Reginald Spalding was a tall man, about six-three, and he
was wearing his favorite fedora.
He wore this whenever he was out on a job. The
marks were always trusting of a man in a hat. It wasn’t quite as inexplicable
as that single sentence made it sound, though. Think of it. Santa wears a hat.
The Pope wears a hat. In all of the pictures of the Easter Bunny where he is
looking his most trustworthy, he is wearing a colorful hat.
Reginald Spalding wore a hat. His was grey with a warped
brim.
His be-hatted frame tiptoed lightly up the porch steps of
the big brownstone monolith that hulked over the corner of 4th and
Henninga. His narrow, spidery hand rang the buzzer for Apartment 3B. He read
the name above the button. Bannister. He waited.
“Yes? Hello? Yes?” came the response. A woman. She sounded
old. Perhaps in her late 70s, if she
wasn’t a smoker, her 40s if she was. Reginald Spalding was in his 40s, so
perhaps 40 wasn’t old. Reginald didn’t smoke. Not when he was on a job.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Bannister!” he said in his most
cheerful, harmless voice. “May I have a few moments of your time?”
“What are you selling?”
Shit. This one wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. She
was careful. Reginald hated the careful ones.
“Why, I represent a…”
Fuck! Think, man! Think!
“…a concern,” he said, and
smiled. Yes, that ought to do the trick. That ought to work just fine. “Yes, a
concern,” he continued, still smiling, the smile forcing his voice to take on a
clean, brassy timbre, “that deals in only the finest services imaginable. In no
way would this concern seek to con you out of your considerable investments,
Ms. Bannister.”
“How did you get my name?” the
voice crackled from the intercom speaker.
Goddammit.
“A list!” Reginald chirped. Ha.
Perfect.
“Look, sir,” Ms. Bannister said.
Her voice dipped an octave when she said sir,
dusting it with a fine layer of stank. “I live in a rent-controlled apartment.
I’m pretty sure you know what that means.”
Reginald’s mind raced. He shifted
his empty briefcase from one hand to the other. Suddenly, it seemed foolish to
be wearing a fedora. It was too hot out today for a hat.
“If you would just give me a
second to prove, ma’am, that I am not a con man in any sense of the word!” he
ejaculated. “I am, in fact, entirely harmless!” he added. He smirked. That was
a good bit, there.
“Get off my rent-controlled steps
before I drop a rent-controlled air-conditioner on you, sonny.” The voice
practically punched its way through the speaker grille.
