An English Boy in New York

by T. S. Easton

  Trey exploded with another fit of giggling.

  ‘The worst they would have done was threaten to pull out a couple of fingernails unless he paid,’ Keith said.

  ‘Just threaten?’

  ‘Yeah. Unless he didn’t pay.’

  ‘Now I’ve got no money left,’ I said. ‘My immediate problem, to add to all my other problems, is how the hell am I going to buy six rolls of cerise wool, which I’m allergic to in any case, so I can spend a day indoors knitting a Hoopie for a crime boss to pay off your gambling debt.’

  Trey swerved across the turnpike as he doubled over, laughing.

  ‘Watch the road, Barry Chuckle,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll just shoplift your wool from Bloomingdale’s, innit,’ said Gex.

  ‘You are not shoplifting from Bloomingdale’s!’ I roared. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘Can’t you borrow it off your parents, then?’ Gex shrugged.

  ‘I’m not asking my parents. They don’t have much money either.’

  ‘You could ask your girlfriend?’ Keith suggested.

  ‘Megan doesn’t have any money,’ I said.

  ‘Not Megan, the girl with the hair.’

  ‘Brandi is not my girlfriend.’

  ‘She wants to be,’ Keith said.

  Gex snorted.

  ‘Also,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘We have to pay Trey back.’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about it,’ Trey said. ‘I had a blast.’

  ‘I’m paying you back,’ I said.

  He looked over at me and grinned. ‘Tell you what, you get that big deal with Priapia, and then you can pay me back.’

  ‘I’m not getting any deal,’ I said. ‘I told you, I made a mess of the interview.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard,’ Trey said. ‘I was driving Robert home last night and he made a call. Your name was mentioned.’

  ‘Really? What did he say?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. I’ve already said more than I should have. But you should prepare yourself for a call.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I guess, he said he needs to talk to you before the fair. He’s got a plan.’

  Dawn was breaking by the time we got back to the hotel. Gex was still sheepish and went to bed quietly. I made up a bed for Keith on the floor using cushions from the armchair. While Keith was in the bathroom, Gex sidled up to me and mumbled something unintelligible.

  ‘What? What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘Just wanted to say thanks,’ he said quietly, looking at the carpet. ‘For coming to get me and that.’

  This was unexpected and a bit embarrassing. Gex never apologises. I was touched.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘You’re a mate, after all.’

  Then we both looked down at the carpet awkwardly, until the door to the bathroom opened and Keith came out. ‘Room service for anyone?’ he said.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said, back to outraged disapproval. ‘I think it’s time you both went to sleep.’

  Later, I lay in my own bed, my mind awhirl, listening to Gex and Keith snoring and the chirping traffic thirteen storeys down. I was thinking about the crazy night I’d just had, about what Trey had said, but most of all about the fact that I’d somehow agreed to knit a hooded cardigan for a Mafia don in New Jersey.

  In cerise.

  9.17am

  We wanted to sleep in the next day, but Mum and Dad had other ideas.

  ‘We’ve hardly seen you since we arrived,’ Dad said as I squinted at him over the threshold. At least Mum was here, and the two of them were still talking. She hadn’t run off with Diablo.

  ‘Well whose fault is that?’ I asked. ‘You’ve been out and about dawn till dusk having fun, while I’ve been going to interviews and tidying up after Gex.’

  ‘Get dressed,’ he said, unsympathetic. ‘We’ll meet you in Dino’s in ten minutes.’As I closed the door, Gex was sitting up in bed, looking at me oddly.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You is getting the chunk on, bruv,’ he said.

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘It must be all them Philly cheesesteaks.’

  ‘I’ve only been here a few days,’ I pointed out.

  ‘You have eaten a lot of Philly cheesesteaks.’

  ‘Only three. Maybe four,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I don’t get fat, I have a fast metabolism.’

  ‘It’s slowed down,’ he said, rolling over and plumping his pillows.

  I looked at my belly. The T-shirt I was wearing did seem a little tight.

  ‘It’s probably jet lag,’ I said. ‘I’m not worried.’

  Keith made his excuses and slipped off before breakfast to track down his car. While Gex snoozed, I texted Brandi to ask if there were any interviews to do today or whether I had the day for sight-seeing. I still hadn’t even been to the Empire State Building! The phone rang straight away.

  ‘Hey, babe,’ I said, feeling a bit Hollywood.

  ‘Hello? Mr Fletcher?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, yes, this is Ben Fletcher.’

  ‘This is Robert D’Angelo of Priapia Textiles.’

  ‘Hello, Mr D’Angelo. How are you?’ Suddenly the nerves were back.

  ‘I’m well thanks, Ben. I told you I’d give you a feedback call following your meeting with us earlier this week.’

  Had he said that? I couldn’t remember.

  ‘Ben, can I be honest with you?’

  ‘Please do,’ I said. That didn’t sound good. People only ever ask if they can be honest with you when they’re about to tell you something you don’t want to hear. Like you have pongy breath, or you’re just not cut out to be a test pilot. Or both.

  ‘We think you need to do some more work on your business proposal.’

  ‘OK, what sort of work?’

  ‘Well, you need to actually have a business proposal for a start.’

  ‘Point taken,’ I replied. I wondered if I should tell him he needed to work on his ‘informal chat’ skills.

  ‘We didn’t feel you were adequately prepared for the meeting. It wasn’t clear how you intended to monetise your enterprise, what your short-, medium-term and long-range goals were, or even what level of funding you were looking for.’

  I wondered if I was allowed to hang up now? I should have been at Dino’s eating waffles. Maybe I should shout down the phone: ‘Yeah, well, screw you, buddy. I’m gonna make it big in this town, then I’m gonna buy you out and fire your ass.’

  ‘Having said that, we LOVE your design,’ he went on.

  ‘You do?’ I said, taken aback. ‘Well, that’s nice.’

  ‘And … and we’ve been watching the news reports about you, Ben. About how you’re going to outknit a machine.’

  ‘About that –’

  ‘We like your approach to publicity, Ben,’ he said before I could explain. ‘Your business plan sucks, but you’re damn good at publicity.’

  ‘That’s all down to my people,’ I said quickly, glancing over at Gex, who I suppose is one of my people. He was still in bed, scratching his bottom.

  ‘I wanna make you an offer, Ben. I want to make you a very nice offer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I want the rights to that design. I want world rights. And I’m prepared to pay a lot.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Yeah, wow!’ he said. ‘And I want your name, and I want you to sign a contract to provide me with more designs.’

  I jumped up and down in silent glee.

  ‘But it comes with a condition.’

  Of course it does.

  ‘Ben,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You got to make me some sales at the fair. You can take a table in our stand on Saturday. I’ll fix up some appointments for you.’

  ‘Wow, that sounds amazing.’

  ‘And one more thing, Ben.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You got to win against that machine.’

  There was a very long pause.
>
  ‘This is all about the story. Your story. If the machine beats you, then there’s no story. No story, no more publicity. No publicity, no Hoopie.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry to be blunt, Ben, your design is amazing. But I’m afraid that’s not enough. You think it over. You have my number.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I will.’

  ‘But don’t leave it too long,’ he said and hung up.

  In the diner, Mum had found another article about me in the newspaper and showed me over breakfast.

  BRIT KNITS

  Ben Fletcher, 17, claims to be able to knit faster than a machine, but is this possible? Ben famously knitted an entire sweater in an hour to win the final of the UK Knitting Championships. Now he’s here in New York and is bullish about his chances of outknitting the latest machines, proving that hand-knitting is best and ushering in a new era of cottage industry crafting. We spoke to Dr Singh, a bio-mechanical expert from the University of New York. We first asked, what makes a fast knitter?

  ‘What we see in studies of experienced knitters is a huge variety in speed,’ Dr Singh says. ‘Some people knit fast. Some people knit slow. Interestingly, there doesn’t seem to be much difference between slow knitters and fast knitters in bio-mechanical terms. Technique yes, but this isn’t like sprinting, or weight-lifting where people are limited by genetics or gender. Most people’s fingers work pretty much the same. And given equivalent, good technique, in theory there’s no reason one person should be faster at knitting than someone else.’

  So how does he account for the difference in speeds witnessed. Why is Ben Fletcher so much faster than the average knitter?

  Dr Singh taps his head. ‘It’s all up here,’ he says.

  ‘ … It’s a mental thing,’ Mum read out.

  ‘So mental,’ Gex said.

  ‘This is why I was so fast at the AUKKC final,’ I said. ‘Everything just clicked into place. In my head, I mean.’

  ‘You were Zen,’ Mum said.

  ‘My yin and yang were balanced,’ I said.

  ‘Your arse and your elbow were in alignment,’ Dad added.

  ‘So that’s the key,’ Mum said. ‘You need to have your head together. Then you can do it.’

  I wanted to ask Mum about Diablo but I thought it might be awkward with Gex sitting there. And Gex looked to be in for the long haul. Once he realised Dad was paying, Gex ordered bacon, eggs and hash browns with extra toast. I didn’t eat much for breakfast. This was for a number of reasons I will list in no particular order.

  1) I was worried about Megan and Sean.

  2) I was worried everyone would laugh when the KnitMaster 3000 opened a can of whoop-ass on me.

  3) I was worried about Diablo and Mum’s backstage pass.

  4) I was worried about knitting the cerise hoopie for Fat Tony considering I didn’t have any money to buy wool.

  5) Dad is a revolting person to sit opposite while eating.

  Since he got punched in the face by the busker, Dad has developed a habit of leaving a bit of food on his fork after withdrawing it from his mouth. I think it hurts him to really bite down on the fork with his top lip, so he’s only lightly closing his lips as he pulls it out. That’s disgusting enough, but then he insists on picking up more food with the same encrusted fork and offering it to me for a taste. ‘I would like a taste,’ I said after a pause. ‘But do you mind if I use my own fork?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ he said. ‘That’s been in your mouth.’

  ‘Well, that one’s been in your mouth,’ I pointed out. ‘And if I have a taste, then it’ll have been in my mouth too.’

  Mum sighed.

  ‘Well, let me scrape it off onto your plate, then,’ Dad said, before dumping a noxious-looking lump of waffle onto my plate, glistening with his saliva.

  Anyway, I didn’t eat much.

  After breakfast we took a walk. Mum hadn’t been to Bloomingdale’s yet and was very excited at the prospect.

  ‘I used to keep up with fashions by glancing at the window displays on the high street as I walked past every day,’ she said. ‘But since Peacock’s shut I feel I’ve lost touch with the latest styles.’

  I wanted to go and have another look at the knitting department and was hopeful I could get Mum to buy some wool for me. We weren’t in any particular hurry and took a wander through the park. The leaves were fresh and green. Full of promise for the summer to come.

  ‘Heard any more from the Magic Circle?’ I asked Mum.

  ‘Yes, I’m to appear before a tribunal to explain myself,’ she said worriedly. ‘Until then, I’m not allowed to perform any magic.’

  ‘What happens if you do?’

  ‘I’ll be cast out of the Circle,’ she said.

  ‘But what does that mean?

  ‘Some venues won’t hire anyone outside the Circle. It’s a little like a union. I’d probably have to go back to doing kid’s parties like in the old days.’

  ‘Would that be so bad?’

  ‘The money’s not great,’ she said. ‘Your father would have to work more hours.’

  Dad looked up at this, panicked. ‘We are going to get this sorted out, Susan.’

  We were passing some teenagers throwing a frisbee and a mis-throw sent the pink disc wheeling in our direction. Dad leapt like a stung horse and sprinted a dozen steps to catch it, inches from the ground. He then returned it to the clapping teenagers before jogging back to us.

  ‘Ta-dah,’ he said.

  ‘What happened to the knee injury?’ I asked.

  ‘Ow,’ he said, clutching it quickly.

  I glared at him but wasn’t able to quiz him further on the mysterious disappearance of his injury because Mum had spotted a group of men playing a game.

  ‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Three-card Monte.’

  We watched for a while as tourists tried the game. It was quite simple, you had to pick which of three cards was the Queen of Hearts. The man running the game would show you the three cards then turn them face-down and switch them around quickly a few times to confuse you.

  The first couple of times he did it the man playing won. Then the man bet more money and lost.

  ‘I’ve seen this before,’ I said. ‘It’s a scam. They let you win at first, then the guy hides the queen and switches it for another card.’

  ‘Keep watching,’ Mum said.

  The first player walked off grumpily, and another took his place. This guy lost the first game. But put more money down.

  ‘Sucker,’ I said.

  He lost the second game and I expected him to walk away, but instead I heard him say, ‘One more try,’ and he threw down another $10.

  The guy dealing began switching the cards. I watched his hands carefully. He was quick. But I thought I could follow the queen. If he’d switched the queen with another card, then this would prove it. The man pointed to the card I was watching and the dealer flipped the card to reveal …

  The Queen of Hearts. The man had won. The dealer shrugged and handed him a few notes. The man walked off quickly, clearly delighted to have got the better of the shyster. Still, something seemed wrong to me.

  Mum strode forward to take his place.

  ‘Mum,’ I said. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’

  ‘I’d like to play, please,’ she said, brightly holding out a ten-dollar bill.

  ‘OK, Kate Middleton,’ the man said, taking the note and dropping it in a cigar box full of notes which rested on the edge of the table.

  ‘Hardly,’ Mum said, giggling.

  I sighed.

  The man showed the three cards and began his switcheroo. Over, under, over again, switch and slide. He moved his hands with the speed and grace of an experienced knitter. I thought I could see the pattern. The queen was on the right.

  Mum pointed to the card on the right. The man flipped it. The queen.

  ‘Double or nothing?’ the dealer said. ‘You can afford it, Duchess.’ The guy must have been seventy-five y
ears old. He wore a little waistcoat and a cloth cap and looked like he might have been an extra in Ocean’s Eleven.

  Mum pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and dropped it on the table. The dealer snatched it and dropped it into the cigar box. Again the man showed the queen before beginning his elaborate routine. A small crowd had gathered around us.

  Again, I watched his hands closely. Again it seemed to me I knew where the queen was. This time on the left.

  Mum pointed to the left-hand card. The man grimaced and flipped the card. The queen.

  ‘You’re good at this game,’ he said.

  Mum held out her hand for her winnings.

  ‘Give me one more chance to make my money back, huh?’ the man said. ‘Double or nothing again?’

  Mum hesitated.

  ‘Come on, Mum,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  But Mum reached into her pocket and pulled out forty dollars. She reached across and placed it in the cigar box. More people had stopped to watch. There were now a couple of dozen. The man licked his lips nervously and began switching cards again. This time, his hands were quicker. He flicked here and there and the routine was different. But I thought I could follow it. The queen was in the middle.

  Mum tapped the middle card firmly.

  I was watching the guy’s face. He grinned briefly and in that instant I knew Mum had been suckered.

  ‘Sorry, Your Highness,’ he said and flipped the card.

  It was the Queen of Hearts.

  The man stared at it like it was a death certificate with his name on.

  Mum grinned. ‘You’re right,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I am good at this game.’

  The man stood, staring at the card, then up at Mum. It was clear what he was thinking. How the hell had the queen ended up there?

  ‘One hundred and twenty dollars, please,’ Mum said, still holding out her hand.

  The dealer man glanced over at someone in the crowd. I thought I recognised him as the man who’d ‘won’ earlier. The man shrugged.

  ‘Come on, buddy,’ someone else called. ‘Pay the lady.’

  The dealer frowned and opened up the cigar box. He counted out the notes and reluctantly passed them to Mum.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said before walking away. Dad and I trotted after her, I looked back to see the old dealer scratching his head in puzzlement. His accomplice was watching us go.