Heads You Win

He was walking past the thrift store deep in thought, when Addie opened the door and shouted after him, “Come back, Alex, I’ve got something special for you.”

When Alex joined her in the shop, she took what looked like a brand-new suit off the rack and said, “Why don’t you try it on.”

“How did you get hold of this?” asked Alex as he slipped on the jacket.

“A regular customer who goes on shopping sprees, a few days later often gives us something he no longer wants.”

Alex tried to imagine what it must be like to be that rich. “What’s this made of?” he asked, feeling the cloth.

“Cashmere. Do you like it?”

“What’s not to like? But can I afford it?”

“Yours for ten dollars,” she whispered.

“How come?”

“It will have been in and out of the store before my boss even sees it.”

Alex pulled off his jeans, put on the trousers—they even had a zipper—and studied himself in the full-length mirror. Beige wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it still looked like a hundred-dollar suit.

“Just as I thought,” said Addie. “A perfect fit. It could have been made for you.”

“Thank you,” said Alex, handing over ten dollars.

“Are we still going to the movies next Saturday?” Addie asked as he pulled his jeans back on.

“John Wayne in True Grit. I’m looking forward to it,” he said as she folded up the suit and slipped it into a bag. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he added.

“I’ll think of something,” said Addie as he left the store.

As he walked back home, Alex’s thoughts turned to how he could possibly get his hands on the eighty dollars a week he needed to rent Bernie’s stall. He was making around twenty dollars from chess games at the weekends, but he had no idea how he could make up the shortfall. He knew his mother didn’t have that sort of spare cash, even though she’d just been given another raise. But what about Dimitri, who’d just come back from his most recent trip to Moscow? He must surely have some spare cash.

Alex had prepared his pitch long before he reached home, and when he opened the door, he could hear Dimitri singing out of tune. He joined him in the kitchen, and listened to what he had been up to on his Moscow trip.

“A fascinating city,” said Dimitri. “Red Square, the Kremlin, Lenin’s tomb. You should visit Moscow one day, Alex.”

“Never,” said Alex firmly. “I’m not interested in Lenin’s tomb. I’m an American now, and I’m going to be a millionaire.”

Dimitri didn’t look surprised, but then he’d already heard the claim many times before. But on this occasion, Alex added another sentence which did take him by surprise. “And you could be my partner.”

“What do you mean?” said Dimitri.

“How much spare cash do you have?” asked Alex.

Dimitri didn’t reply immediately. “About three hundred dollars,” he said eventually. “There’s not a lot to spend your money on while at sea.”

“How would you feel about investing it?”

“In what?”

“Not in what, but in who,” said Alex. He filled the sink with warm water, and by the time they’d finished washing up, he’d explained why he needed three hundred and twenty dollars, and why he would be getting up at four in the morning.

“How does she feel about this?” was Dimitri’s only comment.

“I haven’t told her yet.”

*   *   *

Alex found it difficult to concentrate in class the following Monday, but as there were only half a dozen boys who could keep up with him when he was half-awake, no one noticed except his teacher.

When the bell rang at four o’clock, Alex was the first out of the classroom, and he ran all the way to the market. He headed straight for Bernie’s stall. Once he’d caught his breath, he began firing questions at the old trader while he served his customers.

“If I rented the stall,” said Alex, “would you be willing to go on working?”

“I’m trying to get off the treadmill, and you’d only want to speed it up,” grinned Bernie.

“But if I always went to the market in the mornings, you wouldn’t have to start work until eight, and I could take over after school.”

Bernie didn’t reply.

“I’d pay you forty dollars a week,” said Alex as Bernie handed a customer a bag of grapes.

“I’d have to think about it,” said Bernie. “But even if I agreed, you’d still have a problem.”

“What?” said Alex.

“Not what, but who. Because there’s someone else who will have to go along with your plan.”

“Who?” demanded Alex. “Because I’m not going to tell my mother until you agree.”

“It wasn’t your mother I was worried about.”

“Then who?”

“The man who owns my stall, and most of the others in the market. You’re going to have to convince Mr. Wolfe that you’re good for the money, because only he can grant you a license.”

“So where do I find this Mr. Wolfe?”

“His office is at 3049 Ocean Parkway. He starts work at six every morning, and never goes home before eight in the evening. And let me warn you, Alex, he’s one mean son of a bitch.”

“See you same time tomorrow afternoon,” said Alex, before setting off for home. “By then, I’ll own your stall.”