Crocodile Tears
Finally, he scooped up the briefcase that he always carried with him, grabbed his wallet from the bedside table, finished his coffee, and went out.
There was a newsstand opposite the apartment with a display showing the morning headlines.
“Journalist Killed.” He couldn’t help smiling as he read the words. He wondered if it was somebody he knew, probably taking a bullet in Afghanistan or somewhere else in the Middle East. He had often tried to get himself sent abroad (“… our man, Harry Bulman, entrenched with the allied forces in Iraq …”), but none of the editors had been interested. Well, serves the guy right, whoever he was. Probably some stupid amateur who didn’t know when to duck.
He was about to cross the road and buy the paper when he remembered that he had used the last of his change down at the pub the night before. He’d been drinking with a couple of freelance journalists and somehow they’d all ended up around the slot machine, shoveling coins in. At one stage he’d won more than twenty-five dollars, but of course he’d put it all back in again and lost it. That was his problem. He never knew when to stop. He took out his wallet and opened it. All he had was a couple of credit cards.
He had no money at all.
The nearest cash machine was at the traffic lights on the other side of Camden Market. Bulman thought about walking, but as luck would have it, a bus appeared at that exact moment, rumbling toward him down the hill. At least he had his pass … it was valid for any subway or bus in London. He hurried over to the bus stop, arriving just as the driver pulled in and the doors hissed open. A couple of people got on ahead of him, but then it was his turn. He pressed his card against the scanner. The machine made a discouraging sound.
“ I’m sorry, mate,” the driver said. “You’ve got nothing left on your card.”
“ That’s not possible,” Bulman replied. “I took the subway last night and I had about thirty dollars left on it.”
“ Well, it’s showing zero now.” The driver pointed at the screen.
“ Your machine must be broken.”
“ It worked for everyone else.”
Bulman held his card against the screen for a second time—but with the same result. He glanced around. The bus was crowded with people waiting to move off. They were all watching him impatiently. “All right.” He scowled. “I’ll give you the cash.”
But even as he reached into his pocket, he remembered that he didn’t have any cash. The driver was glaring at him now. Bulman gave up. The bank was only a quick walk away. The sun was shining.
“Forget it,” he muttered. “I’ll walk.”
He stepped back onto the sidewalk. The doors closed and the bus moved off. Bulman was still holding his travel pass. He glared at it. When he had a spare minute, he would send a letter to Transport for London to complain. Maybe he would even write a newspaper article about his experience. Idiots. Why couldn’t they get the technology to work?
It took him ten minutes to walk down to the bank, by which time it was almost nine o’clock. All around him, the shops were opening. People were hurrying out of the coffee shops, clutching their oversized cups, then disappearing into their offices … another busy London day. Propping his briefcase under his arm, Bulman selected a debit card and fed it into the machine. He needed money for breakfast, to pick up a few groceries—and later on, he might treat himself to a taxi over to Chelsea. He punched in his PIN, touched the box for $50, and waited.
The screen went black. Then a message came up.
Bulman stared at the screen, then punched the Cancel button to get his card back. Nothing happened.
Not only was the machine refusing to give him any money, it had decided to keep his card! There was nothing wrong with the account, he was sure of it. The last time he’d looked, he’d had over four hundred dollars in it. Someone must have vandalized the ATM, some lout who’d had too much to drink.
He’d have to find another cash machine and use his credit card for a cash advance. He walked only a block before finding one. Very cautiously, he typed in his PIN, taking care not to make any mistakes.
The same thing happened. A blank screen. A stark white message. His card was swallowed up.
He swore. A couple of people had lined up to use the same machine and they were looking at him with a sort of pity, as if they imagined that he was broke, that there was
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