Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,40

large storefront window of Cash 4U Quick announces CASH NOW—NO CREDIT NECESSARY! in large, yellow, rounded letters, the kind one might see painted on the windshield of a used car for sale. The accompanying photograph shows an attractive woman in a revealingly snug shirt handing several twenty-dollar bills, fanned out, to a black man and a white woman, both of whom are smiling widely; this is clearly one of the most pleasant, stress-free business transactions in the history of commerce. We had no credit, but this lady gave us a bunch of cash! And she’s pretty too!

It’s Friday night near six, when the business is set to close. Charlie will need to observe some things but he doesn’t want to stay any longer than necessary, for obvious reasons. The spot is a good one, a location that provides a fine view of the store across Broadway Street.

In front of him is a Macy’s gift box with no top. Taped to it is a piece of brown cardboard, standing perpendicular to the box so passersby can easily see the words he has scrawled on it with a Sharpie: HOMELESS VET, PLEASE HELP.

He looks the part—a Chicago Bears hat, tattered camouflage shirt, stained sweatpants, thick, dark, square glasses to protect against the rays of the setting sun but also giving the impression of blindness. Glasses that are almost, but not quite, large enough to cover the crescent-moon scar by his right eye.

Broadway Street this far north is commercial and somewhat barren, but there’s enough going on—music stores, a car wash, drugstores, plus a Thai restaurant and a dive bar on the corner—to attract people in happy-hour mode and summer attire along with the joggers and dog-walkers and bicyclists.

“You can’t be here! You got to go!”

He turns, startled, though he shouldn’t be. If there is one thing he’s learned about the homeless—and he’s learned a lot, especially in LA, where he eliminated so many of them—it’s that they all have fiercely proprietary streaks.

The man who approaches is African-American, tall, wearing a green baseball cap turned backward over his dreadlocks and a white long-sleeved shirt, ripped and stained, bearing a faded photo of some rock band in concert. Through the patchy beard on his face, two pale pink spots show on his cheeks—a skin disease or some accident. His eyes are bloodshot and wild with anger.

“Can’t nobody be in this spot! This ain’t your spot! This is Mayday’s spot!” He thumps his hand against his chest, spit flying from his mouth; the putrid combination of body odor and booze and halitosis is so unbearable as to invite vomit.

Under other circumstances, Charlie could neutralize this problem in a heartbeat. But there are people around, and he can’t afford to have an altercation.

“Get on, now! This is Mayday’s spot!”

Principles of deduction would indicate that this man answers to the name Mayday. “Hold on, my friend.” He raises his hand to the man, a peaceful gesture. “Are you…don’t tell me…Mayday?”

“You got to go, okay, ’cause this is Mayday’s spot, always is Mayday’s spot—”

“I understand. I’m in your spot. I’m terribly sorry.”

The gentle way he speaks seems to disarm Mayday, who presumably is unaccustomed to civil interactions, especially in a turf battle, as this seems to be.

He could point a gun at Mayday, just as a threat, but the last thing he needs is some wild report of a homeless man with a gun. It would bring half of the Chicago Police Department to him.

“Mayday’s got Balmoral to Catalpa, okay,” says the man. “Balmoral to Catalpa.”

“Could I make a deal with you, Mayday? Could I pay you cash for this spot, just for this evening?”

Mayday draws back, wary. He points down at the sidewalk, his hand shaking for emphasis, his finger like a jackhammer busting pavement. “You got to go—”

“How much do you want? Name your price.”

This encounter is obviously playing out entirely differently than Mayday expected. His anger has subsided. He’s realizing that he’s going to get paid. His eyes widen at the prospect, but he doesn’t know how to respond.

“Sixty dollars, Mayday?”

It doesn’t make sense to Mayday that a fellow homeless man would be flush with money, but whether it makes sense to Mayday is not a concern for Charlie at the moment.

It will be later.

“Sixty bucks, okay,” says Mayday, embracing his unexpected windfall. “Sixty bucks right now!”

“You drive a hard bargain, sir.”

Mayday snatches the money offered. “Only for tonight,” he says, his chest puffed out. He walks away to enjoy his surprise bounty, to ply