Chapter Twenty-Two

Morning sales were brisk. Carina's remaining pickles and preserves sold out, as did the socks. By midday they had done well enough that Amalia thought it was time to start buying things for the farm. During a lull in traffic past their booth, she handed Donovan a shopping list.

"Could you read it to me?" he asked.

"Can't you read my handwriting?"

"Not very well."

Amalia leaned in close, pointing to each neatly written word and reading it aloud. "On these bigger items, like the fertilizer and the wheat flour," she said, "You just want to make the deal. Make sure they'll be at camp tonight or back here at market in the morning and we'll collect then, when we have our cart and animals. Get a chit for any deal you make, and a receipt if you make a down payment."

"What if I can't find some of these things, or if I can't get good quality?"

"Then we'll have to buy in town on our way out. Be sure to use federal money or offer to trade wherever possible. We try to hold onto our hard currency, like silver, for emergencies."

Donovan was satisfied with these instructions and after pocketing the money and ration books, he moved off into the crowd of shoppers. He found his childhood street smarts returning as he went about his mission, teasing, flattering, sassing and bullying as the situation seemed to warrant, until he got the price he wanted. When he got hungry he indulged himself with a piece of sausage sold by an old woman with a strange accent he couldn't place. He listened to a musician for awhile and tossed a coin into his cup. He bargained for some kerosene and a new water filter to be delivered to their campsite later in the evening, and he found good deals on yeast, oats, lard and sugar. Late in the day, tempted and unable to regulate his habitual urges, he picked another pocket.

He wandered into the bleachers, checking out the offerings of the smaller vendors. At length he ended up at Gonzales' spot, where in spite of his bloodshot eyes, the man was set up neatly and talking a good line. Once his customer had moved on, Donovan sat down. "How are things going?"

"Business is booming, man." Gonzales grinned like a well-fed cat. "The party will be good tonight."

"You mean it wasn't last night?"

"This will be better. Come with me. Melinda ain't going to be distraught if she doesn't have to feed us tonight."

"Where are you going?"

"Tortuga Rosa. It's a bar on the outskirts of town. Just an old warehouse, nothing fancy. Cheap drinks. Cheaper women." He laughed and gave Donovan a playful punch on the shoulder. "Come on, hombre, how long's it been, anyway? A man's got needs, right?"

"Well," Donovan said, "I suppose I could join you for a drink."

"Sure, man. Just a drink, maybe dance with a pretty girl or two. That brace won't slow you down much, and just about every man there is old, crippled or faking it, so you won't stand out. And you don't have to spend a lot of money to have some fun. I bet it's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Yes," Donovan admitted. "It's been pretty damn long, now that you mention it."

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