“I am hurrying.”
“Don’t snap at me.”
“Then stop nagging me.”
There’s a pause, and when the woman speaks again, it’s in a much sweeter tone. “I’m sorry, honey. I don’t mean to pester you. I just love you so much that I can’t stand for us to be apart.”
“I feel the same way, Vanessa.”
Vanessa? Are you kidding me? Shipwreck Barbie is bonking a married man?
The couple begins a round of sloppy kisses. Ugh. When they pull apart, the moon lights up the man’s face. I take a deep breath, nearly collapsing. Really, Rich? You’re screwing Barbie? You’re more of a scumbag than I thought.
PART TWO
Crystal
September 11, 2015
I’ve hit the home run. I’m on the final stretch. I can see the finish line from here. Funny I’m thinking of sports metaphors when I’ve never played a sport in my life. Rich has applied for a home equity loan. But not just any loan. A $2 million beast. What’s the money for, Rich? A renovation? A new car? Funding a new life with your mistress?
Of course, the bank didn’t assign the loan to me. The senior analyst gets the first crack. But keeping Eric instead of sending him packing with Tyler has been one of the smartest things I’ve ever done. Eric has lost all of his cockiness. Without his sidekick, he’s bitter and needy. Says hello when he arrives at the office. Good night when he leaves for the day. Asks us about our weekends, tells us about his family, and shares stories when the day gets slow. And tonight is a first—we’re out on the town sharing drinks. For some unknown reason, he invited Kevin, the king of the Great White Hopes. Maybe he’s angling for some insider tips.
Ted’s is quiet for a Friday night. Classes haven’t started at UCSB, and the tourist season is winding down. Eric and I sit on one side of the table, Dipak and Shelby on the other. Kevin is too bulky to fit in next to us, so he pulls up a chair. The lovebirds whisper back and forth, sneaking kisses when they think we’re not looking. I honestly don’t care that our friendship’s been diluted. I just wish they’d cut the PDA.
“Can you believe the prez?” Eric slurs. He has that red-faced look that pale guys get when drinking rules their lives. “Makes four hundred thousand a year plus bonuses, and he’s up to his eyeballs in debt.”
“I’ve been to his house,” Kevin says, setting his tumbler of wine on the checkered tablecloth. “Had to bring some loan documents there once. Beautiful home with an incredible ocean view. I’d give anything to live in a place like that.”
“Must’ve cost him his shirt,” I say, trying to push the conversation along.
Eric nods. “I’m guessing he needs to make up for his undersized dick.”
Kevin turns red and nearly chokes; Dipak spits his beer across the table. Shelby’s wide eyes grow even wider. I just sit back and enjoy.
“What?” Eric asks, swaying back and forth, his hands pressed flat on the table. “I say something funny? Don’t tell me you guys didn’t know.”
Kevin frowns. “You shouldn’t say things like that. Someone might hear you.”
“Like who? Shipwreck Barbie?” Eric laughs. “I promise she wouldn’t be caught dead in here.”
“Shipwreck Barbie?” Shelby looks confused. “Who’s that?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Dipak looks worried. He recently received a promotion and raise and doesn’t need anyone screwing it up.
“Anyway,” Eric says, finishing off his beer, “you ever notice Rich’s small hands and feet? How he never uses the men’s bathroom when anyone’s there?”
“He has an executive bathroom,” Kevin says primly, shredding a paper napkin to bits.
“Exactly. Nobody can get a visual of his minuscule dick.”
Kevin’s mouth drops open. “That’s disgusting.”
“Why?”
“Have some respect.”
“For a loser of a man?”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Is it?”
“So why even work at Pacific Ocean Bank?”
Eric shrugs. “Personally, I’m in it for the money. That’s it. I’ll bet it’s the same for everyone at this table. We’re not craftsmen. We’re not writers. We’re not celebrity chefs. We’re not creating a single morsel of beauty in the world. We’re not doing good for anyone but ourselves. The truth is we’re bloodsucking ticks. We’re here for a paycheck and nothing more.”
Kevin tosses his bits of ripped napkin to one side, and they flutter like angels to the floor. “Well, I don’t agree with you. I happen to love my job.”
“Really? Something wrong in your head?”
Dipak reaches across the table and taps Eric’s hand. “You should stop now,” he says. “You’re getting mean.”
“You think?”
Kevin fumbles for his next words. “You . . . you won’t be working at the bank much longer if you continue to talk like this.”
“I’ll find another job doing the very same thing.”
“Not at a premier bank like ours.”
Eric snorts. “Premier bank? Are you kidding me? We’re not even close. We’re a third-tier bank led by a fourth-tier man. How can you look up to a leader who’s mortgaged to the hilt and a total letch? You’ve seen how he eyes the girl tellers. It’s way beyond gross.”
Kevin bristles. “Rich is a man beyond reproach. He and his wife have been together for decades. And I’ll have you know that his executive bathroom is nothing more than a well-deserved perk. If he’s not at work, he’s giving back to our community. He’s a man of compassion. He’s a man I admire.”
“Giving back?” Eric scoffs. “What a load of crap. He’s doesn’t give a damn about the teenage addicts, unwed moms, and endless supply of homeless. If it weren’t for the feds shoving the Community Reinvestment Act down his throat, Rich wouldn’t dole out a nickel in this town. And don’t get me started on the fawning and the recognition. It makes the prez feel good to get those humanitarian awards.”
“What’s your point?” Kevin asks in a low voice. He looks about as uncomfortable as anyone could get.
“My point? Well, my point is . . .” Eric’s voice drifts off, and so does his gaze. “He’s just a Montecito wannabe. A poser through and through. I’m sick of working for guys like him, self-important jerks with their heads stuck up their asses. Trophy wives. Trophy cars. Trophy homes. Truth of the matter is it’s all about the size of their dicks. I guess that’s my point.”
“Then why do you stay in town?” Kevin asks. “Why don’t you move somewhere else?”
“And do what? I’m bogged down with so much student debt I can barely breathe. Where else am I going to be paid a hundred thousand a year plus bonuses for doing as little as I do here?”
“I have to go,” Kevin says, getting to his feet.
“You have a curfew?” Eric asks.
“No.” Kevin pulls a five from his wallet and drops it on the table. “The baby was up all night, and my wife is exhausted. And I always read to my son before bedtime.”
“Read him a book for me,” Eric says. “Something about how you can grow up to be anything you want in life. My mom used to read me that book. What a fucking crock of shit.”
“Maybe we should go too,” Shelby says, not waiting for Dipak to reply. She gives him a shove, and he slides out of the booth.
“Want to walk home with us?” Dipak asks me.
“I think I’ll stay.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Bunch of losers,” Eric mutters as our coworkers walk away. He looks at me bleary-eyed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I know Dipak’s your friend.”
“That’s okay.” I buy another round of drinks. “You know what you were saying about Rich? About the debt?”
“What about it?” Eric’s eyes fix on a drunken blonde stumbling across the far side of the room.
“Is it really that bad?”
“Sure is. He’s got a million-dollar first and a
matching home equity loan he’s looking to double in size. And then there’s the vacation home in Aspen and his Stingray and the sailboat he keeps in a slip at the harbor. Everything’s loaded with debt.”
“He makes that kind of money?”
“That’s the problem. He doesn’t.”
“So his wife has a trust fund?”
“No such luck.”
“Then how can . . .”
“I don’t know. I just write the crap analysis, and the board approves it.”
“So you . . . ?”
“Play with the numbers when I need to? Sure. Why not? I like my bonus.”
“What about Reg O?”
He focuses his bleary eyes on me. “You work for FinCen now?”
“I just thought we couldn’t give insiders more favorable terms and conditions than we give to the average joe.”
“You’re a walking training course, aren’t you? Why don’t you move over to compliance?”
“But I’m right, aren’t I? If the bank makes a loan that Rich doesn’t qualify for, then they’re breaking the law.”
A suspicious look creeps across Eric’s swollen face. “Maybe the bank’s doing something wrong, but I’m not. I’m just a cog in a machine. I’m following orders.”
“Whose orders?”
“Rich’s, of course. Who else?”
“So you won’t turn the loan down?”
“Hell no. And neither will the board.” His blond head bobs like a balloon.
“But what about George?”
“They have ways of keeping Cyclops out of the mix.” He finishes off his beer.
“But George is your boss.”
“In name only.”
“And compliance doesn’t intervene?”
“Rich has that department wrapped around his little finger.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I gotta take a piss.” Eric lurches from his chair and makes a beeline to the bathroom. Halfway there, he gets waylaid by a bunch of guy friends and parks at their table. They pour him a drink from a pitcher of beer. He glances my way once—they all do—and then there’s laughter and a few unintelligible words. I don’t have to hear them to know what they’re saying. I’ve heard all of the fat jokes before.
A group of girls swarms my table. Fresh-faced, long-haired, pitch-perfect makeup. They’re all dressed in sparkly shirts, tight pants, and knee-high boots—a gaggle of geese primped and preened for a Friday night on the town. One of them wears a silver cowboy hat with the words BIRTHDAY GIRL scrawled across the front. “You leaving?” she asks me nicely enough. I nod, and she claps her hands.
“See,” she shouts, twirling in a circle. “It’s like magic turning twenty-one.”
I struggle to slide out of the booth. I’ve had way too much to drink. The bench screeches and squeals, fighting me for every inch. When it finally releases me, my face is steaming. I take a step and pitch forward and hit the tile floor, a beer mug shattering in my hand.
There’s a pause in sound, a definitive break, as if the world skipped a beat. The birthday girl drops to her knees and presses her hand against my back.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, her happy voice gone. “I didn’t mean to trip you. Are you all right? Should we call for help?” Her cell phone slides from her lap and clatters by my side.
A shard of glass has sliced deep into my hand; blood spreads across the floor. “I’ll get a towel,” the girl says. She rushes off, and I close my bloodied fist around her cell. Seconds later a man reaches down and tries to help. “We’ve called an ambulance,” he says in a worried voice.
“I’m fine.”
“Let me help you up.”
“No!” I get up and shake him off, pushing through the crowd until I’m through the doors and out on the sidewalk.
I hurry up State Street, blood dripping from my hand. An early fog has moved in, and the mist swirls around streetlamps that shimmer like ghosts. A group of teenage homeless call out in sad voices, begging me for a handful of change. They may look innocent and poor, but the young ones can be vicious. Good. Let’s hope they are.
“Take this.” I toss the stolen cell phone their way.
“Thanks, lady,” one of them calls as I rumble on like a tank. “Hey, wait a minute,” he yells a second later. “There’s blood on this thing. What the fuck’s going on?”
I don’t answer the creep. Instead, I let my anger sizzle low in my belly like a fiery hunk of coal. What is the worst? The very worst? And then I’ll move on to the wife.
Kathi
June 24, 2016
I’m desperate for a mani-pedi, but there’s no money left in my account. No room on any credit card. No unworn outfit to return. I wander through my mess of a house trying to force myself to think. Should I call Leo? Rich’s sister? Try reaching out to Jack? Tell a fib to Jane or Laurie? A whopper to a long-lost friend?
God, no! What’s wrong with me? I’m losing my mind. No need to do something so drastic for a visit to the salon. The loneliness must be driving me crazy. It’s time I pour myself a drink.
I take in the golden sunset with Mr. Calico nudging my feet. My foster kitty is so delightful. Not a bit of judging going on. I ruffle my fingers through his silky hair and give him an extra can of food before I pour myself another goblet of wine and settle into my evening fog. Then a simple idea creeps into my head.
I get up, stumble through the house, and drag an oversized box off of a storage room shelf. Inside is an assortment of castaway purses, and within minutes I come across three one-dollar bills along with a crinkly ten. But it’s the handful of coins that turns the lightbulb on. Of course! Rich’s coin jar. It’s been waiting for me all along.
Rich had a thing about coins. The way they jingled reminded him of Christmas, his least favorite time of the year. Each night he’d empty the change from his pockets into a gallon-sized jug stored in his office closet. Years ago, when Jack went above and beyond, Rich would reward him with a bag of coins he could exchange at the grocery store. Sweet little Jack thought it magic how his coins would clatter through the machine and emerge as dollars at the other end.
Of course it might get the gossips going if anyone saw me feeding a coin machine, so I dump the contents of the jug into a tote and drive to a discount grocery store in a Latino neighborhood on the Lower Eastside. Next thing I know, I’m standing in a wobbly line with a dozen of the city’s poor and needy. I slowly edge forward, staring at the ground shamefaced. I reassure myself that it’s no different from the times I exchanged coins with Jack. But, of course, it is.
When it’s finally my turn to work the big green box, I stare at the instructions, confused. They’re different than the ones I remember. The machine is computerized now.
“Are you stupid or what?” a man calls from behind. “Get moving.”
I scour the instructions a second time but can’t make sense of the words. A tiny girl with bushy blonde hair steps up. “Push this button,” she says kindly. She’s obviously homeless, dressed in rags, but she has a sweet smile and a pixieish face. “Now dump your coins in here.” She signals where they should go. The poor thing is missing a finger. I can’t imagine what led to that.
“Hurry up,” the man barks. “I got kids to feed.”
I pour in the coins, and the machine gets going much slower than I would like. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. The coins swirl round and round until they disappear into a grate. When the tinkling stops, I expect to see dollars, but instead a slip of paper slides out. I stare at it, confused. “Over there,” the girl says with her innocent smile, pointing at a cashier. “You can either buy groceries, or they’ll give you cash.”
“Why, thank you,” I say.
“I better go,” she whispers when a security guard appears. She scurries out the automatic doors.
“But you’re next,” I call out.
“No, she’s not,” the guard says, making an ugly face. “She’s just harassing the patrons. She does it all the time.”
“My turn, lady,” the mean man says, pushing me aside.
“Excuse me?” How horribly rude.
I get into the express lane, the receipt clutched tight in my hand. Someone taps me hard on the back.
“This ain’t the refund line, lady,” a man says. He’s fat and nasty looking with tattoos encircling his thick white neck.
“What?”
“You can’t get a refund here. Take your voucher over there.” He points at an information booth, where there’s another line ten deep.
“It’s not a refund,” I respond, my face steaming hot.
“Looks like a refund to me.”
“Well, it’s really none of your business.” I hand the cashier my ticket, and he counts out seventy-five dollars and twenty-six cents. “No groceries?” he asks with a quizzical look.
“Not right now.”
I hurry out of the store to find my homeless friend lurking right outside the doors.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Mimi.”
“Well, thank you, Mimi.” I hand her a ten-dollar bill. “I appreciate your help.”
She jumps up and claps her hands like a little girl. “Thank you!” she screeches. “Now I can eat.” Grabbing her oversized duffel bag, she hurries back into the store.
I stand there for a moment, smiling to myself. See? I just proved a point. No matter what anyone says, Rich and I were good people. We always gave a hand to those in need.
I step through the frosted glass doors of Tammy’s Nails to find the place already humming. Oh my god! It’s Friday. How could I have forgotten?
For years, Tammy’s was my first of many stops to get ready for the weekend parties. Hair, facials, Botox, and eyebrows would fill up the rest of my day. But now there are no parties in my foreseeable future. No dinners out. No invites to lunch. Not even a committee to serve on. I thought people liked me for me, but now I wonder. It’s as if I’ve stepped back through the decades and returned to my lonely teenage self.
When the doors shut behind me, a dozen sets of eyes turn my way, and the chatter slows to a crawl. I force a smile, wondering if I was spotted at the coin machine and the gossip has spread around.
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 10
