The Complete Collection. William Wharton

be the right place. This is 2007 Montgomery, but it’s the worst of all. This area is unbelievable. There are practically no houses which aren’t completely boarded up. The people in the street are virtually naked. There’s a broken fire hydrant across the street and kids are jumping around bare-ass in the water. This is pure jungle in the middle of Philadelphia.

      We go around the block three times, not knowing what to do. By the second time around, they’re waiting for us. Kids run up as we go by with mouthsful of water, spurt at the windows and laugh. The house with the right number looks to be completely abandoned.

      We’re finishing the third turn and we’re about to crash on out of there. We stop for one more close look to see if there’s any chance anybody could possibly live at that number. Two kids climb up over the hood and sit on top of the car with their bare wet feet hanging down across the windshield.

      Amazingly, a door opens in the house and a white woman comes running down toward us. She’s wearing a yellow dress with no sleeves; she has dark, almost blue hair. She runs to the side of the car and presses papers against the window. It’s a copy of the delivery papers with Dad’s picture stapled to the top. I unlock the door, she pulls it open and slides in beside me. She smells of whiskey and perfume. Opening the door is like opening the door to an oven. It’s the first time we’ve had a door or window open since we left Bala-Cynwyd.

      ‘Are you Mr Tremont?’

      Dad reaches over and takes his papers out of the glove compartment.

      ‘It says here I’m supposed to deliver this car to a Mr Scarlietti.’

      He shows her the papers with that name.

      ‘I’m taking delivery for him; Mr Scarlietti is out of town right now. I’ll sign for it and give you the fifty dollars. That’s right, isn’t it?’

      Dad looks at me and I shrug. What the hell else are we going to do, sit in this car forever? At least the kids have all scrambled off and are sitting or standing along the curb across the street. Dad pulls out the repair bills; they come to over three hundred bucks. She looks at them, then at us suspiciously. Dad tells her he called from Los Angeles and Mr Scarlietti gave permission to have the voltage regulator replaced; the universal joint was done right here in Pennsylvania on the turnpike, but we couldn’t get to him for permission.

      ‘If you don’t believe me, just call the garage, the phone number’s there on the bill; it’s in a place called New Stanton.’

      He points to the number and she stares some more at the bills, then smiles.

      ‘Looks as if this is some car. I don’t have that kind of money on me; one of you’ll have to come inside and get it. Four hundred would cover everything, right?’

      Dad nods. I’m having a hard time putting together that kind of money and this car with this neighborhood, if you could call it a neighborhood. Dad says he’ll stay in the car while I go in.

      I’m more than a little bit nervous. This woman is good-looking, too good-looking, maybe thirty-five, flashing eyes, smooth arms, good legs in high heels with platforms.

      She runs up the cracked cement walk between the worn-down lawns and up some broken steps onto an unpainted porch. Outside the car, I catch not only the full push of heat but the smells. It’s a mixture of a burning dump and rotten oranges.

      When I follow her through the door, I can’t believe my eyes, or skin, or anything. First of all, the place is air-conditioned, but that’s the least of it. I’ve stepped into a gigantic room. They’ve knocked down the walls to about ten of those row houses and put them together. The walls are covered with red brocade and there are mirrors everywhere with soft pinkish-orange lights. The rugs are dark, burgundy-wine red. It’s like those last thirty-nine pages in Steppenwolf! It makes Caesar’s Palace look like Savon drugstore. I’m standing there with my mouth open and the lady’s disappeared.

      I’m expecting to be hit over the head with a velvet-covered black-jack. This is some kind of big-deal gambling joint or whorehouse, maybe both.

      I’m thinking I’d better just run and tell Dad to drive like hell. We can drop this car in some white neighborhood with square curbs. We’ll phone from there, tell them where the car is and jump on a plane. We’re way over our heads. I’m actually beginning to feel cold under my jean jacket. Maybe I’m going into shock, my circulation isn’t pushing the blood fast enough.

      I look around. There are staircases up for each of the different houses they’ve put together, so I can look down the line and see one staircase after the other. With all the mirrors and the dim lights, it’s hard to tell exactly what you’re actually seeing anyway. There are small wooden bars built in under each of those stairs, and leather or red plush couches all around the walls. It’s got to be a whorehouse all right. I’ve never been in one, but this is the way I’d’ve imagined one up.

      Finally, just as I’m ready to scoot, the lady comes back. She isn’t hurrying so much now, and in these dim pink lights the yellow dress is turned orange. She gives me a soft smile and counts out four one-hundred-dollar bills, snapping them with her fingers as she hands them to me, the way they do in a bank. I’m convinced they’re most likely counterfeit, they’re brand-new-looking, but how much use do hundred-dollar bills get anyway?

      I’m not saying anything; I just want to get the hell out of there. I’m so confused I put out my hand to shake, French-style. She takes my hand and gives me a good shake back. I don’t think anything could surprise this lady. She goes over to the door and before she can open it, I come a bit to my senses.

      ‘Do you want us to bring the keys in here or leave them in the car?’

      She smiles.

      ‘You’d better lock it up and bring the keys in; we still have to sign the delivery papers.’

      I want Dad to see this place. He’d never believe it and I don’t blame him. I stick my head out the door and holler. He can’t hear me inside, so I motion him to come in. He opens the door and sticks his head up over the car.

      ‘Lock it up and bring the keys, Dad. Bring the papers, too.’

      Those kids and all the neighbors are lined up across the street. Nobody’s moving. Dad locks his door, then sprints across and up the steps. I stand back to let him in.

      He stops dead in his tracks like he’s been sandbagged. He looks at me and looks at the lady. His head turns slowly to take it in. He looks back at the door. The lady puts out her hand for the key. She’s enjoying this almost as much as I am.

      ‘Would you give me the key? I gave him the money.’

      She points to me and I nod. Dad drops the keys in her hand. She tucks them in a little pocket at the hip of her dress. She reaches for the papers.

      ‘What’re we supposed to sign?’

      Dad gives her the papers. His hands are shaking. The lady leads us to the nearest bar where there’s more light. Dad’s in front of me and she’s leading the way. I let off two minor-note farts; I fart when I’m nervous.

      We do the signing. She keeps her pages and Dad pockets his. Dad tries to pay back the change, about fifty dollars, but she waves it off.

      ‘What are you two; brothers, or father and son, or what? It’s like seeing double.’

      She couldn’t’ve said anything to make Dad happier; but personally I’m getting fed up with being seen as some kind of carbon copy thrown off by a biological time machine.

      ‘Yeah, this is my son Bill.

      ‘Wow, you sure have a beautiful place here; it’s the last thing you’d expect.’

      ‘You like it, huh?’

      She smiles that same smile, more in the eyes than in the mouth.

      ‘It’s incredible.’

      ‘And you’re curious about it, huh?’

      She