***
Stepping through the door, Morris scans Mr. Charlies’ store, looking for Stefani.
“Ah, Mr. Charlies, hello, hello,” Mr. Charlies says to Morris.
“Hey,” Morris replies. His nose starts itching from the acrid smell of spices and dust. He doesn’t see Stefani. “Has a woman—”
“No.” Mr. Charlies smiles.
Morris stares at him, a sneeze building from deep within. “I haven’t even asked you the—”
“Ah, yes, I know. And no.”
“Well, did she say—”
“No.”
The Colombian twins stand at the back of the store, studying him. He’s never heard them say a word. Morris says, “When did she—”
“No, Mr. Charlies,” Mr. Charlies says. He lifts his hands, palms down. “The girl, no problem. I tell her, come anytime, all the time. A friend of Mr. Charlies is a friend of Mr. Charlies,” he says, then, “She’s your daughter, yes?”
“Daughter?” Morris says. “She’s a…” He sneezes once, then again. “No,” he tells Mr. Charlies. “She’s not my daughter.”
Mr. Charlies expression shifts. “Oh. Understand, understand.”
“I’m certain you do,” Morris says, heading down the tight aisle for a box of crackers. He grabs a bright orange box of Cajun curry barbequed beef crackers—the only kind of crackers Mr. Charlies has—and sets it on the counter. “You don’t have any other kinds?” he asks, though he knows the answer. “Cheez-Its or Triscuits, something ordinary?”
“On order,” Mr. Charlies says, ringing up the three-dollar purchase. “Tomorrow.”
Morris takes out a five-dollar bill to pay. “You got some new spices in here?” He struggles not to break into a sneezing fit.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Charlies, many spices. What do you need?”
Morris shakes his head and sneezes. “Nothing.” He hands over the money.
Taking the money, Mr. Charlies flicks the bill with his fingers, then opens the till. “Oh, no, no. Mr. Charlies,” he tells Morris. “So sorry.”
“Don’t tell me,” Morris says, sniffing.
But Mr. Charlies tells him. “Problems, problems,” he says. “I have no change.”
Chapter 6