Page 147 - Just Deserts
P. 147

Playa de los Borregos

        here, on Fourth Street. We are trying to locate Joseph Burning Horse,
        but we do not have an address for him. And the only photograph
        available is a rather old mug shot.”
          The old man suddenly twisted to the left, attempting to sidestep
        the  lawyer.  One  of  the  front  wheels,  already  half-rusted  in  its
        bearings, refused to surmount a large crack in the sidewalk. The cart
        almost capsized, and its owner had to grab at its contents before they
        could fall out.
          Joe  Burns  cursed  loudly,  in  English,  Spanish  and  a  language
        Nussbaum  did  not  recognize.  A  much  younger  street-person
        slouched past, eyeing Nussbaum with disdain. “Hey, man, why don’t
        you just give him a quarter and get out of here?”
          Nussbaum smiled with his mouth and waited until the unkempt
        youth  was  out  of  earshot.  “Perhaps  you  are  not  Joseph  Burning
        Horse; perhaps your resemblance is coincidental. Let me leave you
        my  card,  anyway.  If  you  should  happen  to  run  into  Mr.  Burning
        Horse,  please  tell  him  that  a  check  for  twelve  hundred  dollars  is
        waiting for him in my office.”
          “Eh?”  Burns’s  jaw  sagged,  revealing  a  virtually  total  absence  of
        incisors, canines and premolars. “You say—what? Money?”
          The lawyer smiled again, this time a genuine benevolence beaming
        from  his  well-fed  face.  “Twelve  hundred  dollars.  The  government
        decided it owed him something, and my law firm is responsible for
        finding him and giving him the money. If we cannot find him soon,
        we will have to return it to Washington. All he has to do is sign a few
        papers; we could even cash it for him right on the spot. So please
        take  this  card,  and  contact  me  if  you  have  any  information  about
        Joseph Burning Horse.”
          Nussbaum  deftly  slipped  the  business  card  into  the  top  of  the
        parcel closest to him on the shopping cart. Then he turned on his
        heel and walked briskly to his car. As he drove off into the gathering
        gloom  he  could  see  in  his  rear-view  mirror  that  the  old  man  was
        tucking something small and white into the grimy gray laminations of
        his tatterdemalion togs. Nussbaum smiled yet again.


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