He walked from the parking space and carried his materials out into the sand. He set up the small folding table and pushed an equally small folding chair under it. He placed a cushion on the chair, picnic basket next to the table, laptop on top, and then William had a seat. He opened his lap top, but before he could work, he took a look around him.
Good thing that he was in a public place or his monogamous deficiency would have come to life. He could not stomach being in the custody of so much eye candy. He developed stomach throe. The beach had women in two-piece bikinis roller blading, women in two-piece bikinis bicycling, and women in two-piece bikinis playing volleyball in the sand. This is perfect, he thought.
He stopped his procrastination and began to type:
The waiting area seemed a hundred degrees and rising in temperature by the nanosecond. There was no fresh air circulating through Amir’s nostrils as if the bank ventilation system was turned off. Sweat pumped out of his glands heavily from the heat and the anxiousness of him successfully pulling off that stunt.
He gained control of himself. He had to be very aware of his surroundings. He strained his ears to hear everything said by the bank employees. He commanded his nerves to calm down and pay attention, but the idea of having so much money at once scared him.
What was the hold up? Two customer service representatives held a conversation, and were not working, as if he was not waiting to be seen. They seemed so engulfed by the words that they exchanged, an explosion outside would have gone unnoticed.
Amir searched his surroundings quickly. He then refocused his attention on the two idiots conversing. One of whom finally strolled in his direction.
“May I help you?” the woman asked.
It took you long the fuck enough. Couldn’t you see how I was waiting and sweating over here, he thought. “Sure madam, you may,” he replied politely.
She turned and Amir followed behind her. She began to talk to him over her shoulder as she walked. She said, “Sorry for making you wait. We discussed a security matter.”
Amir wanted in on her secret. “Must’ve been important, he said.
“It was,” she said, and sat at her desk. “There was a man in here yesterday that had opened an account over the phone,” she began saying, and looked directly into Amir’s eyes. “He subsequently went to another branch today and cleaned out his account. The branch called me to verify what the man looked like, thinking that it was an identity thief.”
“So?” Amir asked, and masked his astonishment. Was it Alimu-Shine or Justice? He could not figure which one of them it was, but he definitely could not make a false move. “Was it your guy?”
“Yes,” she said. “He had eyes that were a color that I could not describe, but he had a Polish last name, although he was Black. How could I forget? Enough about that drama, how may I help you?”
“I am taking a vacation to Jamaica and would like to withdraw money from my account and convert the cash into traveler’s checks,” he said. There was no way that he would withdraw straight cash and raise the woman’s suspicion for a second time that morning.
“Sure, no problem. Let me get your account number and ID.”
He jotted his checking account number down on a piece of scratch of paper and handed it to her along with his ID. She assaulted the keys on her keyboard and brought up his account. She saw that he had 11K available. He wanted $3,000 in traveler’s checks, and $5,000 in cash. She completed the transactions at her desk and then switched to the teller’s area to get his cash and checks. She returned and handed him everything. He stuffed the contents into his attaché case and thanked her before leaving.
# # #
Alimu-Shine sucked in air as soon as he walked out the bank. He stared disbelievingly at two NYPD police cruisers that were parked outside the bank. He felt dizzy. Light-headedness had swept over him. The sunshine shimmered as he moved along the pavement being dragged by the hellish New York crowd. The roaring screams of celebration wanted to bellow out of his mouth for the whole world to hear.
The entire craft took less than fifteen minutes and he had in excess of 10K in cash. He sat frozen as the teller had made a call to another bank to verify his identity and could not believe that the teller returned and forked over the cash.
Serving God was a priority of Alimu-Shine’s, and he would repent after that sin and any sins forthcoming. Certainly, God understood why he was a criminal. Alimu-Shine had tried relentlessly for months to garner gainful employment, but no one wanted to hire an ex-convict. Especially, not one who could steal their money right before their eyes and they not find out for weeks, maybe months after the stunt was pulled. Employers would rather hire a murderer, rapist, or burglar. At most they’d offer up a roughed up employee or a dead one, but the business would just move on, and replace the dead guy. No need to cry over spilled milk. He had taken care of business and now he would use the money wisely.
He walked to a bank of cabbies and rested his hand on the front passenger window of one. “I need to get to the Marriott in Times Square,” he said before he hopped in and was whisked away.
# # #
Justice Lorenzo stared at the telephone message light that blinked as soon as he stepped into the hotel room. It was very easy for him to check the message, but he ignored it.
He went into the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. In theory when a man went on the run, the authorities applied un-relentless pressure on the man’s family. That disturbed his emotions. Certainly, he could not listen to his parents’ emotional pleas for him to turn himself in. When he finally skipped town, he planned to lie to them for their own protection, not his. How could he tell them that he was a fugitive? As a man, he was prepared to fight and possibly die for his freedom and liberty. His movements had to be clandestine and effective to successfully beat the feds. He only had a string of forgeries; therefore, there would not be a thick task force or man hunt searching for him. They would wait for him to slip up. They always did. Then they would sentence him accordingly. Justice had to procure all of the cash that he could without error. There was no room for that. Suddenly, he could hear Amir talking on a cell phone. He walked out the bathroom and startled Amir, who continued his telephone conversation.
Justice tried not to listen to the conversation, but when he heard the words “almost caught” he paid attention. He did not like incidents that involved those two words. Especially, coming from a man so close to him. In a post 9/11 society, New York under-covers were in full swing, just parading around as ordinary citizens. He quickly decided that he needed to get away from his two friends before they cost him his future. Their behavior didn’t respect the seriousness of his situation. Justice had a dire and wrenching terror that he would lose his battle for freedom. If he lost the battle because of his own ineptitude, he could live with that. But the pain of his arrest at the hands of someone else’s mistake would kill him. A terrible death indeed.
Amir hung up and Justice searched his dictionary to choose the most non-confrontational words to ask about the “almost caught” he heard flow so colorfully out of Amir’s mouth.
“So, what’s good, Amir?” he asked, normally. It was far from a normal situation, though.
“Everything is in slow motion, yo,” he replied. “How’d things go?”
“Chill. No problems to report.”
“I’m not trying to be a dick head, but I have a lot that I am dealing with, little buddy. You got to excuse me if I seem like I do not feel like being bothered,” he said and cleared up his past actions. “Now who was almost caught?”
“Huh?”
“Just asking. I heard you mention that.”
“Damn, didn’t know that you were down my throat.”
“We are in the same room, so I did not have to be down your throat. I don’t like ‘almost caught’, you dig?”
“That was Jalisa.”
“Amir! I’m not your dad, or your boss. But as your friend, I gotta ask, why the fuck you keep tel
ling her our business?”
“It’s my business.”
“Dawg, you’re telling her shit we up here doing. None of this is her fucking business. Have you noticed that I don’t even have my cell phone? I gave it to a bum on Madison Avenue.”
“Dig this, J. I’mma say this once. I’m not into all these arrogant statements you keep throwing around. You ain’t in charge.”
“I see you’ve been listening to Alimu-Shine. I’m not a boss. I’m just picky, critical and tidy. I like shit done my way. The right way. Not out of self-centeredness, but because I’ve seen and done it all, and I know my shit. I know what’s best for me. Keep them bitches outta my business!”
“That ain’t my bitch. It’s my girl.”
“Man, everybody is ya fucking girl. One week this bitch is pregnant. The, next some other bitch is married and she’s your bitch. The next, some bitch lying saying that you’re her baby dad. Give me a fucking break. You have a girl every month.”
“Man stop coming at me like a bitch.”
Alimu-Shine walked into the room and dropped onto the bed. Without preamble, he asked Amir to hand him the Saks Fifth Avenue bag that Justice had bought in the room the day before. He went inside the bag and found the receipt. “Watch a master at work gentleman.”
Alimu-Shine dialed the number to the extravagant department store and when the operator answered he jumped into character.
“Yes, may I have cosmetics, please?”
“Sure, which one, sir?”
“Loreal, please. Thank you.” After a few clicks he heard the phone ringing. He cleared his throat as a bubbly voiced female answered the line. He said, “Hi, Beth. This is John D. from men on the sixth floor. My phone is not getting through to instant credit. Could you connect me, please?”
“Sure, no problem,” she said, and evidenced why he picked the lamebrain cosmetics department.
The phone clicked and was answered without ringing.
“Customer service,” a solemn female voice answered. “May I help you store number 71?”
“Yes,” Alimu-Shine said, in a tone that could not have been more salesman like. “I have a gentleman here who’d like to open a Saks account.”
“Sure, I can help you with that. What is your station number?”
Alimu-Shine consulted the receipt, and assuming that she meant the register number, he said, “3071.”
“Employee number?”
“576383,” he said, once again using the receipt.
She read the number back to him, and he confirmed. She then asked, “Joint or individual?”
“Individual.”
“Customer name?”
“Donald Kazanski.”
“Does Mr. Kazanski have a major credit card and ID with a current address?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The Saks representative then asked for Donald’s address, phone number, social security number, employer, yearly salary, and whether or not the application was signed.
Alimu-Shine ran all of the information down making it all up as he went along. He claimed that Donald worked for Con Edison Electric and made in excess of $97,000 a year.
After a moment of silence, she said, “Mr. Kazanski has been approved. His account number is 83436399728.”
Alimu-Shine read the number back for accuracy. He then asked for the account limit, and was told that that could only be told to the customer. Alimu-Shine handed the phone to Justice who learned that the limit was $12,700.
Justice and Alimu-Shine were star struck. It was as if they were both being serviced by a professional harlot. It did not take them long to snap out of it, though.
“Here’s the plan,” Alimu-Shine said laughing. They all huddled like Alimu-Shine was a quarterback about to set up the game-winning play. “Just go to Saks with your ID, after you open your accounts, of course, and use your accounts without the card. But you can do this with Bergdorf’s and Bloomingdales and Macy’s too.”
Dawn had begun to settle on the beach and the bright lights of the beach’s pier shone incandescently. The beach was known to be noisy, especially around that time when school kids came to the beach to ride the Ferris wheel or other mechanical rides. Some of them snuck a kiss in the darkness.
William hopped in his car and took the familiar route home to his wife. It was a little after 6 p.m. and the traffic was murderously congested, but that was commonplace on the 10 Freeway heading into LA. His mind seemed fairly still; he liked the feeling. His mood had become prismatic. The latest text had him reaching for changes in the map that he had for his story. He would veer off the deep end and take the story to a place that he had never explored. Break a few rules that had to be followed. I am a writer, he thought. He was allowed to let fiction go wherever he wanted. That solidified his work as fiction.
He drove home as confident as a movie starring Tom Hanks when his $70,000 car began to stall. He could go no further, so he pulled over. Confusion pressed in on him and wiped his beautiful thoughts away. The slit of daylight faded underneath the darkness and he groaned as he focused on the situation at hand.
He grabbed his cell phone and dialed AAA. As the phone rang, he got out of his car and went into the trunk. He lifted up the rug and pulled out orange caution signs and road flares to assure no one ran into his car. A car that should not be experiencing any trouble.
He gave the AAA representative his account number and they informed him that he had called and cancelled his plan earlier that day. Despite him repeatedly informing the representative that he had not done that, he became infuriated and slammed his cell phone shut. What the fuck did Lundin cancel the AAA for, he thought. She always let someone persuade her to do some dumb shit without consulting him.
He popped his hood as he dialed information to locate a nearby towing company. He checked under the hood and found steam easing out of the engine. How the hell could the car be overheated? He had barely driven twenty minutes. At that moment he wondered if he had a mechanic in his Rolodex.
Finally, he was put through to a tow man who agreed to tow the car for $75 to the BMW dealership. Who, according to William, would cover all expenses to repair the vehicle. He gave the tow man his Visa number--against his better judgment--and then called for a cab to meet him.
He shut the car hood. Slammed was a better description. He felt the heat coming from under the hood. The steam created waves in the air and forced him to sweat despite the sun fading. He removed his T-shirt and swept sweat from his face. His tank top was drenched in sweat as he sat in the back of the car awaiting the cab. Frustration overwhelmed him. Car trouble was not something that he bargained for when he paid cash for the BMW. He took the car for all scheduled maintenance and oil changes. What could be wrong? He was experiencing his worse night in LA.
The taxi driver arrived right after the tow. The tow driver recorded William’s ID information and imprinted his Visa. The tow then hooked the car to his flat bed and William watched his baby go off into the night. He hopped in the cab and was taken to Robertson Boulevard.
THIRTY-THREE
William drifted slowly up the stairs to his lair. He fiddled with his key ring before he slipped the key in the door. The door swung open and he gave himself a quick smile of anticipation. He didn’t have to curtail his anger on that occasion for being furious with Lundin. He stepped through the doorway and could see all of the lights were out. The apartment walls were filled with shadows casted from the furniture thanks to the candles that were lit. He was anxious to hear her reasoning for the candles. He was sure that she would have some elaborate excuse for why she cancelled the tow service.
Lundin appeared and was scantily clad in a red and white teddy. She had her hair hung low beneath her shoulder blades. Sexy as a description was an understatement. She was as hot as a five-alarm inferno. Fervent.
She seductively took his lap top and the picnic basket from his hands and sat then down. She bent over and forced her derriere to form a heart. The kind of impeccable he
art used to shape chocolate into big hearts during Valentine’s Day. She then took his hand and led him and they passed the kitchen. Twista and Chris Brown’s Make a Movie played quietly in the back ground.
In the dining room she removed his pants. Next his button up. She pulled out silk pajamas that she had bought earlier that day and dressed him in them. She left the shirt unbuttoned, exposing his sexy chest. He wondered what the occasion was and began to speak, but she placed a finger over his mouth. “Shhhh!”
She sat in his lap with her knees bent over one arm of the chair and her back rested on the other arm. She tied a fancy bib around his neck, and then lifted a chrome top from the covered meal. He saw his favorite: spaghetti with clam sauce. She stabbed the noodles with a fork and twirled until noodles had covered the gold-plated utensil. She drove the fork into his mouth and he feasted on the Italian delight.
He chewed his food slowly. His desire to verbally trash her had subdued and he had calmed. He could no longer, “Shhh,” though.
“Boopsie, this is nice and all, but what’s the occasion?”
Her eyes locked onto his. She lifted the napkin to the corner of his lips and removed redness from the sauce. “How else could I thank you for the $2,700 Lucien Pellat-Finet cashmere sweater with the giant bejeweled skull on the front from Barney’s? Or the $1,800 Me and Ro diamond skull necklace? They were the finest two-pieces at the New York shows. And most important you made me the envy of the entire firm.”
His mind raced and he tried to figure out what the hell she talked about. She talked $4,500 in gifts that he had not bought. He had not known about Pellat-Finet until he was researching designers outside of the popular Gucci, Prada, and Vuitton. He took slow deep breaths and felt a cool draft. A vague feeling of uncertainty ran through him. His eyes scanned her looking for a hint of a joke. He could not believe that she had the audacity to spend that much money without consulting him. Luckily, his cell phone rang interrupting his words that would have cut her deeply.
CON TEST: Double Life (A Mystery) Page 14
