Marine Park(42)

            In Ed’s business you make your money in dimes and quarters; there’s nothing wrong with that. He had blisters on his fingers from the coin roll-ups he was constantly using, to put the money together to bring to the bank. He didn’t spend much—he had the house from his daddy. In the winter he worked as an ice guard at the Aviator rink. The coins added up. While the children walked or jogged to him, he heard their coins’ metallic bounce in his mind’s ear.

            How much for Gobstoppers? a chubby little shit in a red bathing suit asked.

            Two dollars, said Ed. He’d bought them in quantity, each pack for twenty-five cents.

            The chubby kid unrolled two sweaty dollar bills from his hot palms, leaving one unknown bill in his grasp. Here, he said. Gimme.

            Is that how you ask for it? said Ed. The kid didn’t answer. Ed didn’t have anything better to say. Whatever, he said.

            The children, in a screen around Ed and his bike, forced their smudged coins and bills on him, some crisp twenties from their parents, to whom he had to return a handful of ones and quarters. The playground, centered before Ed’s arrival around the old sprinkler, exploded to the four corners with the sounds of fake gun pops and the rainbow colors of string cream.

            One small girl came up to Ed and asked if he was selling jump ropes. Some days he did—cheap plastic ones for which he made a five-dollar profit. Sorry, he told the girl, his ponytail wagging. How about a plastic shooter? He picked out a pink one in its shrink-wrapping from his bag.

            My mother, the girl said, eye-pointing to a dumpy little woman reading a magazine on a bench, doesn’t approve of guns.

            Ed looked the woman up and down, on the bench. She was wearing Crocs. He’d heard about those on TV, from commercials during Knicks games at the Mariners. He leaned down close to the little girl, who herself leaned closer to hear what he said. That’s some cunt shit, he said. What does that mean? the little girl asked. He had nothing to say.

            When one of his saddlebags was noticeably lighter, Ed straddled his bike, pedaled through the playground entrance, passing the woman with the magazine and the fat kid in red shorts, and coasted toward the 0.84-mile oval that was the crown jewel of Marine Park. Coming around the bend, he passed the basketball courts he’d grown up on as a kid, when he was the unlikely underdog, white but good. Filled with black kids still, none of whom could shoot. Ed had to admit, even from a quick glance, and he knew it would continue as he pedaled past them: the kids could play. More athletic than he’d ever been. He heard one of the rims shudder as someone tried to dunk.

            In the Avenue U parking lot there were three cars waiting for him. They were pulled up against the green, so that they could have been watching the cricket games. Windows closed, air-conditioning on. When Ed reached the middle of the lot he thought in his head about shouting, Peanuts! Crackerjacks! But it would be unwise—he’d always been lucky about police. Instead, he kickstood his bike up on the edge of the cement, pretended to fix a flat. A husky Irish man got out of a car to talk to him.

            Holding? he asked Ed in an undertone.

            What I always do, said Ed. But step inside my office.

            I don’t want much, the man said, fingering the sweat stains on his shirt.

            Just take it out of the pack, Ed said. I’m working on a damn tire over here.

            The man unzipped the pack, and took out a small ziplock bag. In its place, he left a number of bills. Ed didn’t count them, because he didn’t have to. That’s fine, Ed said. Fine day we having today.

            The man, once he had his ziplock bag, didn’t look at Ed, as if he had something communicable. He started walking away. Then he turned around.

            You be here Wednesday? he said.

            Ed sighed. Sure, he said, why not. The man nodded and went back to his car.