by Zahra Girard
“Are you OK?” Tiffany says, sensing my reluctance and looking up at me with glassy eyes. There’s still that slight smile on her face and it makes me realize that, as long as I that’s there, I’ll always be OK.
“I’m fine,” I say. Then, with one step, we plunge back into how things used to be.
And Tiffany dives right in. This room is a whole opportunity for her to see the person I once was.
Not content to just head to my closet and see what clothes we could put together into a passable disguise, she instead starts a slow circuit of my room, looking over everything like a detective examining a crime scene.
“Nice CD collection you have here. Green Day. Foo Fighters. The Ramones. The Clash. Dropkick Murphys. Oh, and what’s this I see here buried behind all the others? Declan Dunne, is this a John Mayer CD?”
“It is.”
“I didn’t figure you to be a John Mayer fan. Especially not with the Rancid logo on your bedspread.”
“I’m not. I think John Mayer’s a creepy motherfucker. But back then I needed something to play when I brought girls back here because I never found a chick willing to fuck to The Guns of Brixton or I’m Shipping up to Boston.”
“I’m more of a Doors girl, myself,” she says, smiling slyly and running her thumb along the John Mayer CD.
“Wait, what? I thought you’d be all Mozart and shit.”
“Oh, I like Mozart. I fell in love with his music back in sophomore year of high school. There was this piece on NPR about the Mozart Effect and how classical music is supposed to help your brain function, so I would always listen to him when I was studying. It was nice.”
“You are such a nerd.”
She shrugs. “I grew to like it. But, when I would finish studying, I liked to light up and listen to some of The Doors. I thought Jim Morrison was deep.”
I blink. “Wait. Light up?”
“Get high. You know the term, right? I needed to relax. It was how I treated myself if I got all my studying done on time.”
I shake my head, stunned and half disbelieving. “Saint Tiffany, a stoner. Well, I never would have guessed.”
“I would smoke enough to take the edge off. Never to excess. And I never did anything crazy like go driving or anything else that could put someone at risk because I’m impaired. It was just a natural way to unwind.”
“And you’re not fucking with me?”
“I’m not. I haven’t smoked in a while, though I’m thinking maybe I could use it,” she says, sighing. “Back then it was a weekly ritual. I’d finish everything that I had to, all of my homework, all of my studying, all of my chores, and then I would reward my diligence with some Hawaiian Haze. If I couldn’t get any Hawaiian, which would happen from time to time, I’d usually go for Hindu Kush or Afghani, just because I like the thought of their history and being connected to a strain that’s been grown and smoked for ages. Even if they were more pungent than I’d like. But even with a compromise strain, there is something special about listening to some nice music or reading while smoking something pleasant.”
I laugh. “OK, by sheer nerdiness, I believe you. I can’t imagine anyone geeking out about pot so much unless they actually loved it.”
“Nerdiness? Says the man with a No Doubt poster on the ceiling above his bed.”
“I like their music,” I lie.
“You don’t strike me as a ska fan. In fact, now that I look closer,” she says, squinting and craning her neck to stare at the poster. “Shouldn’t there be some men in the background of this poster? You know, the other guys in the band? But, to me, this doesn’t look like a No Doubt poster — this just looks like an enormous poster of Gwen Stefani in a skimpy outfit.”
“She’s a talented singer. Maybe I appreciate that.”
“Sure,” she says, leveling an expectant look at me. A look that refuses to waver. She doesn’t even blink.
“Fine. She has a nice ass and great legs and she was always wearing tops that let you see practically everything.”
Satisfied, she nods. “So you’re into legs?”
“Maybe I am. She has great legs. Dancing will do that for you. Running, too. Chicks that run — that’s a surefire way to a great ass and sexy-as-hell legs,” I say, and, thinking about how it felt to kiss her and have her tight body pressed up against mine, I fix her with a long look that makes her cheek color. “I can think of a couple examples.”
“Oh, yeah?” She says, then she turns and heads toward my closet. “We can talk about that later. Let’s get your disguise picked out.”
For a fifteen painful minutes, we go through my old clothes. And I have the urge to take everything from this closet, toss it into a barrel, douse it in gas, and burn it to ashes. But we finally pick out an outfit that has the dual effect of both concealing my identity — making me look like some high school washout who is still holding on to his glory days playing second string quarterback for the JV football team — and bringing a giant smile to Tiffany’s face. It sucks, but if it’ll make her smile and help save my mother’s house, I’m all in.
“I think this will be the pièce de résistance,” she says, holding up a shirt I’ve kept buried in the back of my closet for years.
“No. Out of the question. Pick something else. Like the Metallica shirt.”
“Come on, I think it will be perfect.”
Then she does something that completely disarms me; she giggles. It’s bouncy and light and the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
“Are you serious?” I say. My resistance is already fucking gone, but I need to keep up appearances.
“I mean, a grown man like you, wearing a Backstreet Boys shirt?” Then she squints and holds it closer. “Wait, is this thing autographed? And personalized? How did you get this?”
“I won a radio contest.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“And, are you going to say anything more?” She says. Her grin is so wide it would give the Grand Canyon a run for its money. “Because I need details about how you have a shirt with autographs and personal messages from each of the Backstreet Boys.”
Whatever it takes to keep the pain from earlier off her face. I’d do anything for this girl.
“Look, I’ve always been a badass. You know that, right?”
She laughs. “Of course. Fighting fires, robbing banks, you’re an impressive man, Blaze.”
“I became a fan of the Backstreet Boys when their Millenium album came out,” I start. And I can already feel my voice starting to shake with enthusiasm — I can’t help it; I love that damn album, I’ve been in fistfights just to keep their songs on the jukebox at the clubhouse, and I sure as hell ain’t going to hide my feelings from Tiffany. “Anyone — even guys who are almost as tough as me — will tell you that that album is a banger. There’s no one out there who doesn’t like ‘I Want It That Way’. It’s just fucking magic.”
“It’s a good album, I’ll give you that.”
“No. It’s a fucking great album and you know it.”
She holds up her hands and takes a step back, still grinning. “OK, Blaze. No need to get angry.”
“Shut up. I’ve been through this kind of discussion before. I’ve had to kick more than a few asses just because I want to rock out to ‘I Want It That Way’ or ‘Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely’ during karaoke.”
“Fine, fine, I recant any sarcasm. Tell me how you got the shirt.”
“They’d just released their Never Gone album, they were doing their tour, and they were coming to LA. There was a radio contest to find a ‘super fan’ to get front row seats, a backstage pass, and to hang out with the band. I won.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She holds up the shirt, squints at it, and my heart sinks as her eyes suddenly fly open wide. “This note from Lance mentions a tattoo. Is that how you won?”
“Maybe.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.
”
“Please?”
I shake my head and give her a look. “Not a chance. Listen, I don’t think this disguise idea is going to work out. I’ll just follow these guys my way.”
She puts a hand on my chest. Her smile is bright enough to blind, and her touch freezes me in place. This girl does not understand the effect she has on me.
“Blaze, those guys out there are thugs; they only know how to solve things with violence, and if they see you how you normally look, they will see a threat. Because you are one. We have to make you look like you’re not a threat, like they don’t even want to deal with you. Clearly, you’re used to fighting your way through problems and, when you’re as tough as you are, that works. But you need to think your way through this problem. Trust me.”
She flatters me and sets me on fire with just a touch. This woman’s impossible to argue with.
“OK, I’ll wear the damn shirt.”
“There’s one last thing, Blaze,” she says, and, from the way her smile shines and her voice barely conceals another giggle, I know I’m not going to like it. “You can’t go riding your motorcycle. You will need a different vehicle.”
“I’ll make a few calls, I’ll find a ride.”
She shakes her head. She’s already got something in mind.
“The more people you bring in on a secret, the more likely it is to get out. Calling any of your contacts just raises the chances of you getting found out. But you don’t need to make a call to get a ride.”
“Then what am I going to drive for this stakeout?”
“Your mom’s car.”
“She drives a 1992 Volvo station wagon. I wouldn’t be caught dead driving that thing.”
“Exactly. No one would expect you to be driving around in it. No one will even look twice at you.”
“No, of course not. Because they’ll all be averting their eyes in shame.”
She crosses her arms and gives me a knowing look. “Blaze, we have two courses of action here. One of us needs to go stake out these thugs and find out who is pulling their strings. And one of us needs to take your mom to a lawyer and have a lengthy discussion about her financial situation and what legal path forward we can take to buy more time. You decide: do you want to spend the rest of your afternoon doing paperwork with your mom, or do you want to take her car and stake out those thugs?”
I cross my arms and scowl. “I’m a fucking grown man, I sure as shit ain’t spending my afternoon doing homework, so you’re right. I’ll go see if my mom will let me borrow her car.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tiffany
“If you want, I can hang around in the neighborhood and give you a ride back home,” says our Uber driver, Tyler, as we pull in front of the Law offices of David Archibald.
Just seeing that name on the plaque out front stirs a twinge of jealousy in my heart.
“No, thanks. We might be a while.”
“Legal problems, huh? I hear you.”
Eleanor leans forward from the back seat. “How exactly do you hear her, young man?”
“I mean, I know what it’s like. Lawyers suck. They cost a lot of money. But, when it comes to putting you on the right side of the line between ‘possession’ and ‘possession with intent to distribute’, they can be worth it. One bad day at Coachella shouldn’t ruin you for the rest of your life, you know?” He says, putting the car in park and hitting a button on his phone to close out the ride. “Anyway, don’t forget to rate me — five stars, please — and tips are always good karma.”
Eleanor and I exit the car and start a slow walk to the front doors of the law office.
“Are all Uber’s like that?” she says.
“You’ve never ridden?”
“No. I have a cell phone for emergencies only. Anything else is just excessive. I don’t do ‘apps’. Don’t even like the word. Or most abbreviations, really. Brevity might be the soul of wit, but if you can’t string together a full word, you’re pretty witless. And the name? Uber? How self-absorbed.”
“You sure have feelings about all of that.”
“Today seems to be all about feelings. Disappointment. Surprise. Suspicion. First Declan comes back out of nowhere to impose himself on my very personal problems, and now you’re dragging me to some scaly lawyer’s den to tell a total stranger my private business. How do you know this charlatan?”
Her question and her sharp tongue both take me by surprise, but I keep it off my face.
“David and I knew each other back at Stanford.”
“Knew each other? I let you drag me out of my home on this fool’s errand, not to mention letting Declan borrow my car, the least you can do is tell me the truth.”
“We dated. For a couple years.”
There’s regret in my voice. Things between David and me ended suddenly after what happened to me, and there’s a part of me that can’t help but think back on our time together and wonder what might have been; the high-powered woman in finance and the career-climbing lawyer. What a power couple we could have been. Successful, prominent, the world at our feet.
Instead, I’m an unemployed banker.
“So, you went from dating a lawyer to being with my Declan? Does sinking that low give you a feeling of vertigo?”
My eyes flare, my knuckles clench and pop as I make a fist. “Your son is better than you give him credit for. He doesn’t have to help you, he’s choosing to.”
She snorts. “Penance for all the pain he’s caused me, maybe,” she says. Then she holds up her hands defensively. “But there’s no need to get yourself all twisted up, Tiffany. I accept his help because there are no other options. And maybe it’ll give Declan the chance to finally do something good for once.”
“With your poisonous attitude, it is a wonder that he still loves you.”
“I scrimped and saved for years, supporting us on a single community college salary, and I gave him a decent life. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I had so much hope for him because, even though I knew he wasn’t academically inclined, he had so much passion and drive. There are no words to describe how proud of him I was when he found a meaningful career saving people’s lives. And there are no words to express just how disappointed I was when he threw it all away in an act of vicious violence.”
I stop. In the lobby of David Archibald’s law office, under the suspicious gaze of his secretary, I turn on Declan’s mother.
“You can either hold on to that pain and die homeless and alone, or you can accept that your son loves you and that the both of us are doing everything we can to protect your bitter old ass. Move on. Grow up.”
Her eyes go icy cold, but she nods all the same. “Fine.”
With her frigid gaze still upon me, I head to the secretary’s desk.
“Hello. I’m here to see David Archibald. We have a case that requires his help.”
The secretary — a blond woman with hair down past her shoulders, wearing a sleeveless black blouse cut down the middle to reveal a substantial amount of cleavage, and a frown that tells me she is looking for any reason to send me the hell out of here — raps a few keys on her keyboard with her perfectly manicured fingers. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Well, that makes this easy. Please leave. Mr. Archibald is not available to people who just wander in off the street.”
“Can you just check, please? This is important.”
“Oh, well, since you asked nicely, let me just sacrifice my job by bothering the man who hired me to keep random people from interrupting his busy day.”
I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, not relishing at all the levels I will have to stoop to to get this appointment. All while Eleanor’s judgmental stare burns a hole in my back. “Please, just tell him Tiffany Santos is here to see him and that it’s urgent. He’ll want to see me, I’m sure, considering we used to be engaged.”
She looks up from her computer screen and her hand reaches halfway to her desk phone. “Yo
u’re Tiffany?”
“I am.”
“Huh. I thought you’d be pretty,” she says. “Fine, I’ll page him. Take a seat over there.”
Eleanor and I are seated for maybe five seconds before a face that I never thought I’d see again appears in the open doorway.
He hasn’t changed a bit. Same scruffy beard, same stray gray hairs around the temples of his thick black hair, same razor smile, and eyes so sharp they’re like chiseled obsidian.
“Tiff,” he says, leaning casually against the door frame. “Been a long time. Why don’t you come in?”
“Hey David, thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” I say, rising from my seat and smoothing the wrinkles out of my outfit.
The secretary’s eyes bore holes into me as Eleanor and I cross the lobby and enter David’s office.
He’s done well for himself, I think as I look around the room. It’s a medium-sized office, but decorated with the kind of academic and professional accolades that I once envisioned for myself; prominent degrees, awards from professional associations, and there’s even a handwritten commendation from the mayor for service to the community.
Eleanor and I both take seats opposite David’s desk, and he takes a seat behind it. A couple seconds pass where he just sits there, fingertips pressed together in an arch, gazing at me with an unreadable expression on his face.
“I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here, Tiffany.”
“I’m surprised to be here too, David. But I need your help. Well, my friend Eleanor needs your help.”
“Is that really why you’re here?”
I nod, turn my attention from David — who is still intently staring at me — to Eleanor, who is watching the both of us with an inscrutable look on her face.
“There is a bank that is harassing her and threatening to take away her home, due to a loan that she took out. I’ve reviewed some of the loan paperwork — unfortunately, it seems to be incomplete and she was not provided with much of the information that, legally, they should have provided her — and it looks highly suspicious. Possibly even fraudulent.”