Smart vs. Pretty (18 page)

Matt said, “I’m expecting a telegram from Texas. For a Matthew Schemerhorn.”

Mrs. Vitz examined Matt anew. “Do you have verification, young man?” she asked. Matt took out his wallet. The two of them pored over his identification material, and Amanda drifted toward the back of the store to look at the calamatas. She popped a black Italian olive in her mouth. Her tongue depitted the black fruit. She spit the stone into her hand and put it in the pocket of her pea coat. When she turned back toward Mrs. Vitz, the olive lady was handing a yellow telegram to Matt. He said to Amanda, “We’re done here.”

The puzzled younger sister said good-bye to Mrs. Vitz and submitted to another rib-crushing hug. Once outside she said, “So, Mr. Schemerhorn. Telegram from the underground? Is it anarchy yet?”

“What would you say if I told you I come from a Texas oil family that’s got more money than God, but has alienated me with their extravagance and Southern-fried racism?”

“You don’t have a Texas accent.”

“I’m going to bail you out, Amanda,” he said, glinty eyed. “I’m going to save your sorry-ass store, perpetuate your dream, and help you get revenge on the people who’ve fucked with you. This telegram”—he waved the yellow paper in the wind—“is confirmation that eighty thousand dollars has been wired to your checking account from my dad’s bank in Dallas. I got your account number from your checkbook last night. I couldn’t sleep. Your sister is very loud when she has sex.”

“You went through my purse?”

“I didn’t find any birth control.” He smiled sheepishly. “Much to my disappointment.”

“I cannot believe you!”

“I thought about giving you money last night, but after I heard what that dwarf Phearson was up to, I called Dad right away. First time we’ve spoken in months.” Matt beamed at Amanda. “I’m going to be your savior. What do you say to that?”

Amanda said, “I’m still not over the invasion of privacy.”

“It’s not worth eighty thousand dollars?”

She considered this. “You’re not
giving
us this money.”

Matt said, “If I agreed to waive any kind of partnership, would you accept it?”

“No,” said Amanda. “I wouldn’t understand why you’re doing it, and I’d feel awkward.”

He said, “What if I told you I was doing it because I can?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Or that it’s because I respect what you’re trying to do?”

“I already know that’s not true.”

Amanda had to admit, the fact that he had money made him more interesting to her. She wondered if, in five years, Matt would be running the family oil business and laughing about his years as an anarchist graffiti artist. She liked the image. She found it sexy, even. Amanda had always liked Matt. She knew he was part of her destiny when he’d walked into the store for a job and fit the jeans. She said, “Just how much money does your family have?”

“Eight hundred million. At last count.”

The sound of that amount was like Cupid’s arrow to Amanda’s heart. “Your money makes you sexy.”

“I would hate to think you found me attractive for my money only. But I won’t hate it too much.”

“I still can’t accept it,” she said. Amanda didn’t see how she could. She’d known Matt for only a couple of weeks. He could be tricking them, too, the way Todd had tricked her parents. Besides, the last week had saddled her with a moral debt to Chick and a financial debt to Todd. However attractive Matt seemed in his loadedness, Amanda didn’t want to owe anyone anything for a while. At least until she’d cleaned her slate.

“I see how much you want to help,” she said, “but I can’t trade one debt for another. And yours would be bigger.”

Matt said, “You want the truth? Fine. I do have a selfish motive in making this loan. I told my dad on the phone that I wanted the money to invest in a small business. He always wanted me to take over his company, and I told him that this smaller project would be a trial. He could see if I had the right stuff. If this business succeeds, I’ll go home and work for him. If it flops, he’ll agree that I’m not cut out for his world, sign over my trust fund, and let me pursue my own goals. I’m giving you this money so you’ll fall on your ass within a year, and then my dad will cut me loose from his golden suspenders, and sign over the three point four million I’ve got coming to me from dear old dead Granny.”

“And with that money you’ll lead the revolution?” asked Amanda. He was just as greedy as the rest of them.

“I’d do something better than buy Porsches and herds of cattle for slaughter.”

“And this money has absolutely nothing to do with how much you want me?” she asked.

He blushed. “I’m not trying to buy you.”

Amanda believed him. “Did you love your grandmother?” she asked.

He was confused by that, but admitted, “Yeah. I really did.”

“Do I have to promise that we’ll fail?”

“On that score, I won’t need a verbal guarantee.”

Amanda held out her hand. “Then I accept.”

F
rank watched Clarissa fuss with her hair, her nails, her clothes. Being alone with Frank was making Clarissa uncomfortable. Guilt did mess with one’s composure. Despite the fact that the blonde deserved a taste of emotional distress, Frank took little satisfaction in feeding it to her. Expose the most popular girl in the cafeteria—not as clever or as formidable as she seemed—and you’re left with hair, nails, and clothes to pin on the paper doll.

Frank said, “I’m going to take a cue from Amanda and forgive you for everything. I don’t hate you. If anything, I pity you.”

“You pity
me?
” asked Clarissa.

Frank said, “I’m happy and relieved to say that I do.”

Clarissa asked, “And why’s that?”

How could Frank explain? Her attraction to Clarissa had been baseless. She’d believed Clarissa held powers she lacked, as if a friendship with this dazzling creature would fortify her drab self and fill her up with things she never had. A vain bit of foolishness, Frank knew. But how sad for Clarissa: Had anyone been genuinely interested in Clarissa for herself? Frank, in her own fumbling, awkward way, had tried to use Clarissa; she never really cared for or about her. No sense in lingering on her own bad behavior, though. Frank had paid her price. A high one. Clarissa didn’t appear to mourn any loss at all. Not even of her own myth.

“Why do I pity you?” asked Frank. Because Clarissa had no apparent feelings besides guilt. Because she operated out of pure self-interest and therefore had to be lonely and disconnected—and she didn’t seem to know it. Even after she’d been lied to repeatedly by Piper, she still thought he was her friend.

Clarissa said, “Yes. Tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

The blonde tapped her nails on the kitchen table. Could she be impatient for a character assassination? Frank said, “I think it’d be a good idea for us to move on to a more productive topic.”

“For instance?” she asked.

“Redemption.”

“Redemption?”

“Yes,” said Frank. “How you can make up for the harm you’ve done. Otherwise—and I’m not a Catholic, so you’ll have to help me with the religious connotation—you’re going to hell.”

The older sister studied Clarissa’s reaction. The only moving parts on her face were her poreless pink nostrils. Frank said, “You’re not going to cry, are you?” Frank couldn’t help marveling at the idea that her words could wound the stone princess.

Clarissa shook her head, “Of course not.”

“Your nostrils are fluttering.”

“This is very hard for me.”

Frank was shocked. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to do that.” Maybe Clarissa had remnants of a sympathetic heart after all.

“It’s always difficult to talk about money,” said Clarissa.

Had the conversation taken a turn? “Now I’m mystified,” said Frank.

“You know all the renovations we did before the contest? And the ad in the paper? And the new sign and awning?”

“The ones you told us not to worry about paying for, yes. I remember them.” Frank’s head began to swell. After what she’d done, Clarissa wouldn’t dare ask her for money. “What about redemption?” asked Frank.

Clarissa said, “This isn’t funny, Francesca.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“I put out three thousand dollars.”

“I guess you’ll have to eat that expense.”

The blonde’s fluttering nostrils were flaring now like those of a mad cow. “I have no intention of losing that money,” she said.

Frank couldn’t believe…no, scratch that. At this point, she should have expected this from Clarissa. To think that she’d felt sorry for this bloodsucker. Frank said, “In the balance of our debts to each other, I think you’re making out pretty well to lose just three thousand dollars.”

“I want what’s rightfully mine,” said Clarissa. Now that a job at the
Post
was probably remote, Clarissa must have realized how desperately she needed the money. She was a student, after all. And Armani didn’t come cheap. Frank sensed that if she were to get additional service from Clarissa, she should strike now.

“You’ll never see a penny,” said Frank calmly. “Unless…no, forget it.”

“What?” Clarissa asked.

Frank shook her head. “You’d never go for it.”

“I might.”

Frank had to smile as she reeled in her piranha. “I’ll write you a check right now”—it would bounce from here to Cleveland—“if you’ll perform one last task as chief marketer and head of public relations for Romancing the Bean.” Clarissa pursed her lips skeptically. Frank continued. “I want you to call Piper Zorn and ask him to dig a bit on Todd Phearson. Titles, mortgages, arrests, blood tests, DMV, pet registration, fishing license, tax returns, whatever he can find.” The
Post
had unlimited access to City Hall, the Internet, the IRS. The researchers at the paper could get information that might be damaging to Todd. Frank wasn’t above blackmail. It was grasping, but if she didn’t grasp, she’d sink.

Clarissa said, “You want me to lie to Piper?”

“As the wheel turns.”

“You think this is some kind of soap opera?”

“No, I meant that he lied to you, and now you can lie to him.” Frank wondered again how she could have put so much faith in Clarissa. She wasn’t that smart at all, nor savvy. Frank had wanted to believe in her so badly—for the café’s sake, as well as her own—that her brain had edited out the flimsy parts of Clarissa’s character, and dwelled on the impressive.

Clarissa said, “Instead of a check, I’d like cash.”

“I can pay you fifteen hundred dollars today, the rest next week.” Or next lifetime, as Amanda might say.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” she said, and picked up the kitchen phone to call the
Post
. Clarissa stared at Frank while she said, “Piper, it’s Clarissa. Great story by Walter Robbins today. Uh-huh. Yeah. Listen, I have a favor to ask. I’m doing some business with a man out here in Brooklyn. He’s been hitting on me. He says he’s not married, but I want to be sure. Can you look into that for me? Uh-huh. Yes, he said he’s rich, too. And that he has a big car. I know. I know. Uh-huh. Yeah. Yeah. I know. Can’t you ask one of those computer guys to do a search on him? Todd Phearson.” She spelled it. Correctly. “Lives in Brooklyn Heights. Owns the Heights Cafe. Yeah. Okay. Hold on one second. I have to sneeze.”

She cupped the receiver in her palm. “What’s our availability?”

Frank said, “We’ll go to the bank to get some cash, and then come back. Half an hour. But don’t have him call here. We’ll call him.”

Into the phone, Clarissa said, “I’ll call you in half an hour for an update. No, I’m not near a fax. Or a phone. Battery’s dead. I’ll have to call you.” She hung up. To Frank, she said, “He’s going to do it. I suppose he feels guilty about playing me. He’s really not such a bad guy.”

Frank had to pinch her arm to keep from saying anything. She needed to keep Clarissa on somewhat friendly terms until she got the dirt on Todd. After that, Clarissa would have to be banished. Frank looked at her watch. It was two o’clock.

“Shall we?” asked Frank. The women put on their coats and walked outside. The gate was still locked in front. Frank fought back a sob sound as she thought of the encounter with Todd earlier. Looking for blackmail material was a desperate move, but she had to go through the motions. Fighting a battle wasn’t so awful when you knew the outcome.

People rushed by on the street; the sun was dropping like a basketball. Everything seemed to be speeding up as Frank neared the finish of one part of her life. Even though the end loomed bleakly, Frank couldn’t wait to get there. Amanda would probably call this optimism. Frank wasn’t ready to commit to that.

The two women walked silently all the way to the Citibank on Montague Street, across from the Rite Aid. Frank filled out a withdrawal slip and took her place in the teller line behind a young married couple with a baby girl in an umbrella stroller. Clarissa waited by the Christmas tree that still stood in the corner of the cavernous bank (actually, a converted mansion with giant marble columns and a glorious mosaic on the smooth-tiled floor). The young couple were talking quietly about their plans—could they afford to stay in the city with the baby? Could they stand to leave? The unhurried conversation about their future together disarmed Frank. When she was twenty-three, Frank assumed she’d have a fantastic career in publishing and a loving husband, kids by thirty. At thirty-three, Frank was surprised by her reaction to this young couple. Instead of envying them, she considered them bland and ordinary, compromised by their child and each other.

“Next!” called the teller. The couple walked off, clutching their deposit slips and stroller handle.

To herself, Frank said, I wouldn’t change places with them. She wouldn’t change places with anyone. The pleasant surprise of self-acceptance had come suddenly. When a teller flashed her light and said, “Next!” Frank didn’t hear her.

The man behind Frank tapped her on the shoulder. She snapped out of her epiphany-induced freeze and moved forward to take her turn. Frank handed the teller—an elderly black woman—her withdrawal slip and Citicard. The teller punched keys on her computer.

“How would you like this?” she asked.

Frank said, “Fifties and hundreds.”

The teller handed Frank her cash and a receipt, saying, “If you’d like to talk to our investment services, you can make an appointment with the rep at the information booth.”

“Pardon?” Frank couldn’t see the need for investment advice about the six hundred dollars that remained in her account.

“You don’t want to let seventy-nine thousand dollars just sit in a checking account, do you?” asked the teller.

Frank said, “There must be some mistake.” She glanced at her receipt. Her eyes blinked twice: the remaining balance was $79,343.00.

The teller punched a few more keys. “There was a deposit of eighty thousand dollars made to your account earlier today.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot.” Frank had no idea what was going on, but if this was a bank error, she certainly didn’t want it corrected.

“You forgot about eighty thousand dollars?”

“I’m on medication,” Frank said. She leaned forward and whispered, “Prozac.” The teller’s eyes got wide. Then Frank said, “I’d like a money order for fifty-five thousand dollars, please.”

The teller said, “I’ll need a photo ID and another withdrawal slip. Also, I think I need to clear an amount that large with the bank manager.”

She didn’t have a driver’s license, and her passport was back at the apartment. She said, “Clear what you need to clear. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes with an ID.”

“The bank closes in fifteen minutes.”

“Shit,” Frank said. “Where’s a phone?”