Money Matters

by Brian Finney

  “What are you doing?”

  “I need to take some surveillance recordings to Eduardo.”

  “Oh! Eduardo! He’s becoming a hot item in your schedule, isn’t he?”

  “So?”

  “You need to slow down a bit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Eduardo can’t be that well off.”

  “Is that all that you can think of?” I reply angrily.

  “Actually, no.”

  “What, then?”

  “Why are you getting yourself mixed up with someone who’s obsessed with helping illegal immigrants?”

  “They’re not necessarily illegal. Just undocumented.”

  “Oh, we’re clutching at straws now, are we?”

  “What’s wrong with doing what Eduardo does?”

  “Nothing if you’re Mexican.”

  “He’s not Mexican. He’s American.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Alright,” Tricia sits on my bed. “What I would like to know is, why you’re getting yourself involved in the problems of Mexicans. Don’t you have enough problems as it is?”

  “So it’s Mexicans that bother you?”

  “You’ve just unshackled yourself from one of the bums of this world, and now you want to attach yourself to another problem? Can’t you give yourself a break?”

  “What makes you think Eduardo’s a problem? He’s CEO of the Coalition for Immigrants’ Rights.”

  “He’s totally focused on his people, who have no right to be in our country in the first place.”

  “No right?

  “They’ve broken our laws. They identify with their own country. They send all their cash back to where they came from. They only want our money.”

  “You sound like Dan Granger.”

  “He’s one of the few politicians in this state who makes any sense. He calls them illegal because that’s what they are.”

  “He’s a creep and a hypocrite. Besides, Eduardo isn’t illegal.”

  “But he defends people who break the law.”

  “He defends people who are so desperate to feed their families that they risk everything to come here and try to provide for them.”

  “They should be staying in their own country and forcing their own government to pay them a living wage.”

  “For god’s sake,” I snap at Tricia, “we’re all the descendants of immigrants.”

  “Just don’t think of bringing your lover of criminals to my apartment. He’s not welcome here.”

  “You can’t tell me who I can bring home to my own place.”

  Tricia rises from the bed, eyes blazing.

  “It’s not your place. It’s mine. I’ve tried to help you out by letting you stay here for a small rental—”

  “SMALL!”

  “You think you could find your own place for what you pay me?”

  “To hell with you. No one is going to tell me who I can bring home.”

  “Fine! Good luck finding your own place. You’re going to have to work 18 hours a day just to cover the rent.”

  “That’s it. I’m leaving tonight. I’ll get the rest of my things when I’ve sorted myself out.”

  “That’s exactly what you need to do. Sort yourself out.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “My pleasure.” Tricia goes into her bedroom and slams the door.

  I’m really mad at her. My own sister a bigot! I’ve tried to hide this part of her from my conscious self. Now that’s no longer possible. I can’t continue sharing an apartment with her. I have no choice, especially when the object of her bigotry is Eduardo. Hell!

  I start throwing clothes into my suitcase. Lulu rubs herself against me, purring, as if she knows I’m leaving and not coming back. I grab my stuff from the bathroom, and pack up my aging laptop and the cards from Todd’s house. After sitting on my suitcase to close it, I storm out of the apartment and slam the front door behind me.

  Now what?

  ✽✽✽

  I sit in my old car outside the apartment without turning on the engine. Much as I hate to admit it, Tricia’s right. I need to sort my life out. And today may be the day I am forced to do just that. First, I get fired. Then I make myself homeless. And now I am about to confront Todd and probably lose my other part-time job. That’s quite impressive for a day’s work.

  And yet I feel inexplicably exhilarated. I knew I had to upend my life if I wasn’t going to waste it getting by on near-minimum wages, projecting my feelings onto Gary, and living at my sister’s, subject to her whims and needs.

  I’m filled with conflicting emotions—fear of what awaits me at Todd’s, and excitement facing an unknown future; fear about how I’m going to pay my way, and relief at ending my dependence on low-paid part-time jobs; fear of becoming homeless, but grateful to be free of Tricia’s constant criticism. I’ve burnt my bridges now; I can only move forward to a future still obscured by the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

  Why does change feel so painful? I now see that continuing my previous way of life had become impossible well before today. It just took today for my actions to catch up with my inner convictions. It’s as if my unconscious has finally taken charge of my everyday self. Enough! It tells me. You can be so much better than who you are. You can do so much better than what you’ve been doing. Yet I’m shaking. On the point of tears. Terrified.

  Nonetheless, it’s time to move forward. I turn on the ignition and start driving toward Boyle Heights. On NPR, wouldn’t you know it, they’re talking about immigration. “In Los Angeles County, one-third of the residents are immigrants, nearly half the workforce is foreign-born, two-thirds of children have at least one immigrant parent, and 90 percent of those youngsters are US-born. How these children and their parents fare will determine the future of the region.”

  A Pulitzer Prize–winning columnist points out that according to a recent CNN poll, 25% of the American people still don’t believe that President Obama was born in the United States. We live in an age in which strong opinions overwhelm facts, he says.

  Dan asserts that a substantial number of immigrants have committed crimes, and the media treats this lie with as much space and time as the truth, which is that a lower percentage of illegal immigrants commit crimes than do native-born US citizens.

  ✽✽✽

  Eduardo’s aunt Gloria lives in the upstairs apartment of a duplex. I park in front of a local laundromat in hopes of deterring locals from trashing my old Corolla. As I haul my suitcase out of the trunk a teenage boy in white T-shirt, black baggy pants with split cuffs, and a red bandana tied round his forehead asks me, “Movin’ in?” I shake my head as I walk past him to Gloria’s entrance. “I’d give you twenty bucks for half an hour,” he calls after me.

  I ring the doorbell. A cracked woman’s voice issuing from the rusting speaker vent asks, “Who’s there?” I give my name, the buzzer sounds, and I push open the front door. I grope my way up a concrete staircase dimly lit by a bare bulb regulated by a loudly ticking timer. Halfway up the light clicks off.

  When I reach the upper landing, Eduardo opens the door.

  He gives me a restrained hug. “Why are you dragging around a suitcase? Planning a trip?”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I reply. “Let me in and I’ll tell you the whole sad story.”

  I step into a world of vibrant colors—magenta walls, lemon yellow ceiling, painted wooden furniture, lots of Zapotec rugs. Haphazardly colored wool animals tumble over each other on one shelf. On the shelf above there’s a Day of the Dead tableau. On the wall hangs a picture of a folk Virgin gesturing towards her immaculate heart in a massive gold frame. The living room is furnished with a variety of chairs, a carved dark-brown coffee table, and an old Spanish-style wooden cabinet.

  “Meet my favorite aunt,” says Eduardo.

  “Mucho gusto,” I greet her.

  “Delighted to meet you too,” she replies in perfect English.

/>   We grin at one another over her gentle correction of my assumption that she speaks only Spanish.

  Gloria must be in her late sixties. She still has a sparkle in her brown eyes, wears her black hair tied in a loose bun, and walks with a slight limp, as she comes forward to greet me warmly with a long hug.

  Felicia waves at me from a dilapidated armchair draped in a Oaxacan blanket, in which she is sitting at the far end of the room while sipping at a bottle of berry juice. I go over to her, bend over, grasp her by the shoulders, and kiss her on each cheek. She clasps me round the shoulders.

  “¡Dios mio!” she exclaims. “What to do.”

  “Nothing for the time being,” I tell her. “It is not over.”

  “Sí. Sí,” is all she says with a big sigh.

  Eduardo’s cell phone rings. A woman’s voice is shouting something. He moves into an inner room as he answers.

  “Didn’t I ask you not to call me? Why is it . . .”

  I can’t hear the rest. Gloria looks concerned, so she must know whom he’s talking to. Eduardo soon returns to the room and mutters an apology. I get the feeling he’s apologizing for not being open about the call. Is he involved with a woman? I ask myself. Am I just imagining a special connection between us?

  I tell Eduardo about my fight with Tricia. He sympathizes, saying that he has a brother in Texas with whom he has a similar adversarial relationship. I ask him what his brother does.

  “He’s an insurance executive, very straight and boring.”

  “Has he got family?” I ask.

  “A wife and daughter, and another child on the way. Plus a three-bedroom house and a Lincoln SUV. Complete assimilation is what he wants—even if he’ll never achieve it.”

  “Tricia has only one goal in life—to make money. Lots of it.

  Preferably by attracting rich men.”

  “Sounds as if she has already achieved her goal,” Eduardo says.

  “Then what’s she going to do for the remainder of her life?”

  “The same, but with diminishing success,” he replies.

  Eduardo and I are so on the same wavelength, I reflect. And, without meaning to, he’s helped me understand why I resist Tricia’s belief in always putting herself first. Reciprocity counts. I am as much a social being as an individual.

  But I hardly know Eduardo. I could be all wrong about this. What was that phone call about, for example?

  Gloria offers me a cold drink, and I accept.

  I hand Eduardo all the recording cards I copied, including today’s.

  I say to him, “If you don’t hear from me by 8 this evening I want you to deliver these to the LA Times and fill in a reporter with the background story.”

  “Now you’ve got me really worried,” he says.

  “These cards are my insurance. They guarantee my safety.”

  “Not if you find yourself dealing with the cartel, I can assure you.”

  “Trust me. Todd is not into physical violence.”

  “I’m more worried about Jorge. He may be the cartel’s financial CEO, but he’s Pablo Valdez’s brother, and Pablo is a known killer.”

  “Come on. I’m going to see Todd, not Pablo Valdez.”

  “They’re all connected. I don’t want anything to happen to you when I’m only just getting to know you.”

  Is he saying what I hope he’s saying? “I appreciate that.”

  “I can see you’re set on driving down to Newport Beach. Let me go with you.”

  I am sorely tempted. But I know that I have got to face them alone to convince them that I am no threat to them once we’ve agreed on terms. This is something only I can do to safeguard my own future.

  “Thank you. But I have to do this on my own.”

  “Okay. I wish it wasn’t so. At least let me carry your case down to the car.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where are you going to sleep tonight?” Eduardo asks as he’s loading my suitcase in the trunk.

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “Why not come to my place?” Eduardo says. “I have a spare bedroom with its own bathroom.”

  I can hardly believe it. I never expected this to happen so soon in my wildest dreams.

  But I reply, “That’s a generous offer, but I’m sure I can go to my parents’ for the night.” What’s with me?

  “You would be doing me a favor. I want the chance to spend time with you. We need time to talk over dinner. Please. I’m being utterly selfish. I’m asking you to do this for my sake.”

  Thankfully I relent. “Well, thank you, Eduardo. I too look forward to talking together.” Talking! I exclaim to myself. I want to pull him hard against me and feel the length of his body pressed against mine.

  He asks me for my phone and enters his address in my map app.

  We hug each other briefly. Then I get in my car and drive off. In the rear mirror I see him gazing after me until I turn the corner.

  What is it he is so anxious to talk about? Is it about the woman on the other end of the line?

  En route to Newport Beach, I turn on the radio and am plunged into the election debate. “Addressing a crowd of supporters in San Diego’s Old Town this morning, Governor Brown charged candidate Dan Granger with a lack of experience. ‘If we claim we’re going to run California like a business, shouldn’t we review the resumes of those who want to be the governor?’ he said to cheers and laughs from the audience. ‘If we look at the resume and there’s nothing on it, it’s totally blank, shouldn’t we tell the candidate, you need to seek other work, because you have no qualifications for this position?’”

  “Meanwhile Dan Granger was addressing a crowd of Republican election workers in Costa Mesa: ‘Thank you, everyone, for all you have done for me and for California. Don’t listen to the pollsters. The only numbers that count are the votes tomorrow. There are going to be a lot of surprised folks by the end of the day after all the votes have been tallied. We’ll make this state great again.’ He was greeted with chants of ‘Mr. Governor!’”

  “Slime ball!” I yell at the car radio and turn it off.

  I need to plan for my confrontation with Todd. Do I even want to keep my part-time job with him? A spirit of recklessness possesses me. I feel I need to make a complete break with my old life. But I still have no idea what I will say to Todd when I get there. At least I have a contingency plan should I run into real danger because of what I know. Tonight I might get to see what he’s really like beneath that smooth, charming veneer. The two brothers seem so different in personality. But are their actions so different?

  For relief I tune in to KCSN’s Afternoon Music Mix. They’re playing Crosby and Nash’s “Immigration Man”: “I got stopped by the Immigration Man / He says he doesn’t know if he can / Let me in—let me in—immigration man.” That song must date from the 1970s. How long will it go on being relevant? So many Miguels. So many Felicias. How long?

  ✽✽✽

  I am at Todd’s front door. I press the bell. It’s 6:40. Suddenly the door swings open and Todd stands in the doorway.

  “Come in,” he says peremptorily. He turns his back on me, and I follow him into the kitchen. Now I am nothing more than an errant worker in his eyes.

  He perches on a tall stool and leaves me standing. “So what is this story about Felicia accusing me of secretly recording her conversations? I only learned from Grant today that someone had paid him to put recording devices in my house.”

  “I only learned about the recordings myself on Saturday.” Could it be that recently? “Felicia found a video recording device in the kitchen. She asked me about it because she didn’t know what it was.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I looked at it I recognized the logo on the SD card. It was from Total Surveillance. So the next time I was at work I looked up the card, and it turned out to be one of a series of devices planted throughout your house.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

  “I
was faced with a conflict of interest, as I worked for both you and Grant.”

  “And you chose to protect Grant at my expense?”

  “I didn’t see it that way.”

  “And how did you see it?”

  “Circumstances have changed now. I’m no longer an employee of Total Surveillance. Grant fired me this afternoon because I lied to him. That was because I had removed a card from your den and couldn’t replace it in time. Grant’s operative informed him that the card had gone missing and that someone must know about their surveillance. As Grant knew I worked for you, he asked me if I could explain the card’s disappearance, and I made up that stupid lie that was quickly exposed as one.”

  “Well, now that you don’t work for him you can tell me who commissioned the surveillance in the first place.”

  Should I tell him? Why not? I owe Grant nothing. And it might set him at odds with Jorge and the cartel.

  “It was Jorge Valdez.”

  “Jorge Valdez! Are you certain?”

  “That was the name on the Security Agreement at Total Surveillance.”

  “Why would Jorge bug my house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  After a prolonged silence Todd asks, “So how much do you know from watching the recording?”

  I hesitate. Do I lie again? That didn’t do me much good last time.

  “I know that you asked Jorge to kidnap Felicia and take her across the border.” Silence.

  I summon my courage. “How could you do that?”

  “Have you any idea what the press would do if they knew I had employed an illegal immigrant all this time?”

  “You should know that Felicia would never tell anyone.”

  “It would finish my brother’s bid for the governor’s job,” Todd continues, ignoring my objection.

  “And what do you think having her kidnapped by a Mexican cartel would do to his campaign?” I burst out. Mistake. I’ve let him know that I know Jorge’s connection to a cartel.

  Todd shakes his head. “You are so naive, Jenny.”

  To my surprise I remain defiant. “At least I’m not kidnapping people and collaborating with foreign gangs.”

  “It’s for Felicia’s good as well as the campaign’s.”