Breaking the Bank

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Could you wear that coat instead?” he asked. “That one you put on the first time I came over here?”

  “The Burberry coat? You liked that?”

  “Liked it?” He snorted. “It was all I could do to keep from jumping your bones that night—seeing you in that leopard number, and then the coat over it, knowing what you looked like underneath.” He ran a hand inside her robe. “Man that was tough. But it’s like I told you: I don’t take what isn’t being offered. Works out much better that way.”

  “I’ll say,” she murmured. “So the coat? You’ll put it on for me?”

  “I would but it’s at the cleaner’s. I have to wear it for the court appearance.”

  “Hey, that’s in a couple of days, right?”

  She nodded. “So are you ready?”

  “I guess. My lawyer will be there. He’s coached me on what to say and how to say it. He’s acting as a wardrobe consultant, too—he’s the one who picked out the coat.”

  “Are you going to tell the judge about the cash machine?”

  “I have to,” Mia said. “What choice do I have?”

  AFTER THE FOOD had been eaten and the empty containers rinsed and readied for the recycling bin, Patrick got up to leave.

  “Don’t go,” Mia said. “It’s late.”

  “I know. Stay here tonight.”

  “You sure, College Girl?” He had his parka half on, one empty sleeve still dangling. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

  “It’s not,” she said. “It’s a terrible idea. But I want you to do it anyway.”

  “Well, it’s a-okay by me,” he said. “Though I gotta warn you: I may snore.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” she said, and went into the bathroom. When Fred called—as she knew he would—she took the call while standing at the sink. Kyra was there, so they didn’t talk long.

  “Call me tomorrow, okay?” asked Fred. “Promise,” she said, relieved to end the conversation. Lying to Fred the other night had felt bad enough; now, it was even worse. She wasn’t going to lie to him anymore. She would tell him, she decided. The question was no longer if, only when and how. It had to be at the right time, and it had to be gentle. She wanted to be real with him—real, but not cruel.

  Mia finished brushing her teeth, washing a froth of blue foam cleanly down the drain. Then she called Eden; though she didn’t expect her to answer, she savored the opportunity to hear her daughter’s recorded voice. “Love you, baby,” she said into the phone before clicking off. “Love you lots.”

  Patrick had a turn in the bathroom when she was through, and then he came back to bed, almost shyly.

  “What do you usually do before going to sleep?” he asked. “I mean, besides fucking.”

  “I like to read,” she said. “When I’m not too tired, that is.”

  “Figures,” he said, settling in beside her. “You being a college girl and all.”

  “But I don’t have to read tonight,” she added. “We could watch TV, if you want.”

  “Maybe you could read to me,” he said. “Read to you? What should I read?” She was charmed by the notion.

  “One of those books you read in college. I don’t care which one. You pick.”

  “Okay,” she said, looking at him and beginning to smile. “Okay.” She hopped out of bed and went to the bookshelf; her hardcovers were in the other room, but in here, she kept some old, disintegrating paperbacks she had had since Oberlin. The Picture of Dorian Gray? Too mannered. Ethan Frome? No, sex led to a bad end in that one. Anna Karenina? No, sex led to an even worse end in that.

  “I know,” she said out loud, plucking a book from the shelf. Then she got back into bed and positioned herself next to Patrick, who was waiting, with a touching eagerness, for her to begin. “I think you’re going to like this,” she said, cracking open the book she had chosen and looking down at the first page. “But feel free to stop me if you don’t.”

  In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

  “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in the world haven’t had the advantages you’ve had.”

  “The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald,” said Patrick, reading the cover. “Hey—he’s a mick. Like me.”

  “Yes,” Mia said softly. “Like you.”

  “Well, go on,” said Patrick. “Keep reading. It sounds good.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MIA LEFT PATRICK sleeping when she went out to pick up her clothes at the dry cleaner’s. Chris Cox was due by later for a run-through of tomorrow’s events, and he asked that she wear the outfit she planned to wear in court.

  “Think of this as the dress rehearsal,” he said to her on the phone. “Does that make the court date a performance?”

  “Absolutely. A courtroom drama is a performance of the highest order—it can be stripped down and minimal or baroque and over the top; it all depends on who’s in the cast that day. But everyone has a part to play—you, me, the judge. So I just want to be sure that you’ve got yours down pat.”

  On her way back, she picked up a couple of jelly doughnuts and two coffees; Chris would be at the apartment soon and there was no time to linger over breakfast. She had just reached her floor when she saw Inez, Luisa’s mother, going down the stairs. The hem of her McDonald’s uniform peeked out from under her coat. She stopped when she saw Mia.

  “How are you?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Keeping my head above water.” But barely, she thought. “Luisa’s been asking for Eden,” Inez said. “She said she missed her.”

  “Eden’s not here.” Inez didn’t say anything. “She’s with her father and his parents. In North Carolina.”

  “Ah . . .” said Inez, but it was enough. “I’ll tell her Luisa was asking about her,” Mia said. “She’ll come up as soon as she’s back.” Inez nodded, and Mia heard her footsteps as she continued to descend the stairs. The heavy glass door in the lobby wheezed open and then shut with a disconsolate sound.

  PATRICK WAS UP and finished showering by the time Mia let herself into the apartment. He was wearing one of her towels and nothing else. But as good as he looked, she had to feed him and hustle him out.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starved.” He tore into the doughnut and took a deep swig of the coffee. “Thanks, College Girl.”

  Mia hung the bags from the dry cleaner’s from a hook on her bedroom door.

  “Hey, that’s the coat,” said Patrick, licking powdered sugar from his fingers.

  “All ready for its close-up.”

  “How about you? Are you ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said.

  RIGHT BEFORE PATRICK was ready to walk out the door, he handed her a small piece of pink paper, folded in half.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it,” he said.

  Mia unfolded the piece of paper. One gold locket, $200, tax included. The address and phone number of Mofchum’s shop was stamped, in blurred blue ink, at the top; his scrawled signature and a date graced the bottom.

  “A receipt for the locket!” she said. “Where did you get this? How did you even find him?”

  “Does a magician reveal his secrets?” Patrick asked. He kissed her, leaving traces of powdered sugar on her lips.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, Chris Cox, stripped down to his vest and Egyptian cotton shirt, was pacing the floor in Mia’s apartment, jabbing at the walls with his fists. His navy-blue topcoat and tweed suit jacket were carefully folded over a chair; Mia offered to hang both in the closet, but she could actually see him wince at the suggestion. He was so energetic that he had worked up a sweat, a fine sheen that coated his head like oil.

  “Now, the courtroom is going to be crowded. Very crowded,” Cox told her. “You’ll see perps of all sizes, shapes, and colors in there.”

  “You mean ot
her criminals?” Mia could feel her eyes widening. “Not serious ones,” said Cox. “No murderers or rapists, if that’s what you’re worried about. DATs are only given for misdemeanors, not felonies. So you might get check forgers, drunk and disorderlies, shoplifters with no prior record—small stuff.”

  “Great,” she muttered. “Just great.”

  “I don’t want you to look at those other people in the room or even think about them, okay?”

  “Okay . . .” she said. But that was ridiculous. How could she not look? Or not think?

  “I want you to focus on the judge, and only the judge. Everyone else is invisible.”

  “Except you, right?”

  “Right,” said Cox, pumping his fist in a small, controlled gesture. “Except me.”

  They went over Mia’s story, several times. Cox told her which words to stress, when to pause, the optimal angle at which to tilt her head, the right time to deflect her glance downward, toward her folded hands in her lap.

  “Act innocent,” he instructed. “Innocent and contrite.”

  “I am innocent,” she reminded him. “Remember?”

  AFTER COX LEFT, Mia didn’t know what to do with herself. Activity on the cooking series she was editing had wound down; now there was a new series in the planning stages—Kids’ Krazy Krafts—but she hadn’t been asked to work on it. She had said nothing to any of her colleagues about her court date, though she knew that Cox had been in touch with at least a few of them. So she had to accept the fact that there might not be a job for her when all this played out. At the moment, though, there was nothing she could do about it.

  She sat down to read another chapter of The Great Gatsby, picking up where she had left off reading the night before. No use. She read the same passage over three times, thinking not of the words or unfolding of the story, but of Patrick, how much he had liked the novel. What had Bev said? That there was someone else she loved? Or thought she did?

  She put the book down and decided to do something really useful, like file and polish her nails. Even better—she would go out and have a professional manicure, which Cox had suggested. “But stick to light, neutral colors,” he said. “Clear, peach, beige. Save the reds and purples for your boyfriend.”

  Which one?

  She got her coat and headed down the stairs. There were a couple of nail places on Fifth Avenue, but they were owned and staffed by Korean women. Lloyd had filmed at those places; it was at one of them that he had met Suim. Mia decided to walk up to Sixth Avenue, where there was a salon owned and staffed by two Russians.

  Once she was outside, sidestepping the moms with their strollers, the professional dog walkers with their clusters of poodles and Jack Russell terriers, the kids giddy on their winter break, she couldn’t resist the urge to pass by the bank, just to check on her machine. It would be tempting fate to use it today; she had no intention of trying. Still, it couldn’t hurt just to walk by. Just to give it a little nod. A friendly wave.

  As she neared the bank, she felt an adrenaline surge, and she was tempted to break into a run. She controlled herself, with some effort, and refrained from actually trotting, though she did pick up the pace.

  Okay, here was the corner, here was the bank, the doors swung open easily and . . . she stopped, not wanting to believe what she was seeing. The machine—her machine, the one that had set her life on its wild, off-kilter spin—was cordoned off by a dark red velvet rope. Behind the rope, she could see the blue screen filled by big white letters. Temporarily Out Of Order. Out of order? In what way? Mia felt pulled down by the hateful undertow of dread that had been dogging her ever since she had had her first encounter with the bank’s crazy magic. Someone had found out about the machine, its unprecedented bounty, its pouring forth of riches. Someone had found out, and that was why the machine was not operational. Had they traced it to her though? Was someone looking for her, even now, standing in front of her apartment door, impatiently sounding the buzzer?

  The two other machines seemed to be functioning. A young couple stood at one of them, quietly arguing about something; Mia couldn’t hear what they were saying but could decipher the girl’s tight expression, the guy’s exasperated sighs. A fiftyish woman in a dyed shearling jacket was at the other. Mia waited, uncertain of what to do. She wanted to ask someone inside the bank about the machine, if it would be fixed anytime soon. But that would be stupid; she might arouse suspicion. If she hadn’t already aroused it. No, better to leave, immediately, and to act like none of this had anything to do with her.

  She backed out of the bank and started walking, but not toward home—what if she were being followed? In her present state of mind, this seemed not only possible but likely. Rather, she walked toward Fred’s house, in Windsor Terrace. It was a good twenty-five minutes away, but she was moving so fast she did it in a little over fifteen. She was out of breath when she rang the bell.

  “Hey!” Fred pulled open the door. “I’ve been calling you, but you haven’t been picking up.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been with the lawyer most of the day.” This was not entirely true; she had seen Fred’s number flash on the phone and decided not to answer because she was just too guilty to talk to him.

  “Well, it’s good to see you. You look spooked though. What’s wrong? Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

  “You could say that,” she said. “Can I come in?”

  “Actually, I was just heading out.”

  Mia noticed, then, that he was wearing his leather jacket and had his helmet cradled in his arm.

  “You’re on your way to Juicy?”

  “Uh-huh. Tell you what,” he said, stepping outside and locking the door. “Take a ride over there with me now. I’ll pour you a drink”—he stopped, taking note of her expression—”just one. It’s something new I’m trying out. Blue Zen.”

  “Sounds like I could use one of those . . .” she said. “Zen of any color.”

  “It’s got Bacardi, Blue Curaçao, and pineapple juice; come on. You have one, take the edge off, and I’ll put you in a car service home.”

  She looked up at his open, smiling face, and, suddenly, she was dying to unburden herself, to tell Fred all about Patrick. She would hurt him, she knew. No doubt lose him, too. Still, it was better than deceiving him. Only she couldn’t do it tonight. It would have to wait until after the court date. After tomorrow, she promised herself. After tomorrow, she would come clean.

  The Blue Zen turned out to be smooth and potent; by the time she had finished it, the razored edge of anxiety she had been feeling was blunted, and she was no longer afraid to go home. Fred took the empty glass from her and made sure she was safely in a car.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as she was fumbling with the seat belt. “Okay,” Mia said. “If you’re sure you want to come. Chris says the place is a zoo.”

  “I can handle a zoo,” said Fred. “I tend bar, remember?”

  * * *

  THERE WAS HARDLY any traffic on Eighth Avenue, and she was back at her apartment in minutes. She dug into her wallet for a few seconds before locating what she wanted; then she handed the driver a ten-dollar tip for a five-dollar ride. It had become almost a reflex by now, tipping big. The driver took the money and peered at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Hey, I know you,” he said, turning around to look at her directly. His teeth flashed white in his dark face. “You gave me big tip last time I drove you, too.”

  “Did I?” she asked. She wasn’t sure she remembered. “Yeah, you did. You the same lady.”

  “I guess I am.” She opened the door, ready to get out. “Here,” he said, writing something quickly on a card. “My cell. You call me anytime you need a ride, okay? I be there for you.”

  MIA FULLY EXPECTED to be up most, if not all, of the night. She was armed with several books and an array of junky, self-indulgent snacks—potato chips, chocolate-covered raisins, and two bags of gummi bears. But after reading only a few pages, she felt sleep
y enough to close her eyes, and suddenly, there was gray light filling the bedroom window, and the hopeful, hysterical sounds of sparrows. Morning.

  While Mia was showering, the phone rang. She turned off the water and grabbed a towel, but she was too late—the call had already gone to voice mail.

  “Mom?” asked Eden when Mia played the message. “Mom, I just wanted to say good luck. Daddy told me that today is the day for that court thing you have to do. I miss you, Mom. Miss you lots.”

  “Miss you too,” Mia said to nobody. She tried Eden right away, but she didn’t pick up. Mia pressed a key to bypass the recording and leave a message. At least Eden would know she tried.

  Then she dressed. The outfit so carefully handpicked by Cox made her look ridiculous and phony, she decided, so she took off the dress, abandoning it in a sorry little heap on the floor. There was another struggle at the closet—for a woman living on a shoestring, she had certainly managed to amass a lot of clothing—before she settled on a gray flannel skirt that had somehow slipped by her radar before, and an ivory blouse of some silky, patterned material. The high neck hid her locket; though she was afraid to call attention to it, she didn’t want to take it off, either. Digging around in an old box of junk jewelry that Eden used to like for playing dress-up, Mia found a strand of imitation pearls. Perfect. She put the whole outfit together and scrutinized the result: pure Republican. Cox would approve.

  Her plan was to meet him in the lobby of the courthouse on Adams Street; they would go upstairs to the courtroom together. Fred said he would be there, and so would Stuart. She wondered, with some alarm, whether Lloyd would show up. He hadn’t said anything about it, but it was a distinct possibility.

  Mia took the subway to Court Street and walked over to Adams. The sidewalks were filled with people headed in the same direction. Many of them were off to jury duty; she knew, because she had been one of them, just a few months ago. The summons, always a nuisance when it showed up, had come during the summer, and since she had postponed twice already, she had had to show up. But it felt quite different to face the massive, block-long building from the other side of the equation. Now, she was not going to sit in judgment of someone else; the law’s long arm was going to be pointing at her.