Money Matters

by Brian Finney

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Tricia never misses an opportunity to put me down. So, dammit, why do I offer her an avoidable cause?

  Lulu rubs up against my legs. Annoyed, Tricia picks her up. Lulu struggles furiously to escape.

  “And please don’t leave the bag of dirty cat litter outside the door,” Tricia adds. “It goes in the trash downstairs, as you know.”

  “I was late getting to work,” I explain lamely. What is the matter with me? I wonder. I just ask for this crap.

  “Get up earlier,” Tricia says coldly. She sure takes no prisoners.

  “Could you ease up on me this morning, please,” I say, sensing tears brimming in my eyes. “I’m feeling a bit vulnerable.”

  “And why is that?” Tricia asks in her idea of a softer tone.

  “Because I think I broke up with Gary last night.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, last night I walked out on him. I told him it was finished. My last words were an insult, though whether he understood the sarcasm I’ll never know.”

  “Please don’t expect me to commiserate with you,” Tricia says coldheartedly. “You should have left that jerk years ago.”

  Inserting a thin slice of whole wheat bread into the toaster, Tricia adds, “I read a tweet yesterday that could easily have been written by Gary: ‘If anyone is near the bathrooms at Muscle Beach can ya toss me a roll under the last stall. Thanks, I’ll wait.’”

  I can’t help laughing. “You could only ever see his faults.”

  “What else was there to see in that loser?”

  “He did have a nice side to him. He was wonderful around animals.”

  Tricia snorts.

  “At any rate—it’s over, I think.”

  “Try to see it positively. Now you’re free.”

  I don’t dare admit that I’d rather be captive, though not Gary’s.

  I really need to lose that wish.

  “Don’t waste your new freedom getting stuck in another long-term relationship,” Tricia adds.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you noticed the way men look at you? You’ve got natural sex appeal. You should make better use of your best assets.” She pirouettes to show off her figure.

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” I ask skeptically.

  “Sex is the one thing all men want. So make them pay top dollar for it. Don’t give it away for free. Keep them waiting. Bid up the value of your body.” Tricia extracts the slice of toast and smears a smidgen of blueberry jelly on it. “Wait for the really big payoff.”

  “Payoff?”

  “Yes. Gifts. Trips. Meals, of course. Shopping. Jewelry.”

  “You are unbelievable.”

  “No, Jenny. I’m a realist. And while I’m offering free advice, remember to always have more than one guy going. It raises your competitive edge. It takes the men you’re dating to the next level—from silver to gold.” She admires the ring she’s wearing today, an opal set in a gold band.

  “Do you really think that only men enjoy sex?”

  “Of course not. But your own pleasure is a bonus. If you’re lucky it comes with the more material returns.”

  “We never did see life in the same terms,” I say. “You make sex sound like a stock purchase. How can I get the best short-term capital return on my body?”

  “Now you’re starting to get it.”

  “What happened to affection? Feelings? I won’t even bring up love.”

  “Feelings are dangerous. They prevent you from realizing your full potential—while you still have it.”

  Tricia glances at the microwave. “Hell. Look at the time. I’ve got to go.”

  As she reaches the front door she calls to me over her shoulder, “And don’t forget to take the trash downstairs with you.” So much for sisterly sympathy.

  Tricia exits gracefully, like a student in a ballet class. But then she went to a deportment class. She’s also been to a ballet class. She’s been to classes in fashion, makeup, social skills, wine appreciation, client relations, investment strategies—to name the ones I remember. And then there was that weekend conference on financial marketing that she made me go to with her. She paid the fees, to be fair. But I had no interest in seminars like “Foreign Exchange Hedging,” and “New Cross-Border ACH Formats.” It turned out that Tricia wasn’t looking for financial know-how. She was looking for a wealthy and reasonably good-looking man in the financial sector to replace the guy she was seeing at the time. Dave was the CEO of a small tech startup business who’d finally offered a big enough bribe to receive the promised reward, which instantly lost half its value. I remember protesting at the end of the weekend about the time wasted being bored out of my mind in order to fish in a pond filled with ugly, well-fed carp. Her only reply: “Better a fat carp than a parasite that lives off of other fish”—meaning Gary. Well, now he’s free to fasten onto other fish in the pond.

  ✽✽✽

  I walk south on Main and turn up Abbot Kinney Boulevard, which has in the past five years turned into LA’s trendiest shopping street. Its trajectory is all too familiar. It used to be a derelict strip of rundown beach cottages, artists’ studios, and empty brick industrial buildings, unsafe to walk at night. Its few dilapidated stores targeted locals. The yoga studio was plastered with signs promising “NO CHANTING—NO YOGURT—NO SANSKRIT.” The shoe repair guy was a Russian émigré, invariably drunk by lunchtime, who returned your shoes looking worse than when you brought them in. Other outlets included a smoke shop with random opening hours, a gay bar, a jazz venue, a newsstand that sold bad coffee on the side, and Surfing Cowboys, the beachwear store.

  Today one lone junk clothing store remains, a hand-scrawled notice on its door: “MORE SUNSETS. LESS SELFIES.” The tourists love to pose in front of the sign to take—what else?—selfies.

  This morning I walk by a Euro-chic eco-friendly organic mattress store, a shoe store advertising “Unique Soles for Unique Souls,” an organic brow stylist, whatever that means, a fashionista’s window advertising “Design Your Own Custom Clogs,” an organic Japanese brown rice sushi bar, and a store offering $100 organic cotton vintage T-shirts “reproduced to the next level.” Restaurants offer food that’s gluten free and vegan. Bars offer “craft cocktails.” Even the real estate office I pass is labeled a “boutique.”

  I avoid the yuppie techies from Google sipping Americanos at Intelligentsia, where “a barista creates an individualized experience,” serving “the most transcendent green beans roasted to perfection.” Instead I settle in at Abbot’s Habit, a nineteen-year-old coffee shop where the surviving hippies hang out. I order a medium latte for $3.75 and take it to a table where Guy, a musician who works the Boardwalk with his electric guitar, is sitting reading the LA Times.

  “Hi, Jenny. How’s it going?” he asks, looking up from his paper.

  I shrug.

  “You and me,” he says, “we don’t count for much these days. What counts is money. Lots of it. I’ve just been reading about how much Brown and Granger have spent on their campaigns—$188 million up to mid-October. $188 million! I can’t even get my head around that sum. And look at this bit of info.” Guy points to a heading in the Times. “Between September 1 and October 20 there were 79,000 campaign ads aired just for the governor’s race alone,” he reads out. “It’s disgusting, if you ask me. Not that anyone does. That’s because I don’t have money. Money matters, I’m telling you.”

  Of course, he’s right.

  We continue to chat about the upcoming election while I finish my coffee.

  Time to make like a real detective. I say goodbye and walk home.

  ✽✽✽

  I phone Susan’s landlord to make sure he’s available, then drive over to meet him. Susan’s apartment is the bottom half of a duplex on a quiet Palos Verdes street. The owner lives next door. He turns out to be a fifty-something, overweight, red-faced white guy, wearing a stained white T-shirt emblazoned with the logo NOBAMACARE. He g
ives off creepy vibes the moment he opens his front door.

  “You’re Jenny,” he greets me with a slight leer.

  “Jenny Carter. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ridley,” I say, keeping my distance.

  “Call me John. You a friend of Susan’s?”

  “Actually, I’ve been hired to investigate her disappearance.” I hand him my Total Surveillance business card and take a step back from the sour breath emanating from between his dark yellow teeth.

  “Private eyes don’t usually come this good looking,” he says, ignoring my card, staring at my breasts.

  “I’d appreciate you letting me look around her apartment.”

  “There’s nothing to see.”

  “There’s always something to see,” I say, sounding like the hardened professional I’m not.

  “Follow me, then,” Ridley says.

  At Susan’s front door he unlocks the deadbolt and turns the knob. As it opens, the door sweeps aside the pile of mail on the floor. I pick up the envelopes and rifle through them. Two election mailers, an electricity bill that Ridley reaches out and takes, a solicitation from the Nature Conservancy, and a bunch of junk mail.

  “Has the power been cut off yet?” I ask Ridley.

  “No. I’ve been paying for it out of the monthly check.”

  I look around. Dirty dishes and silverware are piled high in the kitchen sink. An inch of cold coffee sits in the glass pot. The bed is unmade; a red silk nightgown lies on the carpeted floor. The mirrored closet door is open, revealing clothes heaped on the closet floor. No signs of a struggle, apart from a shattered china bowl on the kitchen floor. It looks as if she just left in a hurry and meant to clean things up on her return. As Felicia told me, the plants are dead and withered in their pots.

  I go over to the phone machine and press PLAY. A man’s voice fills the room.

  “Hello, Miss Kirby. My name is Manuel. Mr. Todd Granger asked me to get in touch with you. He gave me something personal to deliver to you. Would you please phone me back to arrange a time when I can drop off the package? My cell phone number is 677-512-3394. Thank you.”

  I dial the number. It’s out of service. Probably a “burner”—a prepaid, disposable cell phone. I make sure the number has registered on my phone, then turn to Ridley, who’s watching me from the open doorway.

  “Did you see anyone visit her shortly before she disappeared?” I ask.

  “I don’t spy on my tenants.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you did.”

  “She’s a looker. She had guys over sometimes.” He looks as if he wishes he’d been among them.

  “Any visitors in the twenty-four hours before she went missing?”

  “I said, I don’t watch over my tenants’ comings and goings.”

  “Did Susan tell you she was going away?”

  “She told me nothing. She kept herself to herself.”

  I get the impression that he’s mad at her for some reason.

  “Did you ever ask her out?” I ask.

  “Not my type,” he answers.

  “You called her a looker.”

  “She always gave me the cold shoulder.”

  “She could be distant,” I say, hoping to bolster his ego.

  “She didn’t have your figure,” he responds, once more fixated on my breasts. He pulls out a wrinkled used tissue, vigorously twists it around in his nostrils, and inspects the results intently.

  “So you’re still getting her monthly rent checks?”

  “Yeah. Twenty-fifth of the month. Transferred into my account, regular as clockwork.”

  “You bank online?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d like to see your bank statements, please.”

  “That would depend,” he says, leering at me.

  “On what?” I ask unsuspectingly.

  “On what you would be willing to give in return.” He appears to be fixated on my cleavage.

  Oh god! I should have known this guy was twisted.

  “Can’t we keep this simple?” I ask without much hope of a positive response.

  “Look, lady. I’m not asking much. Just a look and a memento.”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” I say guardedly. I’m only prepared to do so much for the info.

  “All I want is to take a photo of you. I’m a sucker for good lookers. I’ve got a whole collection of lookers like you.”

  There is a long pause. “Alright. I’ll do it after we’ve looked at those checks. But nothing else. No touching. We understand each other?”

  This can’t be what Tricia had in mind when she advised me to use my assets.

  “Whatever you say,” he replies grinning.

  We go back to his cream-colored living room. He sits down at his laptop and brings up his Bank of America account.

  “There’s the latest check deposit.” He passes me his laptop.

  I click on “View Images.” The check, dated October 25, was written for $2,200 on the account of SUSAN KIRBY. 1522 BROOKS AVENUE, VENICE, CA 90291. The signature is illegible. I know that Brooks Avenue doesn’t extend east of Lincoln, so I also know the address is a fake. This is a dead end. Now I have to pay my part of the bargain.

  “Thanks for showing me this. So where do you want me to pose for you?”

  “How about lying down on the couch?” he asks as he eagerly grabs his Nikon.

  “I don’t think so,” I respond, thinking of how vulnerable that position would make me. “How about here by the computer?”

  “I guess that’ll do,” he says grudgingly. I lean back in the chair.

  “Half turn round so that the sunlight coming through the window slats falls on your front,” he instructs me, becoming more his true self.

  I do as he asks.

  “Great! Now hold it,” he says with a croak in his voice. He snaps one take after another. In the corner of my eye I become aware of a swelling in his pants. I jump up and grab my clothes.

  “Hang on,” he says. “I’m not yet done.”

  “You’re done,” I say. “And I’m done too,” I add as I make quickly for the door. Happily, there’s no one to witness my flight.

  I drive off feeling smirched and ashamed of myself. Surely a good private eye would have managed to extract such simple information without offering favors in return. I can’t blame it on my gender. Tricia would never have made such a deal. Does this mean that I’m lacking self-esteem? Should I be taking some of those courses Tricia is addicted to that I have been so scathing about? Now I’m being ridiculous. There has to be another way of interacting with my world that is not just an acquired technique. Somehow I need to insert myself and my needs into situations like this one. But how?

  ✽✽✽

  I am sitting in my old Corolla a few blocks away from Mr. Creepy filled with confusion and anger—more at myself than at the jerk I’ve just left. How could I have put myself into such a potentially risky position? For all I know he could be listed online as a convicted sex offender.

  To distract myself I start fiddling with my iPhone. I look at my Facebook page and see a notification number that of course draws me in to the spell of the app. It’s Amy inviting her “friends” to join her at the farmer’s market in Santa Monica. I know she’s not going there to buy anything as real as fruit or vegetables. She updates her status all the time because no one otherwise is going to ask her what she’s doing. All she gets in response are pokes.

  Now I’m sounding as if I belonged to my parents’ generation. I really enjoy Facebook. And YouTube. Yet I resent the pressure to compete in this popularity contest—one more way of living out your life as if you were a character acting a part onstage. What I object to is the lack of authenticity. I want to be myself, whatever that is, not some staged persona.

  Wow! Here’s Gary: “Hey everyone. I’ve changed my status. I’m SINGLE again. I took the L from LOVER. I’m hot. Get ready for HOOKUP.” I have to admit I feel a pang of jealousy at the thought of another woman making out with
him. What a fool I am. Be thankful, I tell myself, to have your life back. Now do something with it. That doesn’t mean look for meaning in another relationship. I want my own life. I want to feel fully committed to what I am and do. I want to be involved with others, but not dependent on them for validation, like Amy.

  I decide to unfollow and unfriend Gary. At least that is doing something for myself.

  Two years ago Gary and I agreed to try a trial separation—not that we ever lived together. It was Gary who’d suggested the time apart. Of course it was. It turned out his motivation was the teenage sister of a friend of his, whose house was his latest crash pad. He had just enough morality to stop cheating outright on me, but he’d already done everything short of fucking her before suggesting the convenient time apart.

  At the time, I decided to take the opportunity to try dating someone who was actually successful. So I signed on to Match.com. The hilarious screen names guys used—1Up; Apathesis (Gary should have used that one); Pessifist; Bad Glands; Sindromo; King Pong; Low Bald; Str8up; and—most off-putting of all—Xcreta!

  As for the photos, I quickly lost count of the number of men holding a beer bottle in one hand and a gun in the other—or a sword, or the handlebars of a Harley-Davidson. Then there were the bare-from-the-waist, muscle-flexing types, clearly already having passionate love affairs with themselves. A few were obviously cropped couple photos with the guy’s arm going off frame—big turnoff.

  The profiles offered the best clues to whom or what I was dealing with. The clichés—loves sharing; affectionate and considerate; warm heart; has a passion for barbecuing; loves hiking/baseball/drinking. The spelling and grammar—your welcome; its four you; there going to love you. The abbreviations—I msg me if u luv urself; LOL; SO; OMG. The autocorrects: How about a playmate (playdate)? Czech this image. It’s all the fault of autoerect.

  Eventually I got into a text exchange with a guy named Eric who seemed reasonably attractive and demonstrated enough humor to make me want to learn more. Our match was around 90 percent. He wrote that he liked to hike in the Santa Monica Mountains and read his favorite author—Philip Roth. That sounded promising. But how could I get him to suggest a date without seeming pushy? After confessing that I was no hiker, I mentioned that on Fridays I often stopped in at Chez Jay’s for a margarita. He promptly texted, “Let’s meet there this Friday. Will 5 work for you?”