A Cardboard Palace by Allayne L. Webster

Author:Allayne L. Webster [Webster, Allayne L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MidnightSun Publishing
Published: 2017-06-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Bill has another new money making plan. It’s called the deaf-mute scam. It works like this:

We stand on a street corner holding a placard featuring a handwritten message that says: ‘No can hear. No can speak. No work. Hungry. Please help.’ And we jingle a jar of coins.

Bill says he saw Zabek’s team doing it at the Gare du Nord. They were getting plenty of donations from commuters.

When Bill arrives at camp the sun is barely over the horizon. He drives his shiny black car with the yellow-badged horse between shacks and pulls up near the common area. His car looks out of place—like a big, glossy chocolate gateau cake nestled amongst a pile of stinking food scraps. From his car boot he bundles cardboard, paint, jars and paint brushes, and he brings them over to us.

‘Girls, you are to work to at the Eiffel Tower,’ Bill instructs. ‘On your way, get going. This job is for the boys.’

Cheri takes the lead, headed to the Metro. The girls follow.

‘Come on...’ Bill says. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

Abel, Zabahn, me and Bobi form a semicircle.

‘Take a paintbrush. Hurry.’

He lays stiff cardboard squares on the ground in a neat row. We all take a paintbrush. Abel grasps his, looking at it like it’s something from outer space.

‘Now write the message.’

‘But I can’t write,’ Abel says.

Bill groans, ‘Give me the brush.’ He snatches it from Abel. ‘I’ll write one and you copy. Got it?’

Abel nods.

Bill squats rather than kneels, not wanting to dirty his tailored suit. His shiny, black snakeskin shoes and his gold wristwatch glisten in the sun. He smells like cinnamon and coffee.

With long, wobbly brush strokes, he writes the message in black paint. His handwriting is wonky and uncertain. I might not be able to write very well, but I’m sure I could write better than Bill. He spells ‘speak’ the wrong way, too. He writes it like this: SPaKE.

He stands back, admiring his handiwork. ‘Do it like that. No flowery stuff. No pictures. No smiley faces. Just the words.’

We set about painting our signs. Zabahn gets a word wrong and Bill tells him to put a line through it and to keep going. Abel makes so many mistakes his placard looks more like a draughts board. Bobi makes such a mess there’s no room left; he has to turn his board over and start again.

Mine turns out okay. I write speak how I want to write it. If Bill notices he doesn’t say anything.

‘Now we wait until they’re dry.’ He stands back, looking us up and down. ‘Are you ready? Do you know what you have to do?’

Abel nods. Zabahn does too. Bobi waves his hands around like he’s a puppeteer.

‘I said—’ Bill is obviously about to repeat himself, but his cheeks glow hot when he realises what’s going on. ‘Never mind.’

‘Bill!’ Reuben calls, making his way across camp.

Bill noticeably stiffens.

Reuben greets him by shaking his hand and slapping his back. ‘How nice of you to visit.’ Hands on hips, he inspects our signs.

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