by Michael Fine
Billy could tell just how “Type A” Hope was when he’d first seen her in the hospital cafeteria a few months earlier. He didn’t care. He’d been instantly mesmerized by her drive and intensity. A week after the first time he saw her, he bumped into her again and had the courage to ask her out. With her schedule, they’d only had a few dates so he made a point of walking over from the I.T. Department, where he worked, to wherever she was doing rounds just so he could wave or say hello. He was in love. And he was willing to take things slowly.
Billy and Hope walked out of the restaurant and stopped just outside the door. Hope shivered from the cool evening, despite her sweatshirt. Billy reached out and rubbed his hands up and down her arms to warm her. She smiled.
Billy reached in to kiss her, but Hope pulled away.
“You know I don’t like kissing,” she snapped. She was actually shaking. She knew it was a subconscious reaction but she couldn’t help it. She backed away from Billy.
Billy, who had patiently accepted Hope’s busy schedule for many months and, as he often did, had patiently listened to Hope’s complaints through dinner, temporarily lost his cool. “Christ. It feels like I’m with a prostitute who saves kisses for her boyfriend. Well, except for the part where we don’t have sex either.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he immediately regretted his outburst.
Before Billy could apologize, Hope said, “You know about what happened with my sister,” as tears welled up in her eyes. “What I didn’t tell you was that it was my fault. I was making out with a boy named Todd like some kind of slut while that asshole raped poor little Angel.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Billy wanted to comfort Hope, wanted to wipe her tears away, but somehow knew it would be the wrong thing to do. “It wasn’t your fault, Hope,” was all he could think to say.
Hope took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, Billy. Really I am. I’ve been a pretty shitty date tonight, haven’t I?” She laughed sadly. “Look, I’ll text you tomorrow okay? I’ve gotta go.”
“I get it. You have those citations to fix tonight and you have to get up early for work,” Billy said, unable to keep the sadness from his voice.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, November 6 (the same evening)
National Headquarters, We Are the World Charities
Los Angeles, California
A keen observer of people, Diamond observed Camila García. It was a skill he’d honed in the army where being wrong about a person could cost lives. Despite tiny crow’s feet forming in the corners of her eyes, the woman was absolutely stunning, he thought. She had short-cropped black hair, warm brown eyes, and wore little makeup. Even so late in the evening, her cream-colored tailored suit somehow looked to have no wrinkles. The deep purple satin blouse underneath was open just enough for him to see the two points of her collarbones. He admired the passion she had for her work; it beamed from her eyes and radiated whenever she eagerly gesticulated while making one point or another about the state of immigration in the country.
“He’ll be here,” Camila García, Executive Director of We Are the World Charities, said to the band of angels sitting across her IKEA conference room table. It was nearly 11:00 p.m., but the IRS agent knew that she often worked late and slept on the couch in her office. There were just too many immigrants who needed the legal advice and public health services her organization provided for her to spare the time for the commute home and back most nights.
Lancaster leaned forward and said, “When he arrives, we’ll stay here, in the conference room. We’ll be out of sight, but we will be able to see and hear everything.” He wanted to reassure García, who, despite her obvious poise and confidence, was clearly scared of what they had planned. “I know it will be difficult, but you need to let him, uh, approach you on the couch.”
“Got it,” she said. She crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders.
“We’ve got cameras and microphones everywhere,” Patel said. “We’ll get him,” he assured her. García liked the man’s kind face and warm eyes.
The buzzer for the front door sounded and Camila García jumped. She smiled nervously and stood up.
“Show time,” she said with as much courage as she could muster.
Diamond stood and walked to where Camila was standing. He reached out and gently held her shoulders. “You’ve got this.”
Camila García took a deep breath and walked to let IRS agent and all-around sleazebag Mr. Ike Reynolds into her office, and into their sting operation. Diamond closed the conference room door to the point where it almost touched the door frame. The blinds were already closed.
“Hello, Camilia,” Reynolds said as he strutted past her into the office. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” He mindlessly picked up, fondled, and replaced family photographs, children’s art projects, and other knick knacks from various desks. The casual intrusion into the lives of her employees sickened her.
“No, it’s fine,” García lied. “Come in.” Taking a huge risk, she bluffed, “Should we go into the conference room to go through whatever paperwork you have?”
In the conference room, Diamond, Lancaster, and Patel understood exactly what Camila García was doing, but stiffened nevertheless.
“No, no. That’s far too formal. I just want to chat.”
García, relieved that her bluff had worked, motioned to the couch along the back wall. “Should we sit over there?”
“That’ll be perfect.” Just perfect.
García sat as far to one side of the couch as she could, keeping her knees locked together and placing her hands over her skirt. Her heart sank when Reynolds sat at the other end of the couch. Maybe he wasn’t the creep she thought he was? Maybe they wouldn’t be able to catch him doing something horrible in order to get him out of her life.
“Where do things stand?” she asked flatly.
“My calculations remain the same, Camila. Your organization owes the U.S. Government over two hundred thousand dollars.”
They’d been through this before, but Diamond and his compatriots had encouraged her to get the IRS man talking.
“But how can we owe taxes? We Are the World is a 501(c)(3).”
“Well, yes. But you see, as I’ve told you, we did not receive your IRS Form 990 last year, and you can lose your tax-exempt status for that.”
“I don’t understand. I sent it in on time, like I’ve done every year since we’ve been up and running. I can make a copy of my copy right now.” García started to stand up.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. Giving me the form now doesn’t qualify as having submitted it on time.” Reynolds himself had received the charity’s Form 990 six months earlier, but he’d seen a picture of Camila on the organization’s website and was infatuated.
“So what can I do?” García asked as she sat back down on the couch. “Can we arrange a payment plan? We don’t have that kind of money in the bank. Almost every penny goes into the services we provide to the people we help.”
Ike Reynolds loved this part, when the women asked “what can I do?” with a sense of desperation in their voices. He patted the cushion of the couch near him and said, “You could perhaps repay your debt another way.”
Even knowing it was coming, Camila García had a hard time not throwing up. She shivered but didn’t move.
Impatient, Reynolds stood, smoothed his pant legs and walked to where García sat hugging herself. He stood directly in front of her, reached down and gently lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger.
“For example, here’s one way I can think of.” He unzipped his pants and pulled out his flaccid penis.
Camila García was scared and horrified. She was paralyzed, unable to speak or move.
“You know what to do, don’t you?” Reynolds leered at her.
Behind the conference room door, Lancaster was about to rush out and pummel the IRS agent, but Diamond pulled him back. They needed García to get the man to admit the qui
d pro quo he was looking for.
Ike Reynolds waggled himself in Camila’s face.
Somehow, some way, Camila García regained some measure of composure and stammered, “You mean, if I, uh, have sex with you, you’ll drop my fine?”
Reynolds, who was just hoping for a blowjob, tried hard to hide his glee. Sex with this beautiful creature? My God! “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Now come on… it’s not going to suck itself.”
Three seconds later, Ike Reynolds was face down on the ground, his arms held firmly behind his back and Lancaster’s knee squarely between his shoulder blades. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, which had hit the edge of the glass coffee table.
“Sorry about the blood on the carpet,“ Patel said to Camila.
To Reynolds, the IRS man, Diamond said, “We thought this would be more efficient than having Ms. García contact an IRS tax attorney to lodge a complaint.”
Reynolds squirmed, but to no avail.
“Settle down there, stud, or we may have to see if there’s a pair of scissors around here somewhere,” Lancaster said as he pressed even harder with his knee.
While Lancaster held Ike Reynolds to the ground, Diamond and Patel carefully removed the six cameras they’d set up around the office, including the three specifically aimed at the couch. Diamond knelt in front of Reynolds’ forlorn face and replayed the key portion of one of the tapes.
“Will We Are the World Charities retain its 501(c)(3) status?”
Lancaster shifted his weight forward, and Reynolds moaned, “Yes.”
“And does the charity owe any taxes?”
“No. No. All right? No.”
“Good. That’s good,” Diamond said. “Now, I suspect Ms. García is not the only woman you’ve pulled this kind of shit on, so here’s how it’s going to go. You have thirty days to return any blackmail payments you may have received. And you’re going to email detailed apologies to every woman you’ve done this to, blind carbon copying this email address.” He handed Reynolds a business card with nothing but an email address printed upon it. “If we’re not satisfied with your emails, we’ll be back. And we’re going to keep our tapes to make sure you don’t pull this kind of shit again. Understand?”
Before Reynolds could respond, Lancaster yanked the man to his feet. Reynolds eyed Diamond with rage in his eyes. He said, “yeah” casually, as if shrugging. Diamond punched him square in the nose.
“I’ll ask again,” Diamond said. “Understand?”
This time, Reynolds didn’t hesitate or equivocate. “Yes. I understand.”
“Good. One last thing… You can start with an apology to Ms. García here.”
Ike Reynolds did not want to be punched in the face again, and his apology reflected his fear, if not genuine contrition.
Patel and Lancaster ushered Ike Reynolds to the door. Lancaster released his grip on Reynold’s arm, and the man ran.
“You have a good night, now, you hear?” Patel called after him.
“I love how polite you are, Mr. Patel,” Lancaster said as the men walked back into the offices of the charity. “Oh, by the way, I like the new watch. This one’s classy.”
Patel looked down at the Piaget Altiplano 18-karat white gold and alligator watch he’d purchased on an online auction site. He’d seen Camila’s picture on her charity’s website and wanted to impress her. Just my luck, he thought, I impressed Lancaster instead.
As Lancaster and Patel reentered the office, Camila García was still wrapping her body with her arms, but her stress had receded greatly.
“Is it really over?” she asked.
Her guardian angels said that it was, and she believed them.
Later, as the men drove back to the airport, they talked about how much they enjoyed helping Camila García. Patel admitted he was smitten by the woman, and Diamond and Lancaster needled him to call her and ask her out. Patel giggled and sheepishly agreed he would.
As he drove, Charlie Diamond thought that perhaps he and his team should find a way to locate Angel Hunter’s rapist, who had gone unpunished all those years earlier. Hope had told him that she’d tried to locate Derek, but that she couldn’t seem to find the guy. Charlie suggested the idea to his brothers in arms, and as the team was returning their rental car, the men decided they had a new mission: helping women and girls in need. And their first job was a personal one for Charlie.
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday, November 7 (the next day)
Pancake Shack
Palo Alto, California
Election day
After four and a half fitful hours of sleep, Hope was back at work. She’d started working at the Pancake Shack over six years earlier, when she first came out to Stanford for medical school. Even though she indeed had to clean toilets like Pamela had teased her about, she liked the feeling of mastering the chaos when the restaurant was busy. That, and she absolutely adored the owner, Charlie.
By 6:15 a.m., almost every table was full. Hope found herself wondering whether it was because people were getting an early breakfast before going to vote. It was election day.
“Good morning,” Hope said to a table of three elderly women. “What can I get for you?”
“I’d like a short stack of pancakes,” said the first woman. “No butter, please.”
“The same for me,” said the second woman.
The third woman, who seemed a few years older than the others said, “I’m hungry. I’d like a full stack and I’d like mine with extra butter.”
The first two women simultaneously said, “Marge!” One continued, “You know the doctor told us not to eat so much butter and oil.”
Marge smiled and replied, “I’ve been eating buttery, oily, fried food all my life, and I’m ninety-four and healthy, thank you Jesus.” Clearly the three women had had this conversation many times before.
Hope tamped down a smile and recorded the orders on her pad. She’d learned long ago that even though her medical school training enabled her to memorize pretty much any order without writing it down at the table, many customers worried that she wouldn’t get their order right if she didn’t write anything down. “Anything to drink?”
“Just water,” said the first two women. Marge ordered a Bloody Mary.
Hope didn’t hide her smile this time and said, “Comin’ right up.” She picked up the women’s menus and turned to take the order of a businessman sitting alone at the counter.
“Good morning. May I take your order?”
The man didn’t look up from his paper as he said, “Two eggs, over easy. Wheat toast. Fruit instead of potatoes.” He handed Hope his menu while he continued to read the front page.
Hope glanced down and saw the headline: “Grant’s Lead Gone.” Hope’s medical school education also gave her the ability to speed read pretty well and the guy wasn’t paying any attention to her anyway, so she skimmed the article. The piece described how Zachary Grant, the Democrat, had lost his once sizable advantage in the polls over Brock Owens, the Republican. Hope could feel the stress signals in her body: her heart rate was up, her breathing was shallow, and she could feel perspiration begin to form on her face and neck.
Hope placed both orders with Charlie, who helped José cook breakfast every morning as well as most lunches and dinners. She made Marge’s Bloody Mary, purposely using a tad less Tabasco than normal, thinking no matter how vibrant the woman was, she was still ninety-four years old. She grabbed two ice waters and carried the three glasses to the women’s table.
Hope thought about how she, along with millions of others, wished that Vice President Grant had even a quarter of the charisma of President Gabriella Davenport, who’d become the first female President eight years earlier, holding that jackass Fred Spencer to a single term. President Davenport was fiery and bold, and unapologetically liberal. She was the nation’s counter to President Spencer, who was a mix of eighty percent incompetence and twenty percent radical white nationalism. Grant was an able politician, bu
t was more of a technician than a leader, and he’d lost the big lead Davenport had bestowed upon him.
Hope was lost in these thoughts as she made her way to check in on a few tables in the far corner of the restaurant. She made her way through the maze of tables, past the three women who were still arguing about Marge’s fat intake, the businessman with the newspaper, and past the guy eating alone who she’d mentally tagged as “the creep.” The guy had finished eating almost an hour earlier and was just sitting around doing not much else but staring at her. She’d never seen him before.
As she walked past his table, time slowed. Hope felt his hand squeeze her right butt cheek, and her reaction, the result of years of self defense and martial arts training, was swift. She slowed her forward momentum, did a reverse pivot on her right foot and swung her left elbow backwards in an arc aimed directly for where she knew his head was. He must have seen her elbow coming and turned toward it because her elbow struck him directly in his nose.
“Ahh,” he screamed. “My nose! You broke my fucking nose!”
Hope turned full circle to look at the guy. She rubbed her elbow as she looked at him. He was one of the creepiest guys she’d ever seen. He had thinning mousy brown hair, a cheesy mustache, a flabby face, and a smarmy 1980s “hey baby”-style aura.
“Do. Not. Touch. Me.” Hope said slowly. She threw a stack of napkins on his table.
The guy picked up the napkins in a wad and held them to his nose. Blood was everywhere: his nose and mouth, his hands, the table, his shirt and pants, and the floor. He kept screaming and kept repeating, “You broke my fucking nose.” His cousin, who paid him a thousand bucks to harass this chick, didn’t say anything about the fact that she was violent.
By this time, Charlie made his way out from the kitchen and approached the table.
“You okay, kiddo?” he asked Hope. She loved him for asking about her well-being first.
She nodded. “He grabbed my ass.”
