Page 55 - Demo

Sonny headed to the outskirts of the range to recover whole pigeons, but Mr. Lindsay whistled for him to come to the trailer.
“That customer said you pressured him for a tip.”
“I didn’t jump for joy when he gave me a quarter, no.”
“Don’t say nothin’ to them. A tip ain’t a given. And you interrupted their shootin’. A tip ain’t a given, so don’t be sayin’ things to guilt them into givin’ you one.”
“The lady creamed my hand—what was I supposed to do?”
“She called ‘pull’ and Sonny followed the
pigeon out over the land, waiting for the blast of
the shotgun, but the only sound was the motor in the trap shooter.”
“You ain’t goin’ to bleed to death, son. Wait until the round is done. You ever think of keepin’ some Band- Aids down there? Ever think of doin’ that?”
He always had an answer back. Lindsay counted, looking over the pigeon count. Fifty-seven rounds. A round was 25 pigeons, which meant Sonny earned fourteen dollars and twenty- five cents for loading 1,425 pigeons. Lindsay handed him fifteen dollars.
“Keep the extra seventy-five cents for now,” Lindsay said, writing something on the pigeon-count sheet, folding and stuffing it under the money tray of the
cash box. “I got no change.”
Sonny looked at the bills. He’d made a bit over five bucks in tips. About twenty bucks total, for ten hours of work. “It’s dangerous work down there. I should be paid more. How long before I get a raise?”
“A raise? There ain’t no raises, son.” Mr. Lindsay sat down at the card table next to the door to his trailer and closed the tin cash box. “I pay two-bits a round to all my boys. Always have. Quarter a round.”
Sonny felt stung by Mr. Lindsay’s pointed reply and stood holding his pay for the day, staring back, his jaw clenched to keep from speaking.
“I pay a quarter a round. Don’t like it? Get a goddamn paper route. What’s-his-face at that home you live at said you needed spendin’ money. That’s what you’re gettin’, spendin’ money.”
“I’m here by eight in the morning. I leave at six. I make a lousy fifteen bucks, sometimes less.”
“And sometimes more. Plus tips. It’s about the tips, boy. Like in a restaurant.”
“This isn’t a restaurant.”
“Did you hear me? Like. Like a restaurant, the girls get paid but make their real money by givin’ good service and makin’ tips. You give good service to the shooters and they give you bigger tips.”
“How do I give them good service? All I do is put the pigeon on the shooter.”
“There’re ways to do it, you just have to—Look, boy, offer to clean their guns. Carry their gear to their car. Be friendly.”
“That’s against the law, I think.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Lindsay smacked his lips, rolling his tongue around the inside of that deflated cheek.
“Making me work for ten hours and paying me fifteen bucks.”
Lindsay’s face flexed, caving in on the side where the jaw was missing. “Don’t talk to me about no goddamn law. I gave you a job, you little shit.”
“You don’t even offer me a Band-Aid for my hand,” Sonny said, getting angry.
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