Breaking the Bank (40 page)

“I'm not married to him,” said Mia. But she knew she was betraying him all the same.

“I know,” said Patrick. “If you were, I wouldn't be here. I have a theory about fucking married women; it's a surefire way to get yourself killed. Anyway, that's not the only problem.”

When she didn't respond, he continued.

“I mean, can you picture introducing me to your family and friends? Trotting me out at the office cocktail party? How about your brother—you think Mr. Hotshot Lawyer is going to appreciate his sister getting banged by a guy like me?”

“A guy like you. What kind of guy are you anyway? You haven't told me.” She shifted away from him slightly so she could look at him better.

“Told you what? I've got no secrets from you, College Girl. I'm an open book.
Your
open book.” He took her hand, put it between his legs.

“You know what I mean. How do you make a living? Do you have a job? Why were you locked up that night?” She felt him throb under her touch, but she wanted to keep talking.

“No nine-to-five prison sentence for me; I couldn't stand any fucking boss telling me what the fuck I can and can't do. Time clocks, rules and regs, pensions and paychecks—they're all bullshit, see? Pure bullshit. Me? I'm a dabbler. I know a lot of people, go a lot of places, do a lot of things.”

“Sounds . . . complicated.”

“Not really. It's a little of this, a little of that. I'm a broker type. Sometimes I buy; sometimes I sell.”

“Buy what? Sell what?”

“Whatever people want. Whatever they need. Only no drugs, and no weapons. Fucking drugs killed my wife, Trish, and I wouldn't touch them for a million fucking bucks. Not for two million, not for ten million. And weapons are for wimps who've got gun barrels where their dicks ought to be. If I have to fight someone, I use my hands. You know what I mean? I fight like a man, not a pussy with an automatic.”

“Do you get in a lot of fights?” Mia asked.

“As many as I have to, College Girl.”

“You could go to college, too, you know.” She sat up, excited. “You're certainly smart enough. You could go to Brooklyn College, or one of the other city schools. I'd help you with the applications.”

“I'll bet you would,” he said. “And I appreciate the offer. But college for me? I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Let's just say I did take you up on it—let you help me with filling out those papers, stick me in a suit and parade me in front of those admissions guys. They ask me a lot of questions, and I give all the right answers. Let's say I even get in. It wouldn't change a thing. I'm thirty-three, and the clay's already set. Yeah, I might go to college all right. But I'd never be a college boy.” Something like pain flickered— fleetingly—across his face, and then it was gone.

“That's okay,” she said, touching his cheek. “Maybe I've had enough college boys in my life anyway. Maybe you should stay just the way you are.”

“That's pretty much all most of us do.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Anyway, I'm getting a little tired of you asking all these questions. Now it's my turn.”

“Okay, what do you want to ask?”

“What's better, you on top or me? Do you like it from behind? How about when I do you with my tongue? Those are the questions that really count.” He put his hand between her thighs and started stroking. He was right; this was really all she needed—or wanted—to know about him. Who cared about the rest of it? Not her, not now.

L
ATER
, M
IA GOT
up and climbed on a chair to get to the shoe box in the closet.

“What are you doing?”

“Here,” she said, taking five hundred-dollar bills from the box. “This is for you.”

“Hey, I know I'm good, but—”

“It's the money from the other day. From the cash machine. I want you to have it.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. You take it; you can use it.”

“So can you.”

“That's why we're splitting it,” she said, pressing it into his hand.

“You're something else, College Girl,” he said. “I'll take it, but then you have to let me buy you dinner.”

“Deal. Where do you want to go?”

220;Right here,” he said. “Can you call in for Chinese?”

T
HEY ATE FRIED
vegetable dumplings, bok choy, noodles with peanut sauce, and Buddhist Delight sprawling on Mia's bed. Patrick had put on his pants, in deference to the delivery guy; Mia, a robe that had been a gift from Betty.

“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?”

A
FTER 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.”

M
IA LEFT
P
ATRICK
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.

P
ATRICK 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.

R
IGHT BEFORE
P
ATRICK
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 other 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?”

A
FTER
C
OX 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.