(2004) Citizen Vince Read Online Free Page A

the gallon, but is roomier than the Chevette. Cars all got so small and boxy. When did that happen? They look like lunch boxes. Must be tough on car thieves. Where do you fence a four-cylinder lunch box?
    Doug seals the kid’s new driver’s license, waves it in the air to cool, and hands it to him. Takes twenty bucks for his trouble. “Some bartender grabs that thing, you tell him you got it in Seattle, understand?”
    The kid doesn’t look up from his new ID. Finally, he grins—all braces and dimples. When he finally leaves, Vince sets the magazine down on the counter.
    “You got numbers for me?” Doug asks. He hoists his big haunches onto a stool behind the counter. Vince hands him a sheet of paper filled with names and numbers from the latest run of stolen credit cards.
    Doug runs his finger down the list. “Monday okay for these?”
    “Fine.”
    Doug shifts his considerable weight, opens a drawer, and removes a handful of phony credit cards—made from Vince’s last batch of numbers.
    “So where do you get all of these? You can’t be stealing all these credit card numbers from the donut shop.”
    Vince doesn’t answer.
    “Is this the way they do it Back East?”
    Vince doesn’t answer.
    Doug sulks as he looks over the numbers. “Shit, man, why are you so edgy?”
    “I’m not edgy.”
    “Then why can’t you tell me where you get the numbers?”
    There is a hint of forced nonchalance in the question. Vince takes the phony cards and hands Doug a small roll of bills.
    “Come on,” Doug says as he counts. “I got a right to know.”
    Vince puts the cards in his pocket.
    “I mean, I got a pretty good idea how it works,” Doug says. “I haven’t been asleep the last six months, you know.”
    “Okay,” Vince says. “Why don’t you tell me how it works?”
    “Well, you steal these cards somewhere . You write down the numbers and then you give the cards back so the owners won’t report them stolen. I make copies of the cards. You take the cards I make you, buy shit with them, sell the shit, and then sell the cards. So you get paid twice. Am I right?”
    Vince doesn’t answer. Turns to leave.
    “Come on”—Doug laughs—“we’re partners. What do you think, I’m gonna go against you?”
    Vince stops, turns back slowly. “Someone want you to go against me?”
    Doug straightens. “What are you talking about?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m not talking about anything. Jesus! Lighten up, Vince. Don’t be so paranoid.”
    That word again. Vince stares at him a moment, and thenwalks outside. He looks back in through the front window. Doug mouths the word paranoid again.
    There was this old guy named Meyers who ran a chop shop back in the world. This Meyers worked only with recent Vietnamese immigrants, because he could pay them less and, according to Meyers, they were too unsettled by America to backstab him. Used to sit in this big rocking chair while the Vietnamese kids stole cars for him, stripped them down, and hauled the parts all around New Jersey. And he paid them shit. Then, one day, Meyers just disappeared. Next day, some old Vietnamese guy is running the chop shop, sitting in that rocking chair. There’s a lesson in there—something about condescension. Or maybe rocking chairs. And what is that? Fifty-eight?
     
    VINCE CAMDEN WALKS everywhere. In two years he still hasn’t gotten used to all of the cars; everyone drives everywhere here, even the ladies. In this town, five guys drive to a tavern in five cars, have a beer, then get in their five cars and drive three blocks to the next tavern. It’s not just wasteful. It’s uncivilized. People say it’s because of the harsh winters in Spokane, which are a cross between upstate New York and Pluto. But outside a few places in Florida and California, the weather is shitty everywhere. Every place is too hot or too cold or too humid or too something. No, even in the cold Vince prefers walking—like now, strolling away from