Money Matters Page 3

  “We got him,” he says.

  “It looks that way,” I say. “How come you’re interested in a small case like this?”

  “His boss is a friend of mine. I promised to keep an eye on the case.”

  “What if the guy argues that he was walking normally on the tape because he took a painkiller?”

  Grant laughs. “You’re wising up to this business. We’ll have to show multiple instances of him walking without a limp to make it stick. Hey, have you ever thought of getting a private investigative license?”

  “Um, no offense, but I have no intention of spending half of my nights parked in a car waiting for nothing to happen.”

  Surprisingly Grant takes no offense at my jab at his profession. “Smart girl. Let me know when you’ve finished gathering all the evidence on this case, will you?”

  “Sure, Grant. Poor guy. He doesn’t stand much of a chance when you big boys take an interest.”

  “I have zero interest in protecting anyone who leeches off my tax dollars. Workers’ comp attracts scam artists like pollen does bees.” Grant breaks out in a grin. “Keep up the good work.”

  I spend another hour fast-forwarding through night after night, capturing all the moments in which Perez appears with his dog. Sometimes he shows a pronounced limp; other times he’s hardly limping. Who knows if he’s scamming his employer?

  I spend the next couple of hours on two cases of marital cheating, with no conclusive evidence of sexual contact, just a hand on a waist here or a light kiss on the cheek there.

  As I sign out I wonder whether the rest of my evening with Gary will prove any more exciting. I can hear Tricia’s voice in my head saying, “Well, now. That’s up to you, isn’t it?” She’s sure got a point, damn her.

  ✽✽✽

  Surprise! As I let myself into Dave’s apartment I find Gary sitting slouched in his friend’s armchair, exactly where I always find him. He’s wearing torn jeans and an old wrinkled black T-shirt that he probably slept in last night. His ginger hair is done in a ponytail; it looks as if he last shaved a week ago. He is balancing his PlayStation 3 console on his lap, immersed in “Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare.”

  “This version is really cool,” he greets me. “Instead of taking you back to World War II it takes you into the near future. I’m playing the part of Sgt. Soap McTavish of the SAS, and we are searching for a nuclear device on a cargo ship in the Bering Sea when our ship is fired on by Russian MiG’s and begins to sink. I gotta find out how we get out of this one.”

  Although this greeting is normal, I feel unusually irritated.

  I settle down to eat one of two turkey burgers I’ve brought with me and pass the other to Gary. He accepts it without looking up. I turn on the TV. CSI is on, and it’s about a missing person case. I glue my eyes to the screen, hoping for a clue that’ll help me find Susan.

  When the show ends I turn off the TV. Gary reluctantly puts down his controller and slumps down next to me on the couch that will serve as his bed tonight. He bites into his burger, which must be cold and greasy by now.

  “This game’s really cool. After we’ve been hit by Russian MiG’s I manage to salvage the cargo manifest of the boat before it sinks. . .”

  My mind wanders as he goes on and on. “Now we’ve found out from his cell phone that he was financed by Zakhaev. So next we’re going after him.”

  “It sounds incredibly Boys’ Life to me,” I say.

  “You chicks just don’t get it, do you?”

  My irritation flares.

  “What don’t we chicks get?”

  “That this is what men do.”

  “What? Act like couch potatoes while dreaming that they’re Navy SEALs?”

  “Forget it!” he snaps. And then, after a brief pause: “Get me a Bud out of the fridge, would you.” This doesn’t come in the form of a question.

  Why don’t I tell him to get it himself? Or to go to hell? Instead I get up and bring him a beer. By way of compensation I help myself to one as well. But I still reproach myself for acting like a wimp.

  “So,” he says. “What you been up to?”

  “Susan has disappeared without a trace. Felicia is really worried about her. Today Felicia asked me to find her. She thinks I’m a professional private eye. But I’m not, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Gary thinks for a moment. “Don’t you have the Find My Friends app on your phone?”

  I nod.

  “And do you have her phone number on your app?”

  I nod again.

  “Well, then,” he says disparagingly, “why haven’t you given it a try?”

  I give it a try. The app says, “NO RESULT FOUND.” Susan must have either powered off her cell phone or left it in hidden mode. Too bad.

  “You can always try later,” Gary says dismissively. He turns to me grinning. “In the meantime we could make out. Take your mind off it.”

  “You’re so romantic,” I say sarcastically.

  “What’s gotten into you today? You’re being real bitchy. Don’t tell me you’ve got a headache. Or your period.”

  “Neither.” I can feel myself close to losing my temper.

  “Well, then. Here I am. Waiting to be turned on.”

  Rage seizes me. “Why don’t you just rent some porn and make out with yourself?” I snap back angrily.

  “How come none of the chicks in my video games are as bitchy as you?” he sneers.

  “Because they’re created by jerks like you.”

  “At least they’re a turn-on. Unlike you.”

  Finally I snap. I actually see red. “Then be my guest. Have a party and let them turn you on.” I jump up, grab my things, and head for the door.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Gary shouts at my back.

  I turn to face him. “Go back to your zombie half-life. I’ve had it with you. We’re done.”

  “What do you mean, done?”

  “I mean I’m leaving and I’m not ever coming back. Got it now?”

  “What have I done to bring this on?”

  “Just being yourself. Asshole!”

  At the door I take a final look at the shabby apartment with

  its institutional cream walls, drink-stained sofa, and worn rugs that Gary considers home. Then I storm out of the room, yanking the door shut behind me with a crash.

  Standing in the hallway I feel relieved. It’s over. Years of being taken for granted by him. Years of pretending he was better than he was. Years of pretending that I was weaker than I am. It’s over!

  From inside the apartment I hear Gary turning his game back on. I imagine him zapping my avatar on his PS3. Poof! I’m gone in a digital puff of smoke.

  ✽✽✽

  Driving back to Venice I ask myself, how did he and I ever become an item? We met in my second year at Santa Monica College. In its notorious parking lot where I’d spent an hour that morning cruising, looking for a space until I finally ran out of gas. After pulling over to the side and raising my hood I peered into the engine, fuming. That’s when Gary pulled up next to me on his motorbike, told me to hop on the back, and drove me to the nearest gas station, where he filled a gas can he kept stashed in his saddlebag. How unlike him that was. As I later came to discover, life was one long series of unpleasant surprises for him.

  But I didn’t know that then. So we started dating. Gary was a talented runner, and I traveled with him to lots of races. He always performed well but never won. And no wonder: he often overslept, missed training sessions, and drank too much. How telling. Commitment was not Gary’s thing.

  Meantime I was studying for an Associate Degree, taking courses in interior design, digital capture, environmental studies, American literature, and Spanish. I took my studies seriously and had a GPA of 3.8. Thanks to Gary, I also had an active social life, partying heavily with the athletic students. Most of the men were jocks and heavy drinkers. Compared to them Gary seemed more my kind of guy—less driven, more casual. Even his drinking
seemed restrained compared to theirs. I realize now that this comparison was like measuring the temperature of Venice against the Mojave Desert.

  Gary and I started having sex one month after we met. I remember the first time. We were celebrating a win by the track team. A crowd of us ended up plastered in a frat house, when the guys started playing rough, stripping their own clothes, then the women’s, until—surprise!—the women found themselves naked while the guys were still wearing their underwear. One couple started having what looked like unprotected sex as the others cheered them on. The remaining guys began to urge the rest of us women to join the action.

  I turned to Gary and whispered, “Let’s go.” Looking at his face, I could see he was turned on. I felt half-repulsed, half turned on myself. Gary had spent the past weeks trying to get me to do more than blow him. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t lost my virginity in my senior year at highschool.

  “Can we go all the way?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, “as long as you’ve got a rubber.”

  We jumped on his bike and went to his place. It was all very rushed. We made straight for the bedroom, where I undid his jeans and pulled them to his ankles. Retrospectively I realize this was a mistake, as from then on he expected me to take the initiative every time we had sex.

  I also had to undress myself, but I was so over-stimulated by the scene we’d just left that I allowed him to short-circuit the preliminaries. I fitted a condom over his pulsing penis. He immediately thrust it into me and came within a minute.

  Disappointing? Maybe. But I was too excited myself to recognize the lack of subtlety until repeated experience made it clear that he was as unpracticed as the other two guys with whom I’d already experienced sex.

  I have to admit that for a time Gary’s rough, aggressive approach to sex turned me on. It made me feel really wanted, special, desirable. It just shows how deluded you can get when you’re needy. I realize now that he would have treated a blow-up doll as well, maybe better, than he treated me.

  Why has it taken me so long to wake up to the reality of who Gary is and what our relationship was? Tricia says I lack self-esteem. But then, she goes to workshops and groups like “Building Your Self-Confidence” and “Developing Your Self-Worth” that have basically taught her to put a price tag on her pussy. As Tricia says, “It’s your most valuable asset, and it depreciates over time.”

  For most of the time I really do believe in myself. But when I reflect on how I have related to other people, not just employers but friends and family, I wonder whether I’m not kidding myself. Look at the way I just fetched a beer for Gary instead of telling him to shift his lazy ass and get us both one. I guess I could do with more ego. But Tricia could do with more empathy for other people. Like me, for example.

  How much longer am I going to live my life by just getting by? Does it all boil down to money? Is money all that matters? Or that matters most? I refuse to believe that. Sure, it matters. But other things matter as much.

  These thoughts are brought to an abrupt halt by arriving home—okay, arriving at Tricia’s apartment.

  I am greeted by Lulu, who’s rubbing herself against my legs, purring loudly. I realize that I’m feeling really down. I raid Tricia’s luxurious liquor cabinet and pour myself a generous shot of Herradura Reserva tequila. What will she be doing now? Is she dancing and drinking at a nightclub? Watching her latest date playing blackjack at a casino? Leading him on, then holding out on him?

  Wait. What makes me think my life is better than Tricia’s? My greatest accomplishment today was finally ending a dead-end relationship with a dead-end dude. I pour a consolation shot into my glass, hoping the tequila will put me to sleep quickly. But not before returning the bottle and washing and putting away the glass.

  MIGUEL

  Miguel feels even more tired than usual at the end of his shift at Cal Fowl. He takes off his work apron, washes his bloodstained hands and arms, and goes out to collect his bike. He feels lucky—this Friday he has been paid in full for last week’s work. Sometimes the pay is late or less than what he is owed. He has a few minutes to spare before biking to Citrus College for his afternoon class in Fundamentals of Automotive Technology.

  He refuses to think about his job, but at night his dreams take him back to the processing plant, where he finds himself attaching not chickens but live dogs, cats, birds, even babies to the processing line. The line carries them inexorably down into the vat of electrified water from which they emerge with rigor mortis setting in. To get rid of the dream he will wake himself up and try to conjure up photos of his grandparents’ back yard in Oaxaca, where, he’s heard, chickens and a rooster spend all day pecking for seeds and insects in the rough grass. But he cannot recall anything of his life back in Oaxaca. All he can remember is what his mother has told him about it. That’s because his parents crossed the border when he was an infant. That must be at least twenty-three years ago.

  He stops off on the way to the College to grab a pork taco from Taco Nazo, a stand on North Azusa Avenue. Since starting work at Cal Fowl he can’t face chicken. He counts out $1.69 in coins and pays the guy. Turning around he bumps into Jesús, a fellow Mexican student from his morning class.

  “Hey, hombre, how goes it?” he greets Jesús.

  “It’s tough, man. You missed the panic here this morning.”

  “What you talking about?”

  “We thought la migra was raiding the stand. RCGT broadcast a warning about two ICE agents seen near the stand. It shut down just as I was about to get my breakfast burrito, and everyone (me included) vanished in seconds.”

  “Glad you made it out, man.”

  “It turned out to be a false alarm. Some joker sent out a fake tweet. Followed it up later ranting, ‘Kick those wet-backs the fuck out and the fat pigs that gave birth to them.’”

  “Bienvenidos a los Estados Unidos de América.” They exchange forced grins.

  Miguel pays for his taco and soda.

  “I’m starving,” Jesús exclaims, his mouth stuffed with food.

  “That’s why you’re guzzling two tacos, is it?”

  “You try going all day without breakfast.”

  “What you doing Saturday?” Miguel asks.

  “You mean afternoon?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Fishing in the East Fork of the San Gabriel River. And you?”

  “A movie.”

  “With Adela?”

  “I’m texting her once I’m done at school.”

  “She still holding out on you?”

  “What can I say? Chicas are all the same.”

  “No they’re not. What’s she got that keeps you going back for more?”

  “Haven’t you noticed? She’s got really great breasts.” Miguel doesn’t think Jesús would appreciate her other non-sexual attractions.

  “Keep with it. They all put out in the end.”

  “You an expert?”

  “I just have lower standards.”

  “Each to his own poison.”

  “Poison? More like honey.”

  “Sweet tooth, ha?”

  “Best candy I know.”

  Grinning, Jesús finishes off his second taco and swills it down with a Coke.

  Miguel gets back on his bike. “Tonight my mom wants me to join the family after class at Almansor Park.”

  “El Día de los Muertos ?”

  “Right. They’re making an altar for my aunt. She died in the Sonoran Desert two years ago trying to get back from Oaxaca. Someone slashed the water supply.”

  “Bad luck.” Miguel isn’t sure whether Jesús means him or his aunt.

  “I miss her.”

  They both are silent for a moment.

  “Got to go to class,” Miguel calls back as he cycles off.

  Saturday

  OCTOBER 30, 2010

  Iam a small fly caught inside the bedroom ceiling light. I move slowly in starts and stops round the bottom of the translucent glass globe. I am
forced to climb over the corpses of other flies that have died in the same fruitless attempt to find a way out. My strength is slowly giving out. Round I go on another futile circuit.

  I wake up late. So does Tricia. She’s dressed for a workout. Or rather, she’s dressed to kill, but at the gym. She’s wearing a skintight Spanx black hourglass racerback that hides any trace of cellulite and makes her butt and hips look amazing. The seams make her boobs look bigger and her stomach smaller. Her next-gen Nike high-tech training shoes sync her iPod Nano to her workout app. Of course she has a personal trainer, and of course he electronically tracks her improvements—or the reverse, but these never seem to occur. Oh! She’s also wearing her red glitter headband with matching feathers. The total effect has been known to make men at the gym head for the bathroom before their hard-ons show.

  She smiles.

  Reminds me of a tweet I read recently: “Always smile in the morning; it makes people wonder what you did last night.”

  “Morning, big sister,” I say cheerfully.

  “What’s so good about it?”

  “Actually I didn’t say ‘good.’ For your sake.” Here we go.

  “So what’re you up to today?” she asks, checking out my outfit. For a change I’m smartly dressed in light green cotton skirt, white open-necked blouse, and Mexican espadrilles.

  I tell Tricia about Susan’s disappearance and my amateur attempts to trace her via my iPhone.

  “Have you questioned her landlord yet?” she asks, pouring herself a black coffee.

  “Felicia did,” I reply sheepishly.

  “What kind of a detective accepts hearsay evidence?”

  “I guess you’re right,” I concede. “I’ll phone him after I get a coffee.”

  “Speaking of coffee, I had no trouble making coffee this morning, as the coffee machine was still on the counter from yesterday.”