One Night (2 page)

I didn't back down. “Open your wallet.”

“Show me what you're selling.”

“Show me the money.”

“Let's see the laptop that Best Buy lost in the system.”

“I'm not opening the box for you until I have the money in my hand.”

“Two thousand. I'll give you top dollar for a stolen laptop.”

I paused, nose wanting to run, shivering, hunger pangs gripping my belly. “What's the catch?”

“If I open that box and there is actually a laptop in there, a brand-new MacBook Pro, and it has the paperwork, and it turns on, you get the two grand. If it doesn't power up, or if you're trying to do a version of the old rocks-in-a-box scam, then it's a new game. So, who's zooming who here?”

“Nobody is trying to run game.”

He said, “But if it's not a laptop, two hundred for a blow job.”

“You're disgusting. And someone married your ass?”

“You're leaving? I thought we had a transaction going on here.”

“Have a good life, and tell the cow you make go moo I send my sympathies.”

“Hold up.”

I said, “Don't come any closer.”

He put his hand on my jacket. I thought he was attacking me, but he just stuck something in my jacket pocket. His hand felt my breast when he did it. I went ballistic.

I snapped, “Don't touch me. I don't friggin' know you like that.”

I allowed what I had in my jacket sleeve to slide down to my hand. The box cutter.

If so many people hadn't been around, if it had been only him, I would've cut him deep.

There was a camera. Traffic wouldn't allow me to escape. I wasn't much of a runner.

I snapped, “This is America, asshole, and touching me like that is sexual harassment.”

He said, “Look, I might have come at you wrong.”

“
Might
have? Really? Your disgusting ass tries to get a blow job for two hundred and you grabbed my breast and you
might
have come at me wrong?”

“By accident. I touched the tits by accident.”

“What is your issue? I'm not a whore. Go screw your goddamn mother, asshole.”

I reached into my pocket and looked at what he had crammed inside. It could have been scraps of paper with less value than shinplaster, as worthless as a Canadian twenty-five-cent bill. But it was American money; hundred-dollar bills. I counted them quickly. Twenty one-hundred-dollar bills.

My hands and voice shook. “What the hell are you expecting for this much money?”

“Merry Christmas.”

“You're serious?”

“And I hope you have a happier New Year than I'm going to have.”

This was a setup. I knew this was a setup, but I didn't know what kind of setup this was.

I said, “Damn. I knew it. You're an undercover cop.”

He reached into his pocket, and I waited for him to flash his badge and ask me to turn around so he could put me under arrest. But he took out a gray business card and handed it to me.

He loosened his tie, took the box, said, “Sure this isn't a MacBook Pro?”

“Disgusting. You're disgusting. You should drop to your knees and apologize.”

“For what? Looks like you came out on the winning end of this con game.”

“You insulted me. Suck your pathetic dick for two hundred? I don't care how much money you give me—that was the most insulting thing you can say to a woman, besides calling her a cunt.”

He barked, “You insulted me first.”

I barked back at him, “How did I insult you?”

“I saw you across the street. You watched me. You picked me to be your target.”

“You saw me?”

“You pulled up into the gas station, eyes on me. Twenty other people here buying gas, and you looked at my car, jumped out of your pickup, came right to me, hurried to get to me before I left, came to me smiling like an innocent little girl, all fake, trying to be a sweet, sweet, sweet grifter. You picked me. So give me a goddamn break. You tried to con me. You insulted me first. Act like a con, and then expect to be treated like what, a lady? Act like a con and get treated with the respect you deserve.”

I snapped, “Take your money back.”

“The box is mine. I'll go home, give this to my unworthy wife as a Christmas present. She loves presents more than anything in the world. I'll watch her open it and see what it does for our marriage.”

“You're going to give it to your wife?”

“Perfect timing. She surprised me with one of my Christmas presents this morning. We usually do that twelve-days-of-Christmas thing, but we're skipping it this year. Got mine early. So this will be one of hers. Was going to try to get to our cabin in Big Bear and go skiing—lots of snow coming in. Was going to be me, her, her second dad, and his new girlfriend, but I think this will be a better present.”

“You're joking. You are not giving that to your wife.”

“Unopened. Might slap a pretty little bow on it and buy her a nice Christmas card to boot.”

“No. Don't. Look.”

“My wife loves presents more than anything in the world.”

“It's two kitchen tiles with a printout of a computer on both sides.”

“You should've used one tile. Then the weight would've been about right. Don't quit your day job.”

“Give it back.”

I stood there with his money in my hand, angry, now all but begging him to give me rocks in a box for a smooth two grand. Wasn't a thrill; there was no win if he knew it was a con. Honestly, I would've taken three hundred for the box, but he looked wealthy, so I had played hardball and doubled my price the way stores at The Grove overcharge for the same rags that will sell at T.J.Maxx in six months.

He asked, “Which one of these guys pumping gas here is your accomplice?”

“I'm alone. This was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“That's not smart.”

“I'm tougher than I look.”

“A lot of dead women have said that.”

“I'm more vigilant and tougher than a lot of dead women.”

“How much is your rent?”

“Not as much as your car note.”

“How much?”

After a few stubborn breaths, I said, “Eight twenty-five a month.”

“How far behind?”

“Two months.”

“That's rough. You're about to be evicted.”

I said, “Was about to be. I just need to get my second wind, time to think, that's all.”

“Then you'll be able to pay your rent.”

“Don't do this.”

“Do what?”

“Go from being the King of the Assholes to being . . . being all nice.”

The rain fell a little harder. Cold, damp wind blew the disgusting flavor of the city in my face, sent drops of rain into my open mouth. Tonight this area tasted like tongue-kissing a girl with bad breath while she had mushrooms, eggplant, and semen in her mouth. Even in the rain the streets smelled like dogs humping, a pack of lions, butt crack, and a cheap dentist's office in the far reaches of Pacoima.

He took a breath. “Ever heard of a place out in the Valley called Houghmagandy?”

“Afraid not. I don't party out that way anymore. Don't really party at all.”

“Ever heard of a place called Decadence?”

I said, “Why do you keep looking at me like something is wrong with me?”

“Does that piercing hurt your tongue?”

“Stop looking at my mouth. Eye contact or look at the ground—those are your options.”

“Part of me just wishes that I actually had a chance to have a conversation with you.”

“Why would a guy like you want to talk to a girl like me on a night like this?”

“To vent. To see if I'm wrong.”

“You probably are, but I'm sure you can afford to hire a professional to sort that out.”

“Would rather talk to you, a regular person, to get a woman's perspective.”

“To talk down on your wife with the same mouth you eat her hairy pussy with?”

“Just to talk and figure out things. For a moment, part of me wanted to talk.”

“The part of you that needs a two-hundred-dollar thrill from a woman on her knees.”

“Look, if I wanted to get sucked off, I'd stay in the 714, not come up to this filthy county. And she would be much prettier than you. Okay, I shouldn't have said that. Despite you coming at me like you thought I was an idiot, I should not have offered you cash for fellatio. At least not that much cash. Fifty is the going rate for a piece of ass; less if I went to Santa Ana and picked up a Vietnamese whore.”

“Go to hell.”

More sirens. This parade of police more severe, a carnival of bad news approaching. The man from Orange County reacted with heavy breathing, more intense than before, like he had a fear of sirens. Only he was tense, like he was witnessing a balloon being blown up, watching it get overblown, and waiting for it to explode. His eyes followed the police cars until they disappeared. My eyes did the same.

The man from Orange County didn't move. His cell phone rang, and that broke his trance, but he didn't answer, only hurried away from me. He took his package and opened his vehicle, dropped the box inside, then hopped in his car without looking back. His car started, the lights came on, and then the engine revved and he pulled away, into the mess of vehicles on Carson Boulevard, but ended up twenty feet away. He was stuck. His lips moved rapidly, expressed bottomless anger as he talked.

L.A. was a beautiful woman with a complex soul, a woman who had good intentions but had learned to be loyal only to herself, because she was all she had. L.A. was a bitch, and I related to her. I really did.

I sat in the battered white truck for a moment, in shock, two thousand dollars in my right hand.

Christmas songs came from every car that pulled in at the gas station. Sensory overload. This whole season was sensory overload, and was hitting me harder than it had last year. I just wanted to get to the twenty-sixth, wanted to get to the other side of Christmas and Christmas trees and joy and excited children.

I didn't want to be around people, and at the same time I didn't want to be alone.

The white truck at my disposal, I started its engine with a screwdriver. The truck's radio played an all-news station. Same news I had heard ten times since I had been in the streets this afternoon. A thirtysomething woman in Torrance had stabbed her three children. The oldest of the brood was only three years old. I spaced out. The news went on, said that near Malibu an older hotshot businessman—a prominent gentleman in his fifties—had been found beaten. It was the time of year for robberies, a Christmas tree being a sign of brand-new goods in the home, and they thought the guy had walked in on someone trying to burgle his home. Teenagers in the Dominguez Hills area had been arrested as masterminds of a sex-trafficking and prostitution ring; they had used social media to bait Asian girls. There were more horrid stories like that, the rest mostly shootings, because people in California love their guns as much as they love their cars. I sat staring at the rain, stuck on the news about the mother who'd broken down and killed her kids. Three babies had been slaughtered. All I could wonder was what could make a mother harm her children like that, when being a mother was hard, but the best thing in the world.

I turned the radio off. Didn't care about that bad news because it wasn't my bad news.

Moments later I ditched the stolen truck—dumped it about a block away, closer to the casino. I had stolen it from the grounds of the casino, so I wanted to go a few more blocks, but the traffic had a mental disorder, and I didn't want to be in a hot ride too much longer. That jerk from Orange County could've been on his phone calling the local police, could've been giving them all my info.

I still wouldn't put it past him to claim he had been robbed. Two thousand dollars would make me a felon, and being a felon would send my life on a trajectory I couldn't imagine, so I remained on edge. California lawmen are as nice as rattlesnakes, only there is antivenom for rattlesnakes. There are still a few loons with badges putting people into permanent sleep in both L.A. and Orange County.

Like I'd been taught by Vernon when I was growing up, I wiped away my fingerprints, then hurried back west. Accident up ahead. Two cars. One on fire. Plenty of looky-loos. I didn't gaze at the accident as I walked by. Didn't want to see a dead body. Didn't want to see anyone on fire, never again. I held my breath, averted my eyes, moved as fast as I could. Hot and sweaty, heart beating like a beast demanding to be freed, I caught my breath at the Denny's parking lot. That was where I had left my true ride, my first car note, my candy-white convertible Beetle. The filthy car was four years old. I bought it when it was a year old from a certified pre-owned VW dealer. That car had been an important purchase, the only serious purchase I'd ever made in my life; probably more important today because it was a safe car. And it was a convertible. It made me a true L.A. girl. My entry into the world of ragtops. Only had forty thousand miles on the odometer. I had been approved for my own loan. Didn't need a cosigner. Was independent. We loved that car. I still did. I still loved the car.

More sirens came closer, then the sound faded. More flashing lights did the same.

I went to my VW, removed my ratchet wig, let my long, healthy dreadlocks hang, ran my hand over my damp hair and evened it out. My mane had been washed and braided until yesterday, so now my locks were
über
curly. I called them my Ledisi locks, like the badass singer. I fixed my hair, then tossed my damp jean jacket into the backseat; it landed in the child seat, then tumbled to the floor, where it mixed with about two dozen Barbie dolls, broken Happy Meal toys, stale french fries, and only God knows how many types of crumbs.

I looked at my phone. No call, no text, no Facebook, no tweet, no Instagram, nothing from my boyfriend. Anxiety, irritation, and disappointment combined and changed into anger, mumbles, sighs, curses, and head shakes. I was about to text him again. Was tired of chasing him, like cat chasing dog. Had texted him so much I felt like I was a stalker. Was going to ask him to meet me at Roscoe's Chicken &Waffles, tell him the Obama Special and Arnold Palmer would be my treat tonight. He'd complain about the rain. He wouldn't want to meet me in the rain. But I was antsy. Couldn't stand this weather, couldn't bear the combination of dreariness and yuletide solitude, so as the world shopped to buy Jesus nothing for his birthday, I texted my boyfriend and told him that chicken and waffles would be my treat. I told him that I wouldn't talk his ear off tonight about Natalie Rose, told him I was in a good mood and really needed to see him this evening, then added a few
X
s and
O
s.

I waited two minutes. No response. That was my third message since eight this morning.

Yesterday was no more. Today was what it was. Tomorrow could only be better.

I pulled the money out, looked at the twenty hundred-dollar bills, counted them twice.

I had money. I could pay my friggin' rent. I could by a tank of gas for my goddamn car. Could get my hair done by Sheba. Could buy two-ply. Could splurge at Whole Foods before I settled my big bills. I wanted to live and eat like I used to live and eat for a week. Needed to let food be my medicine and let my medicine be healthy food. No. I wanted Whole Foods, wanted that status, but Whole Foods took up whole paychecks and was too expensive for a chick like me. I'd use my Whole Foods bags and go to the Food Barn and buy survival food at reasonable prices, let my malicious neighbors see me coming back home with three Whole Foods bags filled to the top. If I played it smart, I'd survive another month.

The rain. The wintry chill. The desire to not be alone until the sun came up.

But sometimes it was better to be alone. Nobody could hurt you.

My boyfriend. I broke down and called him. No answer. Didn't leave a message. I took out the card from the guy at the gas station, ignored his name but looked at his number.

I called him. No idea why. But I looked at the digits, at that area code from a faraway land, and I dialed his area code, exchange, and number, and listened to it ring once before he answered.

“Good evening. How may I help?”

I said, “It's me.”

“Who is ‘me'? This call came up blocked.”

“Guess I'm lucky you answered.”

“Who is this?”

“The girl you just met at the gas station.”

“The grifter who tried to con me, threatened me, and cursed me out.”

“The one and only woman who went off on a well-dressed insult in a suit.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Wanted to say thanks.”

“Still think I'm disgusting?”

“Men are worthless, so that hasn't changed.”

“We may be, but you can't live without us.”

“You love your wife?”

“Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your heart or burn down your house, you can never tell. Joan Crawford said that. And that is where I am now, in a house that is burning down.”

“I don't care for that quote.”

“It's true. For me, it's true.”

“How did you mess up?”

“What do you mean?”

“There are two hundred and ninety-two ways to make change for a dollar using pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, and half dollars. There are twice as many ways to piss a woman off.”

“Then there must be three times as many ways to make a man walk away from a woman.”

“You have an answer for everything.”

“Actually, no. I have more questions than answers. I'm good in my office. I'm great at work. My problem has always been in the social arena. I really don't know much about the heart of a woman.”

“Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. And wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“Do you really work at Best Buy?”

“No. And don't give that present to your wife. That's why I called. That's really bugging me.”

“Didn't think you worked at Best Buy. The outfit really doesn't fit you.”

“Stole it. Some Mexican guy left it in the laundry room where I live.”

“Well, what you're doing now, give it up. You're too pretty for jail.”

“I'm too pretty to catch a city bus, but I do take that risk from time to time.”

He asked, “Since you're not Egyptian, where are you from?”

“I grew up on a farm in Kansas, but before that, after my mom and dad were killed in a dark alley following a night at the theater, I was put inside a spaceship and sent to this planet, where I was bitten by a radioactive spider, so now when I get mad I turn green and get as big as the Jolly Green Giant.”

“Yeah. Right. Just when I felt bad and wished I had met you at Starbucks.”

“Do you really wish you had met me at Starbucks?”

“Would've been nice to have met you and maybe chatted over coffee.”

“Was nice of you to say that, if you meant it.”

“I meant it.”

“If not, still nice of you to tell that lie. It's the time of year when people lie a lot, so it's cool.”

“A chance meeting at Starbucks could've been a much better first impression for both of us.”

“That's another part of the reason I called you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I called you because . . . this version of me . . . tonight . . . this is not me at my best.”

“Not me at my best, either. Today is not the day you'd want to be my friend.”

“Life has been hard on me. The last couple of years, maybe three, have been trying.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“In public, around people, you at your best, me at my best, would you have approached me?”

“No. But I would've spoken, been friendly and said a thing or two, nothing remarkable, then would've sat down and enjoyed looking at you, admired you until someone better-looking walked in.”

I said, “I probably wouldn't have noticed you.”

“Probably not.”

“Where are you right now?”

“On the 605. Was trying to get to the 91. Only made it to the next exit.”

“There is a Denny's off the 605, city of Lakewood side, at the Carson exit.”

“What's up?”

“Want to eat, but don't want to sit in a restaurant and eat alone.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“I get migraines real bad if I don't eat, and I feel silly sitting in public places by myself.”

“Do you want company? Is that why you called?”

“What's the real deal with your wife?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it that you're not getting any? You're rich and think you're entitled to any poor chick on the side of the road? You want to know if you've still got it? You couldn't control yourself? Or is it that your wife disgusts you because she gained weight and can't get her chi together? Or you just don't love her anymore?”

“That sounded personal. Was that your issue with whoever you were seeing?”

“No reverse psychology. Answer me. How did you get to your current state of misery?”

“I'll sum it up. She pushed for commitment. She got what she wanted. She lost interest in sex. I began to wonder if she was interested in someone else a long time ago, wondered if she was either physically or emotionally cheating. The marriage has basically been vacillating for the past few months.”

“Is your little Ann Coulter attracted to someone else?”

“I married a good girl. I married a churchgoing woman. I married the perfect résumé.”

“What did you do to make the marriage get that way?”

“Always the man's fault. Men are blind to the things that women can do.”

“Always
is
the man's fault. Cause and effect. So, entertain me with your tale of woe.”

“You want me to sit in traffic and have this type of profound conversation?”

“If you feel like coming back this way, to casino town, it's an invitation to talk face-to-face.”

“You're not planning on robbing me, are you?”

“I've already robbed you.”

“I was robbed long before I met you.”

“You haven't been robbed until you're robbed by me.”

“You plan on robbing me again?”

“Come back to Denny's and see.”