar bills on his dining room table and stacked them in matching denomination piles. A large covered plastic storage tub was nearby. It contained the items that he peddles each and every Friday afternoon to only a dozen or so well-heeled young Manhattan or Brooklyn types and some older, which sought his wares.

The man has bottle lens glasses on his round fat face that has a receding hairline, with squinty eyes that make him look like an old-fashioned bank clerk. Today, so far, he has netted $6,000. An average sum, however he is happy. If all goes well that figure might go to $10,000.

He looks out from his dining room window down into Bank Street to see a small delivery van arrive. It is his afternoon grocery delivery, as the driver, while whistling, opens the back of the van to retrieve a cardboard box brimming with fruit, vegetables and other assorted goodies. He is a young-looking man, with reddish thick clumped hair adorned by a cap bearing the same logo as on the side of the truck. Large circular sunglasses surround his eyes. He wears baggy jeans and a sloppy sweater that hangs loosely down past his waist. The driver scoots up the front stairs and rings his buzzer.

Lucky covers his cash with a cloth, checks again his visitor via the above door camera and walks to open the door.

“We’re on time today,” the delivery driver says with a smile.

To which Lucky just nods. He wants him gone as soon as possible. He had complained about the late delivery after 3 pm last Friday. The busiest delivery day and also his busiest day. He doesn’t want grocery deliveries interrupting his lucrative Fridays. And certainly, did not want any indicators that might ward off his clients.

“Shall I take it to the kitchen?” the driver asks.

Lucky didn’t recognize the delivery guy as the regular, and didn’t care either.

“No, I’ll take it from here,” was his reply.

Lucky signs the delivery docket, sends the delivery truck on its way, and is soon in the kitchen filling the fridge with the perishables and stacking other items on the kitchen bench. A twin pack of frozen strawberries is thrown into the freezer compartment.

The door buzzes again and he instantly looks to the security monitor to see who it is. Passwords are exchanged and another deal is done.