IndieSouth

They leave the apartment and drive down to the gas station on the corner to use the ATM. He checks his balance: $400.

“Fuck,” David said, smacking the top of the ATM. “Do you have any money?”

Nadine was squirming and making David feel like she had ‘junkie’ pasted to her forehead. “What’s the problem?” she asked.

“I need this. I’m already short on last month’s rent, and this is barely half of what I need for this month. Do you have money?”

“No.”

“Nadine, how can you have no money? That’s bullshit, come one, help me out.”

“I don’t, David. Just get it, now.”

David could see the attendant looking at him and Nadine from behind the counter. Layne would come around, he told himself, and took out $400.

They drove up to Silver Birch Hill, the highest point in South Portland. It was a residential area for white-collar, upper middle class types. Nadine led him to a threestory house bordering a park which gave a great view of downtown Portland and the Old Port beyond. They knocked on the door, and an electromagnetic buzz clicked the door open. They walked in and immediately ascended a flight of stairs, and came into a parlor.

“Well, hello Nadine, haven’t seen you in a few. How you doing, love?” asked a large white man with a bald head wearing a polo shirt and jeans. “Who’s your friend, there?” The man’s accent was thick, vaguely French.

Nadine was looking down at her feet, and said nothing. David stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “Hi, uh, David.”

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