Breaking the Bank (32 page)

“Here,” she said, taking the chocolate bars from her bag. “These are for you.”

He peeled back the tissue paper and looked at them. “Chocolate.” He continued to stare at the wrappers. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“I hope the flavors aren't too way out for you,” she said. “It's you. You're too way out for me.”

“Am I?” She stepped closer. “I just can't figure you out.” But he didn't move away. “That story I told you? About the cash machine? It's true.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No. Not crazy. And I can prove it, too. Just give me a chance.”

“You're serious, aren't you?”

“That's what I told you. Now I'm here to show you.”

“Show me what?” He sounded suspicious. “Look,” she said, and started to unbutton the coat. “What the—” He stopped when she reached the bra. “What are you doing?”

“Isn't it obvious?” she said. She began to untie the belt. “I think you really
are
crazy,” he said, but he stepped closer and encircled her bare waist with one hand; in the other, he gripped the chocolate bars.

“Oh, I am,” she said. “Crazy for you.” Were these words even true? She wanted them to be.

He had his lips an inch from hers when Emilio poked his head out the door. “Hey, Fred, they need you inside.” Fred dropped the chocolate bars with a small clatter while Mia quickly started buttoning her coat.

“I'm coming,” he said. And then to Mia, “I'll try to get off early, okay? Go back to your place and wait for me?” He knelt, gathering the chocolate.

“Okay,” she said, thinking,
Yes, yes, yes.
“I'll wait.”

“But first we have to talk.”

“Talk. Of course.” She retied the belt and followed Fred back inside, once again through the kitchen. She didn't know what Emilio had seen, but she studiously stared down at the floor; the black rubber mats with their raised black dots stared back at her.

B
ACK IN HER
apartment, Mia shed the coat but left on the underwear and boots. Fred would enjoy it. Buzzing with happy anticipation, she made her bed and brushed her teeth—again. She was grateful to be getting another chance; she would try not to ruin things this time around. Spying the still-folded copy of
The
New York Times,
she decided to tackle the crossword puzzle. She and Stuart had gone through an intense period of working the puzzles. Sometimes they'd get two copies of the paper and make it a contest; on Sundays, they did it together, yanking the pen out of each other's hand. But somehow they had lost the habit. She only vaguely recalled those arcane little words:
en,
a printer's measure;
joe,
coffee. When the door buzzed, she was so flustered that she knocked the paper off the table; it fluttered down and fanned out on the floor.

He's here already,
she thought, hurrying to answer it.
He's here.
She yanked the door open, and there, in the open rectangle, stood Patrick. Not Fred. Patrick! He had come to kill her. Of course. He had come to kill her, and it was just a question of how—a bullet, a blade, the brute force of his bare white hands as they closed tightly around her throat. Her mouth fell open, as if her jaw had been unhinged.

“Hey, College Girl.” He barged right past her and into her apartment. “Love the look.” He rubbed his chin, with its three-day growth, thoughtfully, as if he'd had to consider the idea.

“I thought you were in jail.” Her voice was a strangled thing. Should she scream? Hit him with something? Run down the fire escape? All of these things tumbled through her mind, like clothes in the dryer. But
first she had to get dressed. She grabbed the trench coat, draped over a chair, and pulled it on. Her fingers were shaking as she fumbled with the buttons.

“Hell, no!” he said, with that snorting laugh of his. “They try to pin all sorts of shit on me, but shit doesn't stick to Patrick X. Fitzpatrick. I'm like rubber; everything just bounces right off.”

“How did you find me?” She was squeaking. Mia Mouse.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.

“It wasn't so hard.” He was wearing the same zip-up white sweatshirt she'd seen him in last time—it was a dazzling white now—and he dug around in the pocket. Did he have a gun? Was that what he was searching for? “After you left that night, I overheard someone at the station saying your last name. Saul. Mia Saul. So of course I remembered it; I've got an amazing memory, have I told you that? Anyway, once I knew your name, finding you was easy. Easy as pie.”

“Oh,” she said, but she was mesmerized by the movement of his hand. When he finally took it out, she involuntarily sucked in her stomach, as if she had been hit. But then she saw that he was not holding a gun or weapon; he was holding a cell phone. Her cell phone.

“You left this behind.” He extended his hand. “My phone,” she croaked, taking it. “How did you get my phone?” But she knew the answer to this already; the phone had been missing since the day she had gone to his house in Coney Island.

“Maureen found it. You must have dropped it, so I wanted to bring it back.” He smoothed down his hair. “It seemed like the least I could do.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you very much.” She should have been screaming now, screaming her head off. But something stopped her. If she screamed, she would make him angry. She remembered quite well what he was like when he was angry. And she also remembered what he was like when he was not, when she talked to him
like he was human. That was what she had to do now—appeal to his human side. She knew it was in there. She had seen it.

“I actually came to thank
you,
College Girl. For that money.”

“The money,” she repeated. Fear was making her into an idiot, a mindlessly parroting idiot.
Think,
she told herself.
Think for your life.

“Yeah, the money. Maureen gave it to me and told me how you'd come looking for me. Not many people would do that, College Girl. Nah—that's not right. Not
any.
”

“Well, I thought you might be able to use it,” she said, trying to control her trembling. “Since it's almost Christmas.”

“Cash is good in any season. Christmas, Easter, Veterans Day—you name it.”

“Cash is handy, all right,” Mia agreed. She had lost the struggle and was shivering violently.

“You cold?” Patrick asked, staring at her more closely. “You look cold.”

“Yes, I guess I am.”

“Well, seeing as you're not wearing very much under that coat, no wonder.” She must have looked terrified because he continued, “Hey, you don't have to worry about me. You could parade around here buck-naked and I wouldn't do a thing to you. Not unless you asked me to, anyway.” His grin was lewd yet charming.

“I didn't think you were that kind of person,” Mia said.
Find the human side,
she reminded herself, though the shivering did not stop.

“And you'd be damn straight, too. I've always had a soft spot for the ladies; I'm not ashamed to admit it, either. I'm a leg man myself. Know many leg men? We're a special breed; a breed apart. And seeing as I'm a leg man, I can tell you that yours are choice, Grade A specimens. Not that the rest of you is bad, either. Not bad at all. But I don't stick my finger in the frosting without an invitation. Anyone, and I mean
anyone,
I ever laid a hand on has wanted it as bad as me or more. I never forced myself, you know? Never had to.”

“No, I'm sure you didn't.”

Mia was desperate to get him out of there. “Hey, do you have anything to drink?” he asked.

Drink! Jesus, the last thing she wanted to do was offer him a drink! But she was too afraid to say no.

“I don't have anything alcoholic, if that's what you mean—”

“How about a Coke? You got a Coke?”

“I'll check,” Mia said, hurrying to the kitchen with Patrick close behind. She never bought Coke. But maybe there was a carton of orange juice. All she found was a nearly empty bottle of organic apricot nectar. She hadn't shopped for food this week, and her fridge, like her cupboards, was bare.

“No Coke,” she said. She held the bottle aloft. “Will this be okay?”

“Sure thing, College Girl,” he said, accepting the small glass she offered. He sniffed it and then raised it to his lips. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she repeated, though she didn't have a glass. She adjusted the belt more tightly around herself.

“Looks like you're pretty low on provisions, College Girl.”

“I just haven't gotten around to going to the supermarket.”

“Yeah? Is that it? Or are you short on money?”

“No, I'm okay.”

“Doesn't look like it.”

“No?”

“No. Looks like you coulda used that five hundred as much as me.”

“That's what you think?”

“Uh-huh. When I first saw those bills come spilling out of the card, I thought, ‘Well, fuck me stupid, she's loaded, she's rich, she's got one silver spoon coming out her mouth, another out her ear, and a third one out her ass.' But then I found out where you lived, and I thought, ‘This does not compute.' And now that I'm here, I'm even more confused. I mean, this building is a shit hole, College Girl. A regular shit hole. No offense, of course.”

“Of course,” Mia squeaked. “Now you've seen where I live—that's a shit hole, too. It's the house I grew up in though. All seven of us lived there, plus my parents. But my dad was a garbageman. Broke his back hauling other people's crap. How about your dad? I bet he didn't have much to do with garbage.”

“Uh, no, he didn't.”

“What'd he do?”

“He was an astronomer.”

“No shit? Did he, like, name stars and stuff?”

“He taught astronomy. At Columbia University.”

“See, that's what I mean. If your dad was strolling the halls of a big-time, high-class place like that, then you shouldn't be living here. And since you
are
living here, in a shit hole with an empty fridge, how do you come off giving me, a stranger, five hundred bucks? Are you some kind of saint or something? A holy person?”

“Holy? Me?” Mia actually found it in her to smile. It was a weak, thin smile, but a smile all the same. “I don't think so.” She looked down at the coat that was now covering her leopard-clad body, the va-va-voom boots.

“You must be,” Patrick insisted. “There's no other explanation for it. Someone like you, who needs scratch, is giving it away? Like I said, it doesn't compute.”

The buzzer sounded, imperious and loud. This time it
was
Fred; she was sure of it. She looked at Patrick, who looked at the door.

“Aren't you going to answer it?” he asked.

Mia teetered to the door and asked, still in that maddening, mousy squeak, “Who is it?”

“It's me. Fred.”

“Your boyfriend?” Patrick asked.

Mia nodded dumbly. “Well, let him in.”

She opened the door and there stood Fred, his brain working hard to process what he was seeing.

“So you're the boyfriend,” Patrick said, looking Fred up and down. “Who are
you
?” Fred spit out. “Patrick Fitzpatrick,” he said, and thrust out his hand. Fred stared at the hand for a second before taking it.

“College Girl over here'll tell you all about me. But you don't have to worry. I was just leaving anyhow.” He set the empty glass down on the table.

“Okay,” said Fred.
“Okay.”
“Thanks for the juice. Nectar. Whatever,” said Patrick. He burped softly.

“You're welcome.”

“Take care of yourself, College Girl,” Patrick said. “Stay safe. Don't let those men in blue—or anyone else—fuck you over, okay?”

“I won't,” Mia said. “I promise.”

“And you.” Patrick turned to Fred. “Boyfriend. You're a lucky son of a bitch, and I hope you know it. You got yourself a special girl here. Very special. You better treat her right. Otherwise you'll have me to fuck with, and let me tell you, it won't be pretty. I can be one mean cocksucker when I'm mad.”

Fred didn't say anything, so Patrick turned back to Mia. “You hear that, College Girl? He gives you any trouble, you know who to call. Patrick's your man, so you don't have to worry.” He hiked up his white pants, which had begun a slow descent past the waistband of his boxers, and zipped up his white sweatshirt. Then, with unexpected dignity, he walked through the door and disappeared.

P
ACK A BAG
,” ordered Fred. “Now.” He looked at her, standing in the kitchen, shaking so hard she couldn't move.

“O-o-kay,” she said, her voice as quavery as the rest of her. “But where am I going?”

“Home with me. You can't stay here anymore. Not when that guy knows where you live.” He breathed out savagely. “You're lucky he didn't slit your throat from ear to ear. After he had raped you.”

Mia's response to that was to burst into tears.

“Hey,” said Fred, at her side in an instant. “Hey. Fred's here now. It's all right.” He held her while she cried. Mia knew he thought this was about Patrick, and, of course, in a way it was. But there was more to it than that. It was everything, really—Eden's being gone, the damn DAT with its toxic glow, her belated realization that maybe Lloyd had always been an opinionated, controlling egomaniac and she'd never really understood that until now. She felt totally unmoored, lines cut and vessel spinning wildly out to sea.

“Come on,” Fred said. “Let's get your stuff, okay?”

F
RED LIVED IN
a narrow row house in Kensington, a neighborhood deeper into the borough than Park Slope. Outside, the place looked suitable for midgets, or at least for the anorexically inclined; it was only sixteen feet wide and seemed squashed by the houses on either side. But inside, the place felt surprisingly open and flowing. He had knocked down several interior walls and installed a new flight of stairs with spaces between the treads; the new staircase, made of pale, pickled wood, looked as if it were floating, suspended between the two
floors it connected. The back wall of the house was mostly glass, in the form of sliding doors, and beyond that Mia could see what looked like a garden, now blanketed with snow. She thought of the garden at Juicy, which she knew was Fred's work. The man was certainly handy with a spade.