by Sam Tschida
Kumar smiles sadly and says, “That might be good,” which I take to mean that my financial statements aren’t going to make me look like a desirable marriage prospect.
Kumar leads me to a desk where Denise is waiting for me, and he prints out my statements like it’s 2006 or something. He hands the pages to Denise first and she frowns hard.
“What is it?” I ask. I take a sip of my coffee. It doesn’t make me feel any better.
Denise breaks out a pair of reading glasses. “I want to make sure I’m seeing this right.” With a glance over the top of her cheaters, she says, “Mia, do you have any idea what kind of cash flow you normally deal with?”
“No. All I know are the prices listed on my website. They’re high.” Understatement of the year.
“It looks like you gave away all of your money two weeks ago. Combined with the assault…” She looks up at me. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but…” From the look on her face, I can tell she already has.
She probably thinks Jules stole all my money and tried to kill me. “It wasn’t Jules. I paid him a hundred grand for two Instagram posts. I have the documentation to prove it.”
That information doesn’t seem to compute for her. After the longest time she just says, “Okay. How about these other charges?”
She points to a $5,000 charge to High Flying and another $2,000 to Prada.46 “Those are business investments,” I say lightly.
By now, Denise probably thinks I hit myself in the head.
“Denise…” I say.
“Yes?”
“When you fingerprinted me yesterday, did you find out anything about me? My address, for instance?”
“You still don’t know where you live?”
I shake my head. “I’m staying at my boyfriend’s house.”
She raises her eyebrows. “So you trust him?”
“He might be the more trustworthy one between the two of us.”
This almost gets a laugh out of Denise.
“I would like to know where I live, though.” So far I’ve only seen myself in relation to JP, Max, and now Jules the underwear model. At this point am I really figuring out who I am, or am I just figuring out what kind of girlfriend I am—who JP and Max think I am? Should I even care? Who the hell are they, even? I’m so fucking confused.
“Come with me to the station,” she says. “I pulled your record yesterday.”
“Are we done here?” I ask in surprise.
“I’ve seen all I need to see,” she says with another arched eyebrow.
Denise doesn’t drive a real cop car, which is a slight disappointment. No lights on top or cage in the back. It’s not even an unmarked Dodge Charger or anything sexy. It’s tan and nondescript. If it were a guy, he’d be named Mike Nelson and I would be surprised to remember I went to school with him every time I scanned the yearbook. This is the car equivalent of oh yeah, that guy. Then again, I wouldn’t have remembered my own name if Siri hadn’t told me, so nothing against Mike.
At any rate, it’s a lame car and I bet Denise wishes she’d been something cooler than a cop. Look at me. I have no money or memories prior to the last few days, but at least I’m driving a Ferrari.
Once we’re in the car, she looks at me very seriously, like a mom about to have a conversation with her daughter about herpes or consent—definitely something sex related. Those are ninety percent of serious conversations with daughters, which is fucked up, right? Shouldn’t we talk about self-actualization or what to do if you wake up without your memory?
“Miss Wallace, do you have any family or friends to rely on?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you feel safe where you’re staying? Have you been seeing the man you gave all your money to?”
“I feel safe. And I know who I gave the money to. It’s all legit, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t coerce it out of me.” I pause, afraid to ask the one question that’s been lingering all day. “Did you find out something about JP that I should know?”
“Nothing,” she says. “He has a clean record.”
I can tell she’s thinking about saying something else, but she bites her tongue. Before we know it, we’re at the police station, five minutes away from Wells Fargo, just long enough for one almost-conversation about herpes, or about how women shouldn’t define themselves through the men they’re with, et cetera, et cetera. But we all have to define ourselves in relation to something, and let’s be honest—a hot guy with a Ferrari isn’t a bad point of definition.
“Follow me,” Denise says, charging ahead to her desk so she can hand me another pile of clues about my life. “I’ve got a list of known addresses and your criminal record. I made a copy for you.”
“Criminal record?” I didn’t see that coming, though the minute she says it, it seems obvious.
“Yes. It’s mostly juvenile. Shoplifting and then one arrest a few years ago.”
“I’m a criminal,” I say flatly. That’s who I am. I should have known that I wasn’t a supermodel princess ballerina with a yacht.
“You were arrested. That does not make you a criminal.”
Nice of her to say. “What was I arrested for recently?”
“Theft. And you have some outstanding unpaid tickets.”
I take the papers. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”
“Good luck. I’ll let you know if I find out anything about your assault.” She gives me a hard look. “Mia, now that we know that no one stole your money—well, at least it doesn’t look like it—it’s important to consider the consequences.”
“That I just spent that much money? Why would I have done that?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know, but that hot-air balloon ride and the Prada dress purchases amount to felony check fraud.”
I have no words for this. I just start shaking my head. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to do that. I must’ve expected some money to come in and was hospitalized before I could take care of it.”
Denise sits back and crosses her arms over her chest. “If no one stole that money from you, then you stole the money from the bank. Even if Wells Fargo doesn’t prosecute, we will.”
I lean back in my chair. I’m breathing too fast.
This can’t be happening to me.
All I wanted to do was retrace my steps to find my old life. To figure out who all the faces and places were on my Instagram account so I could figure out who I was. I never expected all this sleuthing to lead me here, to a copy of my criminal record and the threat of prosecution
“There’s no intent requirement for check fraud, Mia. You might want to get a lawyer.”
I look at her in complete bafflement. She, of all people, knows I can’t afford a lawyer.
I nod wordlessly, turn around, and walk out of the station.
Unsure of what to do, where to go, or who to talk to, I go to Starbucks and buy a latte I can’t afford. Actually, if we’re being honest about it, I buy a latte with money I borrowed from Max because I ran out of the money I stole from JP. Is this what I’ve always done? Is this how I operate?
I carry my kind-of-stolen latte to a table on the patio and try to calm down. The stresses are piling up.
Felony check fraud. An impending marriage proposal.
Worst of all, I can’t even share it with the only person I trust—not without risking our not-really-a-relationship relationship.
46 At least I’m getting a lot of use out of the dress.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Now that I’ve had my daily visit to the police station, I hustle back to JP’s to get ready and pick up Crystal. I’m definitely late at this point, which means I’ll have to be in and out of there quickly—the one blessing of the day. Hopefully Max is still there because I have no idea where he lives—and I can’t pull off this date nig
ht alone.
I walk through the front door and see JP sitting at the kitchen island with Max, beers in hand.
This is literally my nightmare.
“Heeyyy guys,” I say, tiptoeing forward. “JP, I thought you’d be asleep by now?”
He smiles broadly—and a little drunkenly. How many beers has he had? More important, how many has Max had? Enough to tell him all of my dirty secrets? I shoot Max a death glare, just in case he deserves it.
“Max was just telling me about his research. Fascinating stuff. He’s quite an impressive person.”
Max holds up his bottle as if to toast me.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure he is.” I eye Max, still waiting to find out how much he’s said about me.
“How much time did you two spend together?” JP asks, noticing the glimmer of tension between us.
“Ummm…” I say.
“We just had a few kitchen conversations,” Max says.
So he hasn’t been talking trash to my boyfriend after all. I retract the death glare.
“Well, it’s so good to see you again, Max,” I say. “JP, you really should get some rest. I’m just going to freshen up. I have a date to arrange tonight and have to be on my way.”
Max takes the hint. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind dropping me off on your way? I’m a little woozy from the booze, and now that JP is back, I’m all done with my house-sitting duties.”
“Sure! No problem!” I say a little too excitedly. JP looks at me weirdly. “Why don’t you pack while I freshen up? Be back in a jiff!”
A jiff? Max is looking at me like I’m a lunatic.
“Bye!” I dart out of the room, my blood pressure rising for the hundredth time today.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I slide into the driver’s seat with a fresh coat of Pirate on my lips as Max settles into the passenger seat. The second he shuts the door, I whisper-scream, “You had beers with my boyfriend?! Are you trying to make things more dramatic for me? Because I’m literally at my limit here.”
“I know, I know, I’m so sorry. But what was I supposed to do? Refuse to have a drink with the guy? He offered me a Stella and I had no reason not to take it.”
I wave my hand. “Fine, fine. Did you say anything about me?”
He scoffs. “Believe it or not, I have other things to talk about besides you. I just told him about my work.”
“Ahh, so you were trying to put him to sleep. Good strategy.”
Max glares at me. “You’re lucky I find you so attractive.”
“Whatever. Do you have any cash?” I see a Starbucks on the corner and need another fix. Max reaches into his wallet and grudgingly hands me a ten-dollar bill, mumbling about how I’m supposed to be paying him and not the other way around.
I pull up to the drive-through speaker and shout, “Two venti white chocolate mochas!” Max looks visibly ill at the idea but I say, “You’re fine. Shut up and drink your coffee.”
I plug the address Crystal gave me into the car’s GPS. It tells me to turn on Atlantic. Pretty soon we’re driving by Tam’s, the fast-food burger place, and a bunch of oil wells. “Wait, is this place in Signal Hill?” I ask. Signal Hill is sort of ritzy, but it’s also right between Long Beach and Compton. Max manipulates the screen to study the map and says, “It looks like we’re headed to the far side of the neighborhood.”
We drive past all the mansions and stately homes and turn right on Long Beach Boulevard. The neighborhood doesn’t feel like the kind of place where a harp-playing, sophisticated woman would hang out. Pretty soon, we drive right out of the ragged end of Long Beach and straight into Compton. “Ummm…” I say.
Max looks confused. “Do you think you got the wrong address?”
I think back to GoldRush’s ad copy. Sophisticated and elite California beauties. Something about how they’re California’s most important resource.
There are plenty of beauties walking the streets of Compton, but the website was definitely misleading. I miss a turn and take the next left down a side street. There’s enough discarded furniture in the street to tell the story of something, like inadequate trash removal or…something less than elite. I drive over the LA River, a giant concrete aqueduct. A guy walks along the bank, watering his horses like it’s the Wild West. “What the—? Is that a burro?”
Max nods. “I think so.”
“Where are we?”
“I don’t think Compton is that bad anymore. It’s not like a giant gang fight, at least. Not like in Straight Outta Compton or whatever.”
I look at the black Midwestern nerd sitting next to me. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
There do seem to be a lot of cute kids playing on the sidewalks with their moms. Still, it’s not Santa Barbara. “I think we took a wrong turn somewhere.”
“Maybe she’s volunteering or visiting relatives?” Max says.
I shrug. I literally have no clue. On the GPS I can see the blue dot of our final destination. “It’s says we’re close…” Minutes later, I look up to see a Walmart Supercenter.
Now I’m even more confused. “Do you think she meant Long Beach Boulevard West but we went east or something?” Walmart doesn’t seem right.
I pull out my phone and text Crystal. Are you at Walmart?
Duh. I get off in 15.
What the fuck?
At this point I realize everything about the GoldRush copy is total bullshit, but I decide to test the waters anyway. I don’t have room for you and the harp.
WTF?
“Um, Max. I don’t think Crystal plays the harp.”
“Really,” he says, his voice 100 percent sarcasm.
“That’s probably the only criterion she doesn’t meet, though. I mean, how the hell was I going to find a harp-playing philanthropist who was a dead ringer for Sleeping Beauty?” Talk about impossible. “She’s probably super pretty and into social justice or…IDK.”
Max raises his eyebrows. “Let’s go meet her.”
The Compton Walmart is a plain old Walmart, but it does feel a little extra Walmarty. I could pretty much walk out of the place with any young woman there, and she’d be ready for a date. Long nails, tight dresses, good hair. Lots of girls are dressed to go somewhere other than Walmart. Hell, I’m in a cocktail dress.
I’m not sure where Crystal works but I figure any girl I hire isn’t stocking shelves or operating a forklift in the back. I scan the registers and find Crystal finishing up at checkout #7. I can see why Kobra compared her to Halle Berry. She’s got a popping figure and a cute pixie cut but, more important for my immediate purposes, she’s the only twentysomething in the place dressed in full-on sweats. She must have something else to wear in her employee locker. I catch a snippet of her conversation with the customer she’s helping. “Girl, she ain’t got no money.
Tell me about it, Crystal.
“Crystal?” I greet her as she turns the light off on #7.
Her customer service tone vanishes in a second. She angles her head and the look she gives me is pure I can’t even with you.
“Crystal…”
She holds her hand up. Whatever I did to her, she has no intention of hurrying for me. “Let me close out this register. I’ll be right with you.”
“Okay. I’ll just wait over there.” Max and I head to the cafeteria area and grab a table while Crystal takes her sweet time doing whatever it is she’s doing.
She walks over, pacing herself like a queen. “Thing is,” she says, “I don’t have anyone to watch Kai tonight.”
“You have kids?” It comes out like, you have herpes? And how could she not have a babysitter yet? This date has been on the books since way before I lost my mind.
“What’s the matter with you? You know Kai.”
“My memory is a little fuzzy,” I say.
“Oh.
” I think that’s the first time it hits her that I have a real injury. I think about explaining the whole thing, but what’s the point? We have other things to worry about.
I level with her. “Crystal, do you understand the stakes here?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is a date with a millionaire. He has flown his ass to LA just to see you. He wants to take you to a fancy dinner and get to know you.” I gesture to her surroundings, my implication obvious—she can do better than this. “This is a powerful guy.”
She shrugs. “Whatever. Same bullshit, different restaurant.”
I take a deep breath. “This is a good opportunity. He has money and it doesn’t look like you do.”
“Umm, that’s what you said the last time.”
Kobra.
“Kobra has money,” I say, more to myself than to Crystal.
“He’s a straight-up criminal.”
“Did something happen on that date?”
She nods. “Let me tell you about that fool. He took me to some warehouse by the pier. He has a tricked-out loft inside. It’s sketch as hell and full of drugs. When we showed, he was throwing some party with his homies. Booze, drugs, girls. You get it.”
I nod. Sounds romantic.
“I don’t want anything to do with that. I signed up for this to get out of that lifestyle. Enough motherfuckers like that around here.”
“Understandable. Sorry about that.”
“I was cool, just gonna ride it out and have a few free drinks. But dude was showing off big time.”
I just let her keep talking.
“They’re all high and he’s like, ‘Wanna see my snake?’ I was like, ‘Hell no, brother, this ain’t that kind of date.’ He laughed like it was the funniest thing ever and he brought me downstairs. He had all these snakes and shit, like zoo animals. One was this pure white python with yellow stripes. I wouldn’t wanna see it through glass. Pure killer. No soul.”
“Oh my God.” This is shocking but somehow not. What else would an asshole with millions who fancies himself a snake charmer buy?