The Impossible Fortress(4)

Emerging from a crowd of suits and ties came a young man dressed in denim cutoffs, a red flannel shirt, and Ray-Ban sunglasses. I felt like I’d seen him before, maybe hanging around the parking lot of Wetbridge Liquors. He had hair like Billy Idol, bleached white and spiky, sticking straight up.

“He looks . . . fishy,” I said.

“Fishy is good,” Clark said. “We want fishy.”

“Excuse me, sir!” Alf called.

The guy didn’t miss a beat. He veered toward us like fourteen-year-old boys flagged him down all the time. The mirrored shades made it impossible to read his expression, but at least he was smiling.

“What’s up, fellas?”

Alf held out the twenty bucks. “Can you buy us some Playboys?”

His smile widened. “Vanna White!” he said knowingly. “I heard about these pictures!”

“Three copies is twelve dollars,” Alf explained. “You could keep the change.”

“Shit, man, you don’t have to pay me. I’ll do it for nothing!”

We stared at him in disbelief.

“Seriously?” Alf asked.

“Sure, I grew up around here. My name’s Jack Camaro, like the car.” He shook hands with all of us, like we were old friends. “I’m glad I can help. You guys need anything else? Penthouse? Cigarettes? Maybe some Bartles and Jaymes?”

Alfred counted twelve dollars into his palm. “Just three Playboys.”

“We really appreciate it,” I told him. “Thank you.”

“Three Playboys,” Jack Camaro repeated. “No problem. You guys sit tight.”

He stepped inside Zelinsky’s, and the three of us stared after him, slack-jawed. It was like we’d summoned a magical genie to obey our every whim and command. A moment later Jack Camaro exited the store and returned to us, still clutching the twelve dollars.

“I just had a crazy idea,” he said. “Are you guys sure three copies is enough?”

“Three is plenty,” I said.

“One for each of us,” Alf said.

“Just hear me out,” Jack Camaro said. “I bet your school is full of horndogs who want to see these pictures. If you bought a couple extra magazines, you could charge whatever you wanted.”

We all realized the brilliance of his proposal and everyone started talking at once. Most of our male classmates would happily spend ten or fifteen or even twenty dollars to own the Vanna White photos for themselves. Jack Camaro suggested that we allocate “rental copies” for everyone else; we could loan them out for one or two dollars a night, just like the movies at Video City.

“You’re a genius!” Clark exclaimed.

Jack Camaro shrugged. “I’m an entrepreneur. I look for opportunities. This is what we call supply and demand.”

We dug deep in our pockets and pooled the rest of our money—another twenty-eight dollars. Jack Camaro would buy ten copies for a total of forty bucks, but we insisted that he keep one of the magazines as a service fee.

“That’s too generous,” he said.

“It’s the least we can do,” Alf insisted.

He took our money into the store and we returned to our bench. Suddenly our futures seemed alive with hope and possibilities. With Jack Camaro’s help, we could all be entrepreneurs.

“And make a fortune!” Alf exclaimed.

“Take it easy,” Clark told him. “Let’s not get carried away.” He urged us to be sensible and invest our profits into more magazines—not just Playboy but Penthouse, Hustler, Gallery, and Oui. “I’m talking hundreds of copies. If we have enough inventory, there’s no limit to this thing!”

Alf announced his plans to buy a Ford Mustang; Clark said he would pay for surgery to remove the Claw; and I would help my mother with bills so she wouldn’t worry all the time.

These dreams lasted all of six or seven minutes.

“Sure is taking a while,” Clark finally said.

“It’s rush hour,” Alf reasoned. “The store gets crowded.”

But we’d been watching the door the whole time, and no other customers had entered or left the building.

“Maybe he’s an undercover priest,” I suggested. “Maybe he and Zelinsky are calling the Vatican.”

Alf turned to me, angry. “That really happens, Billy! You don’t hear about it because undercover priests don’t want the publicity, but it happens!”

“Take it easy,” Clark said softly.

We counted to a hundred Mississippis before sending Clark into the store to investigate. He promised he wouldn’t say or do anything to upset the plan. He would simply locate Jack Camaro and report back. He disappeared through the door. Alf and I remained frozen in place. The second hand on my Swatch ticked off a full minute, then another, then another. We didn’t move. We just watched the door, waiting for Clark to return.

“Something’s wrong,” Alf said.

“Something’s definitely wrong,” Clark said.

Suddenly he was standing behind us, like Doug Henning or David Copperfield escaping from a locked box.

Alf whirled around. “What the hell? How did you—”

“There’s a rear entrance, dummy. You can park behind the store.”

“So where’s Jack Camaro?” I asked.