Portray

Money Moves

"Im letting these go for thirty a pop." Don said to the Chinaman, displaying several credit-card reader devises inside his Jansport backpack.

The short, partially balding old man peers into the bag then deverts his attention to his wife standing besides him. They converse in their own language. Placing a barrier between Don and them.  As the man spoke, the woman shifts her sights on Don. Then back at the chinaman. He senses the power of the sale shifting.

"Check it out," he reels their attention back, retrieving an oddly shaped black device. Quick glance, it could easily be confused with an old-fashioned, bulky tape-recorder.

"Receipt printer. Bluetooth. Connect--

"Boo what?" The wife cuts him off, staring at the device as if she expected it to be any color but black.

With his back to Don, the man steps partially between them. Again, speaking in their language. Don flicks the fleshy part of his nose with his thumb. His nylon bomber jacket making that bzzzzt noise like snow pants rustling together. The chinaman steps to the side, his wife now in view. Don proceeds to speak, yet the woman raises a finger and says, "Wuan minute."

She opens the door and calls out to someone.  The fumes of the nail salon drafts in past her. Hands in his jacket, Don stands in front of the short man as he picks at the dead-skin at the tip of his thumb and the woman standing by the door with her arms crossed. He diverts his attention around the tiny storage room. A half dozen of clear Sterilite storage drawers positioned on top of one another were pushed along one wall. Each drawer visibly filled with a variety of nail polishes, glue-on synthetic nails, filers, nail clippers, etc. Salon chairs caked with dust litters the other end of the wall.

After a few seconds, a young girl--presumably the daughter, steps into the room. The older woman gestures to the young girl, speaking to her in Chinese. Her tone dominant, yet urgent.

"They want to know if your merchandise is stolen." The young girl speaks in clear English.

Don is slighted. Taken aback.

"Where CJ?" He avoids the question. "he knows the deal. He's the one that asked for this stuff." He thumbs the backpack over his shoulder.

The girl stares back blankly. Leaving Don wondering if she heard a thing he said. Her parents look to her as if they expect her to translate the 411.

"Look I'm letting y'all take these items off my hands for less than half of the market value," Don says, "if you wanna spend hundreds on merch instead of getting it for the low, fine."

The girl gazes down, in thought apparently, "How many card readers do you have?" She asks, attempting to peer into the bag.

That's what I'm talking about

"Five to six."

"For how much?" she says, mini pad in hand, pen at the ready.

"Thirty each."

Her hand writes away, "so that's one-eighty, what else?"

"Three portable receipt printers," Don states, "those going for forty."

The girl jots it down, without bothering to look over the devices, she addresses her parents. Don observes a confident, assertive aura about the girl.

He stands on the sideline watching the exchange. Though he didn't know a lick of their language, he was an expert in mannerisms and facial expressions. The deal was shaky. The girl evidently in a heated exchange with the mother, both their eyes bulging, hands flailing every which way. After about a minute of that, the mother snatches open the door with the father and daughter following close behind.

"Wait here." She instructs him.

More waiting

The fact that she inquired about his merch, he was almost certain that he had a potential sale.

The girl comes back with another woman accompaning her.

"I see?" the other woman speaks to him in a thick accent, gesturing toward the bag.

She then places the bag on top of a counter. She carefully takes the merchandice out, inspecting them.

"Tammy, right?" Don says to the girl as she joins the other woman at the counter, "what's the deal with CJ?" 

"

He is out of town," she says flatly, "if he was here, he wouldn't be doing the transaction. He's made a habit of buying merch before doing his due diligence."

"Sh-well, that won't be a problem with my merch. Whatever I bring you will be top of the line, believe that." Don was lying out of his ass.

Half of the goods he boosted off of his warehouse gig or the rundown equipment he would stumble upon the side of a curb, he'd only inspect if it was visibly in good condition.

No matter what he said, it didn't matter as she didn't respond. One of the printer devises chimes to life and they both turn toward the woman's direction. They watch as she fiddles with the devices. Her face cringes as she appears to have some difficulty getting them to function. So Tammy goes to assist her. In that moment, Don's confidence of a successful sell was fading. Tammy takes out a mini notepad and jots something down. She then walks over to where the bins were and searches through them.

She comes back with a roll of receipt paper in hand and inserts it inside the printer. A blue light luminates on the tiny screen. With a few button presses and sometime on her smart phone, a blank receipt slithers out. She tears the sheet off, bawling it up with a somewhat satisfied expression. She turns to Don, producing a white envelope. Curious from the width of the envelope, he peers inside. Fifty and twenty dollar bills, he was sure Tammy gave him a little extra cash than what he was selling the merchandice for.

"Thank you," said Tammy, "if we're in need of something else, we'll be in touch."

Don leaves the storage room, the strong odors of the nail salon irritates his nose. Heads turn in his direction and quickly look away.About halfway towards the front of the entrance, he spots Janell soaking her nails. He greets her with a kiss.

"Took you long enough." Janell says, light heartedly.

'The sell went good. I'm gonna make another run real quick." Don slides a couple bills in her hand.