LatinosUSA

The tall man in the flashy suit appeared as if by magic next to the bus stop, close to the green-painted park bench upon which the girl sat. He craned his neck to read the name tag pinned to the white blouse of her school uniform.

“Sally,” he murmured in a deep baritone, “That’s a name from the past; say, 1940s, 1950s?” He smiled down at the child, whom he estimated was perhaps 12 or 13. “How old are you, Honey?” he asked.

“11,” she replied.

He flashed a kindly smile. Even better, he thought. In his line of business, if one wanted to call it that, younger was almost always better. The issue of credibility was on the line. Authority figures would almost never believe a pre-teen before they’d accept the word of a successful, well-connected fellow like himself.

“How are you today, Sally?” the man inquired.

“Fine,” she answered shortly.

“Do you go to school?” he asked next. Of course she did; he only wanted to make her feel older and more important. More worldly.

“Uh huh.” She turned on the bench to face him. “I’m in sixth grade,” she said.

“Sixth grade,” he repeated in an impressed voice. “You’re not a child,” he told her. “You’re a young woman.”

Now she smiled at him.

“Where do you go to school?” he asked.

She named an elementary school about a mile distant from the bus stop.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Sally?” he asked.

She wrinkled her nose up disagreeably and shook her head no.

“Would you like me to give you a ride to school?” he asked.

She appeared to be turning the idea over in her mind.

“That way you won’t have to ride on that crowded, noisy bus, with all those boys! Wouldn’t you like that?” he asked. He smiled at her.

She nodded, smiled back at him. Then she hesitated.

“My mom doesn’t want me to take rides with strangers,” she said primly.

“Your mom’s a very wise woman,” he said. “But, it’s not a problem.”

She watched as he slipped his wallet from his pocket. “Here,” he said, “I’m John Smith,” and he proffered a phony I.D. he’d used many times before. It even came with a bogus birthdate and address, in case she was especially attentive. It identified him as being ten years older than he actually was.

She read the card and then nodded, smiled, and came to her feet.

“Thanks, Mr. Smith,” she said, following him to his car.

“Call me John,” he said.

previously published in “redrosethorns journal”