Page 32 of Baker

“What am I supposed to call him?”

“You’re not supposed to call him anything. You should accept him as being just another person on this earth.”

“I ain’t one of them weirdos, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t think he’s going to try and grab my pickle or anything.”

Mort didn’t mean any harm, but he was far from harmless. I felt the need to educate him further on the subject. “I didn’t think you were. I’m just…I wanted to let you know that calling someone that might be grounds for a lawsuit.”

He looked at me like I’d taken the last slice of pizza without asking if he wanted it. “Calling him a fag’s against the law?”

“It’s discriminatory.”

“Well.” His gaze fell to his lap. After a moment, he looked up. “I’ll just start calling him by his name, then.”

I grinned. “Okay.”

“What’s that little homos name, anyway?” He asked flatly. “Do you know?”

I shot him an evil glare.

He slapped his hand against his knee and laughed. “I’m pulling your leg. I’ll call him Stephen, how’s that?”

I rolled my eyes. “Better.”

“Other’n that, how’s it going?”

“Good. A guy’s considering renting 3-A. He looked at it last week.”

“I was going to talk to you about that,” he said. “I completely forgot to mention it, but Kale offers that to the manager for cost. So, if you want it, you can get it for a song.”

It rented for five grand a month. I had no idea what cost was, but I knew I couldn’t afford it. “Just out of curiosity, how much is cost?”

“He divides the yearly taxes by the amount of units, divides that by twelve, and that’s the monthly cost. Taxes are seventy-two grand a year, so the manager gets it for five hundred a month.”

I could hardly contain myself. “Five hundred dollars?”

He nodded. “American money.”

I rested my arms on the edge of the desk and looked him in the eyes. “Five hundred dollars?”

“Due on the third of every month.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Damn, that was quick.” He chuckled. “What about that fella that was looking at it?”

“He was just looking for a place to stay for a while he does some remodeling. I’ve been living with my cousin and her evil twins. He lives next door. I need it worse than he does.”

He leaned against the back of his chair and scrunched his nose. “You talking about the biker that drives the Porsche?”

“Drives a Porsche? I uhhm. I don’t know.” I rubbed the back of my palm. “This guy has an eyeball tattooed on his hand.”

“That’s him. Don’t look like it, but he’s a pretty nice fella. Owns some car washes and a sandwich place over in El Cajon. Bunch of his buddies work for him. They drink beer all hours of the night, but they don’t bother nobody. He’s got a shit ton of motorcycles, though. Parks ‘em in the basement. They ride ‘em out of there six at a time. Look like they’re in a parade.”

“In a parade?”

“Sure do. They’re all evenly spaced and side by side when they ride. Same way, every time. Like they’re in a parade.”

“He drives a Porsche, too?”