The Super Ladies

by Petrone, Susan

  IC_SuperLadies posted: The Schvitz likes fireworks. No professional jealousy here.

  Chapter Twenty

  On Thursday afternoon, Abra met Margie in the parking lot of an office building called Avalon Two, one of the dozens of office buildings that dotted the area around the interchange of I-271 and Chagrin Boulevard. An entire edge city had popped up at the freeway exit—retail, hotels, medical buildings, car dealerships, restaurants, and skanky little mortgage offices.

  Late Thursday afternoon seemed like it might be the slowest time at a mortgage office, so Abra left work early and had Margie meet her at four fifteen. To be on the safe side, she parked far away from the five-story white concrete building that looked to have been designed in what Margie dubbed “the Midseventies School of Siege Architecture.” Margie pulled in next to Abra’s little yellow Mini Cooper right on time.

  “You ready?” Margie asked as they got out of their respective vehicles.

  “I think so. Thanks for helping.”

  “My pleasure. You’re doing a good deed.”

  “If it works,” Abra replied. She had put on thin sneakers with no socks, yoga pants, and a T-shirt. Form-fitting clothes seemed the wisest choice. She looked up at the July sunshine and thought, Pass through me. Margie’s half-laughing, half-shocked reaction was sufficient to let her know she definitely had the whole invisibility-on-demand thing down.

  “That is both astounding and amusing,” Margie said. “Just…wow.” She gave a once-over to the area where Abra had last been seen standing. “I can’t see you at all. Not even a glimpse of clothing.”

  “Good.” It was a little strange to hear herself when she was invisible, like being on a faulty conference call where you could hear the echo of your own voice. “The only weird part is that I can’t wear underwear when I do this.”

  “Dirty girl,” Margie teased.

  “I’m too hung up to be dirty. Let’s just do this before I lose my nerve.”

  “Okay. I’m with you. I think.”

  Abra walked across the parking lot alongside Margie. There was indeed a security camera anchored above the front entrance. She probably could have parked closer, but she didn’t want any trace of herself near the building. Abra stayed right behind Margie as they went into the building, past a small diner and equally miniscule pharmacy, and down a narrow corridor that led to the first-floor offices.

  “I think this must be the low-rent section of the building,” Margie murmured.

  Abra gave a quiet “Mm-hmm” then was silent.

  They were at the front door of NorthCoast Home Mortgage. The dark brown faux wood door was clearly labeled. Margie waltzed on in, holding the door open just a little longer than she needed so Abra could slip in behind her.

  Abra hadn’t been expecting much, after all, this was just some little storefront mortgage company like dozens of others that had popped up during the housing bubble in the aughties. Even with low expectations, NorthCoast Home Mortgage looked like the place where career aspirations went to die. At one time, the office had clearly held more than the three employees she saw now. A heavy-set woman looking every bit of an early-forties hot mess appeared to be the receptionist/secretary, and she gave Margie a puzzled look with a not so polite “Can I help you?”

  “Good afternoon,” Margie said, all smiles and charm. A faux wood nameplate on the woman’s desk read “Vanessa Mulgrave.” “Hi, Vanessa. I’m trying to find Dr. Harper. He’s supposed to be in suite one-oh-seven, but you’re obviously not him.”

  The woman gave a world-weary sigh that made it clear speaking with such an idiot was far, far beneath her station in life. “No, this is a mortgage office, not a doctor’s office.”

  “Dentist actually, but I see your point. Do you happen to know where Dr. Harper’s office might be?” Margie added with a perky little lilt in her voice that almost made Abra laugh out loud.

  The lanky guy in his late thirties who looked like he had done too much partying back when business was good suggested Margie try the building next door. “People get the buildings mixed up all the time,” he said.

  While Margie kept the staff busy, Abra took a quick look around the office. The three employees were all clustered together at one end of the long, rectangular room. There was a pair of empty cubicles at the far end of the office near a door that Abra presumed was a storage closet. The only other furniture were two empty desks shoved against one wall next to a row of five tall filing cabinets. It was a wonder the place was still open. The slow economic recovery meant that it was only a matter of time before a storefront mortgage broker like this place was completely bankrupt. From what Abra knew about Ramon and Latrice’s loan, these guys ought to be out of business and perhaps in jail.

  Abra’s plan wasn’t that detailed. Margie had gotten her in the door undetected. After that, she’d wing it. For now, all she could do was watch her friend as she apologized for getting the wrong office and left. Abra was on her own. She had a brief what-do-I-do-now pang of fear, but that passed. Technically, she hadn’t broken any laws. This was not breaking and entering—she had walked in during regular business hours. They just couldn’t see her.

  Abra sat quietly and invisibly in one of the unused cubicles until the three employees decided to call it a day. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of new mortgages coming through. From the few phone calls she overheard, it sounded as though the role of the office had turned to collections and foreclosures. At about quarter to five, Rude Receptionist Vanessa turned off her monitor and asked the lanky guy if he wanted to get a drink after work. He turned her down with a lame “I’m kind of tired.” The other woman in the office, who looked to be the youngest of the three, hid a vicious grin at this. Interoffice love triangles aside, the other two took this as a cue to turn off their computers and head out of the office. The lanky guy fished a key chain out of his pants pocket as he left. He was the last one out. Abra heard the door lock. That was it. She was alone in the office.

  For a couple of minutes, Abra didn’t move, just waited. Sometimes people realize they’ve forgotten something and come back. Silently she counted to sixty, then did so again just to be sure. When she was confident no one was coming back, she rose and walked over to the three desks.

  The lanky guy appeared to be in charge, so she figured his computer would have access to the deepest recesses of the office server. All she wanted to do was move one decimal point. She’d change Ramon and Latrice interest rate from 13.49 percent to 1.34 percent and get out of there.

  When she turned on lanky guy’s computer, it asked for a password. Duh, she thought, of course there’s a password. Her work computer had a password. Everybody’s work computer had a password. Anything that required a keyboard click was a simple means of warding off remote attacks. Abra was good with technology, but she was no hacker. There was no way she’d be able to figure out a stranger’s password.

  She tried the second woman’s computer. When she turned it on, it too asked for a password. Her entire plan suddenly seemed incredibly stupid. What were you thinking? Then she remembered the receptionist. She hadn’t turned off the computer. She had only turned off the monitor.

  Very gingerly, Abra went over to the third desk. Sure enough, the light for the computer monitor was turned off. She pressed it, and the desktop appeared. Thank you, God, for lazy employees, she thought.

  She figured she had about an hour before the building’s cleaning crew came in, although from the look of things, management was paying to have the waste baskets emptied and that was about it. Hopefully she wouldn’t be disturbed.

  The computer desktop was sloppy, cluttered with all sorts of personal photos and unrelated files. It matched the cluttered physical desk, which was packed with personal photos in clear plastic frames, two seventies-era troll dolls, a few little solar-powered flowers that danced in the light, and a half-eaten package of plain M&Ms. Resist
ing the urge to organize everything, Abra looked at the icons on the desktop for something that might be a program. There, among the standard spreadsheet and word processing programs was something called “NCTrax.” “That’s it,” she murmured as she clicked it open.

  Once she had the internal database open, it was a fairly simple process to search for Ramon and Latrice’s loan. There it was—3847 West Anderson Road. And there was that big, fat, evil interest rate. She put the cursor in the box on the spreadsheet, switched the position of the decimal point, and hit “Save.” She imagined this miniscule piece of data working its way through the corporate machine and coming out the other end as an affordable house payment for her friends. Now that she was in the system, it was tempting to lower every interest rate she could. That, she knew, would get noticed. One change to one mortgage could slip through. Not one thousand.

  The sound of a woman tunelessly singing seeped in from the hallway. At this hour, it could only be the custodian. It seemed like the cue to leave.

  IC_SuperLadies posted: Shadow reminds you to look out for your friendly neighborhood Super Lady. You might not see her, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t there.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Margie really wanted to hang around and talk to Abra as soon as she was done with her reconnaissance in the mortgage office, but she’d promised to leave. Abra had been adamant that Margie maintain the ruse that she had walked into the wrong office. The guy in the mortgage office had said she might want to try the other building, so once she left Avalon Two, she walked across the courtyard and through the front doors of the identical Avalon One. No wonder people got the two buildings mixed up. The only readily discernible difference was a large crack in the white concrete façade just to the right of the main doors.

  Satisfied that she had played her part well, Margie returned to her car to go home. If she hurried, she could fit in a guerrilla trip to the grocery store, because there was next to nothing in the house to make for dinner. While driving up busy Richmond Road, she got stuck behind a dusty black Cadillac going a good ten miles per hour under the speed limit in the right lane. Through the rear windshield, she could just make out the outline of a fedora on the driver’s head. “Old man wearing a hat,” she muttered. “Don’t want to be behind him.”

  On most days, being behind a slow driver wouldn’t bother her. Today she needed to be moving a bit faster. Five cars passed on her left before another car turned left and she had an opening to pass the Cadillac. She accelerated and went around it. As she did, a motorcycle appeared in her rearview mirror. She had seen it farther back in the lane, but it wasn’t near her when she switched lanes. It had been behind the car that turned. The motorcyclist flipped her the finger and followed her for a block before speeding up and cutting into the lane directly in front of her.

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” Margie exclaimed. “What’s his problem?” She’d be making a right turn in a minute anyway, so she moved back into the right lane to get away from him. The guy on the motorcycle wouldn’t let it go and again cut into the lane in front of her. “See you later, jackass,” she muttered as she turned into the parking lot at Dave’s grocery store.

  The lot had an “Entrance” and an “Exit” lane. The motorcycle turned into the exit lane and zoomed through the parking lot, pulling into the spot next to where Margie was getting out of the minivan. The motorcyclist had a deliberately scruffy hipster look. He didn’t get off the bike but flipped the visor of his helmet and said with a sneer, “Cutting off a motorcycle can be hazardous to your health.”

  Margie closed the driver’s door of the minivan, buying some time to take a deep breath before replying, “I beg your pardon?” Maybe some civility would counter his aggression. He repeated the statement, with a heavy emphasis on the words “your health.”

  “But I didn’t cut you off,” she said. “I changed lanes when the car in front of you turned left.”

  “You cut me off, lady. Don’t do it again.”

  “Well, my car is parked now, so I guess it won’t happen again.” She hadn’t meant to be snarky, but this guy was really too much. As she locked the minivan and started to walk away, she heard a sharp “Hey!” She turned around and saw that the guy had gotten off the bike and taken a few steps toward her.

  “Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you, lady,” he said in a low voice.

  His words were a hollow echo of every time she had said that same phrase to her own children, a reminder of every time she had felt helpless and frustrated. It took her back to her very first chemotherapy infusion, right after the breast cancer had been diagnosed. The oncology nurse had started a slow-drip IV, and for an hour Margie sat and stared at the thin tube running into one of her veins, knowing she was completely at the mercy of something beyond her control. Somewhere deep in the pit of her gut where hot flashes and anger dwell, a little flame was lit. She looked into his hipper-than-thou eyes, which stared back with disdain. “Why are you doing this? Why are you like this?” she asked.

  “Like what? Pissed off because some spoiled stay-at-home mom nearly ran me off the road?”

  “One: I didn’t nearly run you off the road. Two: You know nothing about me.”

  “I know all about you. There are useless women like you in every stinking minivan.”

  Margie’s heart was pounding. She tried to swallow the fear. There were other cars, other people in the parking lot, each of them ensconced in their own little world. No one was paying attention to a man and a woman talking. This guy could easily hurt her, overpower her before anyone bothered to help. Except he had no right to hurt her. The little flame in her gut burned brighter. For a moment, it was as though this guy and his cocky attitude personified everything wrong with her life. You don’t have to be nice all the time, she thought. She straightened up a little bit. “And there are annoying, overcompensating little boys like you on every motorcycle.” She gently placed a hand on the motorcycle seat.

  “Don’t touch my bike,” the guy said.

  “I just want to see it,” she replied calmly. “It’s really pretty. Comfy seat.”

  The guy raised his voice. “Get your hands off my bike.”

  Margie could feel the heat coursing through her body, into her hand, and into the motorcycle seat. “I’m not going to knock your bike over. I’ll tell you what. You can put your hand on my van to make it even. I don’t mind.” The guy momentarily looked back at the minivan, as though it were about to jump up and start tap dancing on its rear wheels. In doing so, he missed the tiny trail of smoke that started to rise from the motorcycle seat as the faux leather upholstery began to warp from the heat of Margie’s hand. But the guy was close enough to smell the burning plastic. He pushed Margie’s hand away just as the seat was developing a small but growing burn circle, revealing melting, charred foam underneath.

  “What the hell did you just do to my bike!” the guy screamed, looking from the motorcycle seat to Margie. She took a step backward. For a terrifying second, she thought he was going to hit her and raised a hand to protect herself. Somehow, the palm of her hand—the same palm that had just decimated his motorcycle seat—seemed to put the fear of God and Mom into the guy. “How the hell did you do that?” he asked, much more quietly this time. He even sounded a little bit scared.

  “I didn’t do anything,” she replied softly. “I’m just a useless woman, remember?” With that, she got back in the minivan and drove away. They could order pizza tonight.

  IC_SuperLadies posted: Did the Batmobile ever smell like dirty gym clothes?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They didn’t get together as a group again until Saturday, when they met up at their usual spot in the bar at La Fiesta, a family-owned Mexican restaurant that was close to home and had the best golden margaritas on the east side of Cleveland. The bar area was at the center of the restaurant, flanked by an L-shaped dining room. Margie arrived at
the same time as Abra, and they found a spot at one of the iron and tile tables in the bar, where the seats always seemed more comfortable than in the dining section. Katherine arrived a few minutes later, sitting down with a hearty “Hey! I have a present for you.”

  “You who?” Abra asked.

  “Both of you. Each of you.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank her until you know what it is,” Margie quipped.

  Katherine gave her a teacherly settle-down sort of look. “You’ll like this.” She had two small paper bags on the table in front of her but didn’t hand them over right away. Katherine sometimes liked to give a lecture. “Okay, so you know I got these great little reading glasses at the farmers’ market,” she began, pulling the glasses off the top of her head and putting them on.

  “Yeah, they’re cute,” Abra said.

  “Well, I’ve noticed that whenever I wear them, the glasses are the first thing people notice. The only thing they notice. Anna and I went to the Shaker Square farmers’ market this morning because she really, really wanted this light switch plate that’s painted to look like a smiling dog, only with a light switch for a tongue. While we were there, I saw these and thought they might come in handy for you too.” Only when she was finished with her gift introduction did she give a brown paper bag to each of them.