In a jacket that was too small for him and a set of burgundy penny loafers, Enzo finally walked through the door of the Nola Shopper. He was followed by the smell of cheap bourbon and menthol cigarettes.
He had a garbage bag with him, which he tossed onto my desk. In it was cash, which he began to distribute as if he were dropping off discarded children’s clothes at the Good- will. He then told me I was the new owner of the Nola Shopper—he had signed the business over to me that morning. I thought the statement very matter-of-fact in its presenta- tion, but he convinced me once again to start the cycle of cleaning up his relationships, his lies, and his financial matters before disappearing into the abyss of society. I once again pushed back a normal person’s questions of why he would simply give me a business or ever mislead me.Before I could settle him down, Enzo passed out and rolled off his chair onto the concrete floor, and I dragged him to the Ochsner Hospital, where they knew him on sight.