Judas, who had a knack for reading facial expressions, jumped down from the car and stood opposite Kane. “Listen to me, wounded Schoolboy. I know you are only trying to form a pus, right? From . . .” He changed his mind—he didn’t have to go too fast. “I can stem all deficiencies parading unmolested in your hazy, maladroit, happy-go-lucky fringing life.” He paused to give an unhealthy smile, pounding his own palm. “You want to know how, Schoolboy?”
Strange. What was he to know? “Know what?” Kane demanded. “Don’t want to know anything, just gimme my money.”
“I can make you a motherfuckin’ millionaire in, eh . . . months, six at most.”
As blood ran through his veins two or three times faster, Kane assessed the five-foot-six figure in front of him, from the hair of his head to the soles of his weather-beaten Italian shoes, thinking that anyone who could make another a millionaire should be one himself. But this fool didn’t look like one. He looked like a super hustler trying to make ends meet without much success. Anyway, Kane reasoned, sometimes he might not know who was rich because some folks could pretend not to be. Intuition told him to play along. He broke the silence. “You have to convince me how it can happen—otherwise I’m going to have my money, peacefully or forcefully.” His voice became shrill and serious. “I don’t give a ditch how old you are. Don’t ever in your remaining life call me a schoolboy. Now, tell me how. I’m a very impatient person with a bad temper.”
“You don’t even possess a trait of bonhomie in your gut. I wasn’t lighting an alteration. We are treading the same route. I only want to lead you to a blue ribbon and place you under the aegis of the Dean.” He formed a smile. “Little Schoolboy, now tell me a little about yourself.”
Kane cautioned himself to be careful in his chat, because this clown could be a cop and cops really can arrange anything. “By the way, who are you?”
“If you are not ready to be initiated, I’d be on my fringing way, then.” Judas turned to go but didn’t move an inch.
“Well, my name is Kane . . . er . . .” He remembered his best friend, Jerry Smith. “Yep, I’m Kane Smith, computer engineer, from Clackamas Estate. I’m preparing to go to college after next summer.”
“Just going to college in your old age? Are you sure your scion’s name is Smith?”
“Damn it, what a fuckin’ question. You think my name is Malcolm X Jr.?” Kane frowned. “Now tell me how am going to make my millions, or else I’ll twist your arms and have my money back.”
That was, in fact, the best environment to beat and rob without any interference. He quickly descended on the left arm and was about to twist it, first gently, when Judas cried and jumped away.
“Chill, you crazy son of a motherfuckin’ bitch. Now come with me and show characters worthy of hailing.” Judas led him to the adjoining street, down Walter Avenue, along the 24th Street gift shops that overlooked the New European Quarters, through Camron, and finally to the St. Philemon. “There is a cabal waiting.”
It was past 11 p.m. and the entire area was so silent that after some few minutes’ walk, the noise of rock music from the casino could still be heard faintly, though the distant voices of those therein had long faded.
Walking with long strides, Judas, at intervals, craned his neck sideways to see how the other was faring. At a certain junction, he leaned on an oak tree to have a good squint at a lone bungalow under the shade of another stand of trees a few kilometers away. That was his house. One would have to travel a great distance before another building was sighted. He was used to checking his house from afar, to be sure there was no police officer disguised as a town planner loitering with measuring equipment. He lowered his head and screwed his eyes more carefully, to Kane’s amazement.
After spending some considerable time for that purpose, he motioned to the other to follow him. In a strange language to Kane, he bugged him with theories for solving mathematical problems and occasionally paused to ask if he understood.
“Didn’t I tell you I’m about to go to college? How on earth do you want me to understand?”
“I think you should go back to the second grade.”
Kane imagined himself sitting at the back of a classroom with seven years olds. “Man, fuck you. Will you please answer these two questions, but briefly?”
Judas nodded.
“Tell me your name and the deal you have for me.”
“The terminology is a fecund sub-subject under the act of your own profession.”
“My profession? What do you mean? How am I going to make . . .”
“Don’t feign—you know what I mean,” Judas said. “I mean species of a kind of struggle Urugeria’s law doesn’t tolerate.” On an open palm, he gestured with four fingers in pursuit of the thumb. “I have two loyal phalanxes who carry my badge. You don’t need one because you have my blood.”
In bewilderment, Kane shouted. “Blood? What the fuck do you mean?”
Judas opened the door to his apartment. “I have known you since you were an embryo. Follow me, Kane.”
How did this clown know my name? Kane asked himself.
***
Judas’s sitting room, ablaze with light, was luxuriously furnished, though not well arranged. The overlapping white curtains, thought to be a window blind, were already turning brown. Some kitchen paraphernalia dishonorably stationed there were also not receiving attention. Among them were a clothes hanger and a colored basket containing cooking utensils placed at an angle on the far right just beside a little cupboard displaying his shoes. There was a newly polished shelf filled with assorted wines. Posted boldly on the shelf was a penciled placard reading, “This is my bar.”
Judas could be found in the house anytime of the day sleeping, smoking, or buried in his laboratory printing money, so he had enough time for unnecessary interior designs and placards.
Kane, who was going through the collection of video cassettes strewn on the floor to see if there was porn, quickly threw a look at his back and saw his host mixing wine into two cups, covering them cautiously, as if he were putting poison in one of them.
Smiling deceitfully as he turned, revealing just two front teeth, Judas stretched a hand with a cup. “Have your drink.” Did he see his august guest hiding a cassette in his jacket? Judas was not aware of that. He watched Kane sit on a floral patterned couch pretending he didn’t see the cup extended to him. Judas sat opposite him to study his facial tics and nervous mannerisms. He extended the left hand with a cup again. “It is not a plonk. I don’t drink cheap wine.”
“Thanks, I’m okay.” He didn’t think he was going to poison him. He leaned forward slightly, clasped his hands and stared at his host in anticipation of whatever he had to say.
“I don’t want to be too discursive. I want you to swallow everything hook, line and sinker. Listen, Mr. Kane.” Judas began a story.
After speaking for over ten minutes, mentioning names and places, and consolidating premises that were consistent with conclusions, he said, “You are not moved. Do you call that a shaggy dog tale? Did it sound like a non sequitur in your fuzzy judgement?”
Kane remained motionless. An intelligent gambler he had met by chance few minutes ago was trying to lure him with million dollars, and then claimed he was his damn father. Was he a fool to accept such nonsense? “You are not serious.”
“You didn’t even utter a cry of surprise to my resplendent revelation. Those cats have bought your emotions.”
“If