Breaking the Bank (41 page)

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?”

* * *

T
HERE 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.”

M
IA 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 sleepy 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.

Under her coat, she started to sweat. The blouse, clearly made of some infernal synthetic material, stuck to her armpits like Saran Wrap. She stopped outside the courthouse to adjust her skirt, which had twisted uncomfortably on her waist, and noticed there was a run in her panty hose. No spare pair and no time to go buy one either; there was nothing to do but submit her bag and her person to the security guards at the entrance and, once inside, scan the space for Cox.

He was there, of course, topcoat draped neatly over his arm, briefcase clasped firmly in one small hand. His suit today was also gray flannel—she fervently hoped no one would think they planned it— and his shirt was the palest shade of lilac. His hammered gold cuff links looked heavy enough to bruise.

“You've got a run,” he observed. “It just happened on the way here,” she said. “Sorry.”

“I've got a fresh pair. Hang on.” He set down the briefcase and snapped open its heavy clasps. Inside, on top of the neatly arranged papers, were several pairs of panty hose in unopened packages. There was also a necktie, a box of Band-Aids, a bottle of mouthwash, and a comb.

“You carry these around with you?” He certainly thought of every-thing.

“You think you're the first client to spring a leak on court day?” He handed her one of the packages. “Go to the ladies' room and put them on.”

When she emerged, she saw Stuart deep in conversation with Cox. Lloyd was nowhere in sight, which was a relief. The expression on Stuart's face—so intense, so absorbed, so focused—reminded her of how he looked at eight, at ten, at fourteen, at seventeen. He was her brother. No one else knew what it was like to be the children of those particular parents, in that particular family; Stuart was a witness,
the
witness, to their shared past, a touchstone for everything that had ever happened to her and everything that ever would. She was glad he was there.

“Hey, Stu,” she said, touching his sleeve. “Hey, yourself.” He hugged her. “I was just grilling Chris on your prospects. I think you're in good hands.”
Good, though small,
thought Mia.

“There's something I just found out,” Cox said. “Costello isn't going to press you on the locket. At least not today.”

“Not any day,” said Mia. “Look what I have.” She pulled out the receipt.

“I thought you said you couldn't produce one,” Cox said, narrowing his eyes as he read.

“I was wrong.”

“Well, that takes care of one headache,” he said, folding the receipt and tucking it into his briefcase. “Now we just have to deal with the bill. But you know what to do in there, right? You've been coached.”

“Coached by the best,” she said. He nodded. They rode up in the elevator and followed the small stream of people headed toward the courtroom.

Cox had been right when he said that the joint would be jumping. The rows of wooden benches—pewlike, Mia thought—were almost completely filled. There were twenty-year-olds and seventy-year-olds, blacks and whites, Asians and Latinos. Here was a big burly guy wearing wraparound sunglasses; he was accompanied by a woman in a black vinyl coat, open to reveal her plunging neckline and a complicated array of gold necklaces. Next to her sat a young woman with badly bitten-down nails; she was with an older woman who was furiously winding a skein of yarn around one wrist.

Mia saw Costello up near the front. And there was Fred, seated on one side. Mia waggled her fingers at him, a tentative wave. He waggled back. Since he had told her he would be here, she was not surprised. What did surprise her, though, was the sight of Patrick, sitting in the last row. What was he doing here? Suddenly, it seemed like there was a small grenade in the room. The blouse felt as if it were glued to her underarms; she had better not take off the coat. Patrick caught her looking at him, and he mouthed something; she was not sure what he was trying to say, but it seemed to contain the words
College Girl.

“Come on,” Cox whispered, as he steered them toward a bench near the front. “We have to find a seat.” Stuart worked his way in first, then Cox, and finally Mia, who awkwardly pressed past all the people in the
row, murmuring, “Sorry” and “Excuse me” as she went; she accidentally stepped on the foot of a grossly overweight woman whose peroxided hair revealed a stripe of rich, dark brown at the scalp.

“Ow!” wailed the woman, and several people turned to glare at Mia.

“I'm so sorry,” Mia said, as the woman struggled to bend over so she could massage her instep. “I didn't mean to—”

“Why don't you sit down?” said Cox gently, taking Mia's arm. Stuart looked over to see what was the matter. Giving the woman a last, apologetic look, Mia sat down. Knowing that Patrick was here threw her off balance. She willed herself not to look at him, though she was sure she could feel him looking at her.

“Milosz Karnov,” called out a policeman standing at the front of the courtroom. “Milosz Karnov, please approach the bench.”

The man with the sunglasses got to his feet and walked up to where the judge was seated. The judge. Mia had not really looked at him before, but she looked now. He was in his sixties, with a long, sorrowful-looking face and the big, down-turned eyes of a basset hound. His dark robe and wooden gavel seemed like props—not entirely real yet still menacing. He spoke quietly so she couldn't hear him, but his authority was clear; Mr. Wraparound seemed to lose his swagger and nodded his head meekly in response to something the judge said. A suited man with slicked-back hair—his lawyer?— interrupted, and the judge swiveled slightly so that he could turn his full, accusatory gaze in the man's direction. The man fell silent. More words were exchanged between the judge and Mr. Wraparound. Then the judge rapped his gavel—Mia could hear its implosive sound even from where she sat—and Mr. Wraparound left the courtroom, escorted by his lawyer and the woman in vinyl, who tottered behind on her spiky heels.