Breaking the Bank (19 page)

“It says that? In your father's will?” Solly's voice was neutral, but his look was penetrating.

“Yes. The bill was left to me.”

“I see.” He made a bridge of his fingers and contemplated them before continuing. “When did he die?”

“My father?”

“Yes,” he said. “Your father. When did he die and leave you this bill?”

“Last September,” Mia said. Not true; her father had died years earlier.

“So you waited over a year to try to sell it.”

“I told you: the will was contested, there was a lot of friction with my brother. But that's all resolved now.”

“Yet you still want to do this on the sly.”

“I prefer to think of it as discreetly.”

“Semantics. Pure semantics. One person's discretion is another's dirty little secret.”

“Call it what you'd like. The bill is in my possession; it's mine. And I'm asking you if you want to help me sell it.”

“Did he have other notes?” Solly asked. “Was he a collector?”

“Excuse me?”

“The bill. Was that the only one? Did he collect paper currency? Did he have other denoms? Foreign notes, too? What about coins? Silver? Gold?”

“No, he didn't collect currency or coins. It was just the bill you saw. That was the only one.”

“How did he come by it?”

“I don't know,” Mia said. She didn't like where this conversation was going and wanted to redirect it—quickly.

“Didn't you ask?” Solly peered into the empty fish bowl, as if musing on what had become of its former occupant.

“He's dead. Under the circumstances, I couldn't really expect an answer. I don't see what any of this has to do with the sale of—”

“But what about your mother? Is she still alive? Did she know about the bill? Did she have any idea about where he had gotten it?”

“My mother doesn't have any idea of where it came from—”

“That's because she never saw the bill; she doesn't know about it because your father—may he rest in peace—never left it to you in the first place.”

Mia expelled the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Caught. Well, what had she expected? It was the flimsiest of stories, hastily cobbled together from equal parts of necessity and desperation.

“I came by that bill in a legitimate way,” she said. “I just can't tell you how.”

“And I suppose the check is in the mail, too,” he said dryly. He leaned back in his chair, and waited.

“You have to help me,” she pleaded. “Help you? I'm running a business, not a charity.” He gazed at her sternly. “If you want me to help you, you have to be willing to help me. Tell me where you got that bill.”

“You won't believe me.”

“Then we have no further business. Unless . . .” He paused, as if for effect.

“Unless what?”

“Unless you're interested in selling me that locket.”

Mia didn't say anything. She had wondered whether he would bring up the locket, and because of that, she had tucked the thing under her blouse before she arrived.

“No,” she said finally. “I'm not.”

“Are you sure? I could make you a good offer. It might be worth your while.”

“I said no.”

“Well, then, I guess we're through here, aren't we? Good day, Ms. Saul.”

“How do you know my name?” Mia demanded; she had given him an alias—Sarah Stein—because she hadn't wanted to reveal her identity.

“I have my ways. Just because I have a fondness for old things doesn't mean I'm not conversant with more . . . modern . . . methods.”

Mia stood abruptly, knocking her chair over. To mask her alarm, she busied herself righting it; Solly made no move to assist her. But then, why should he? No reason at all. Just like there was no reason for him to believe her about the bill, no reason he should have risked his professional reputation for her. The words
Use it well
seemed more and
more cryptic. How was she to use it? Why hadn't the machine given her any advice about
that
?

“I'm sorry to have wasted your time,” she said. She gripped the chair tightly. “Again.”

“I'd hardly say it was a waste. You're the owner of some very intriguing items . . . currency, jewelry . . . Who knows what you might turn up with next?”

Mia didn't answer; she had already said too much, much of it potentially incriminating. She was ashamed of having come here again, ashamed that she had asked for something she had no right to expect. The only dignified thing left to do was to leave, in a hurry. She didn't wait for the elevator, but walked quickly down all nine flights and out onto the street.

T
HAT NIGHT
, M
IA
took another longish walk, this time over to Juicy. Eden was with a new friend—Luisa, an uncommonly beautiful child with big dark eyes, lashes thick as fur, and a black braid that ended at her coccyx. Luisa was a year younger than Eden, but since she lived on the floor above them, she was what Mia considered a default friend: the kid you hung out with chiefly because she was around. Not that Eden minded. Nor did Mia. Luisa was sweet, polite, and soft-voiced. And how convenient for all concerned that the girls could so easily head up and down to each other's apartment.

Mia felt cold; she wished she had stopped for that hat earlier in the day. She tied her scarf over her head, which gave her the distinct look of a nineteenth-century refugee but also offered some warmth. She was on a mission to find Julie, who had not returned any of her most recent calls. Julie's mailbox was full, so Mia couldn't even leave another message. She veered between worry and annoyance; she wanted Julie to be all right, but if she were all right, then couldn't she have managed to get in touch? Mia badly wanted to dump the story of Thanksgiving in Julie's lap; Julie loathed Gail even more than Mia did, if such a thing were possible, so she was sure to get some sympathy from her. And even, perhaps, advice. Julie was made of tougher stuff than Mia was, and she had some excellent strategies for dealing with the Gails of the world.

But when she arrived at Juicy, Julie wasn't there. Fred was, though, and he welcomed her like some long-lost landsman.

“Cold out there, huh?” he asked, stepping around from the bar, which was not yet crowded, and giving her a hug.

Mia was momentarily speechless. Since when were she and Fred on hugging terms? She replayed the feel of his arms around her, decided it wasn't bad, and allowed herself to smile.

“Very,” she said, taking the scarf off her head and sitting down on a stool.

“Want something to warm you up?” asked Fred. “Does it have a lot of bite?”

“Just a little.”

“How much is a little?” She couldn't afford to get drunk, not even tipsy. She burned to think of what Lloyd had told her brother about the night she was last here. Since when had he become a charter member of the temperance committee anyway? Mia remembered the nights the two of them used to go out drinking and stagger home at three, four, five in the morning.

“Enough to take the chill off, but not enough to make you shit-faced,” said Fred cheerfully.

“Promise?” asked Mia. “Scout's honor,” said Fred. “So where's Julie?” She watched as he set about pouring, stirring, and heating. “I haven't been able to reach her.”

“You mean you haven't heard?” He turned back and handed her a steaming mug.

“Heard what?”

“She's in love.” He folded his arms, waiting for her reaction. “In love?” Mia felt distinctly excluded. How was it that Julie was in love and Mia had to hear about it from Fred?

“She met a guy—I don't know, maybe three weeks, or even a month ago. He totally swept her off her feet.”

“Well, she could have called me back and told me about it.” Mia blew gently on the surface of the drink, not wanting to scald her tongue.

“She's not calling you because there's no service where she is now.”

“What are you talking about?” Mia tasted the drink. Apple cider, a touch of brandy. A little nutmeg, a sprinkling of clove. Could there even be a dab of butter in there? She had to admit it was good.

“This guy Dean has a sailboat. And that's where they are right now. Somewhere off the Florida Keys, I'm guessing.”

“Oh,” said Mia. “Great.” But her voice sounded flat, even to her. She took another sip, and then another; it felt so smooth going down.

“If it's any consolation, I haven't heard from her since she left town, either.”

“Which was . . . ?”

“About a week ago.”

“I still can't believe she didn't call me.” Mia was almost finished with her cider; it would be so nice to have another one, but she knew it would be a bad idea.

“Maybe she got really busy.”

“Too busy to call her best friend?”

“Look, she's in the head-over-heels phase. Completely smitten, gaga, whatever. Remember?”

“Huh,” said Mia, looking down into the empty mug. She remembered. Remembered all too well.

Fred took the mug and, without asking, began preparing a refill. Mia decided she would drink this next one very slowly, and make it her last.

“So what else is bothering you?” Fred asked, elbows on the bar, blue eyes staring into hers.

“Something else bothering me? What makes you think that?” asked Mia, mug suspended in the air.

“Oh I don't know. You just look kind of “—he stared some more, as if trying to nail it—”preoccupied. Tense.”

“Well, I guess I am,” she said. Drink number two was going down even more easily than drink number one.

“Is it money?” he asked. “What else?” she said with a little smile, looking down into her mug.
What a nice little elixir,
she thought. Then: Elixir? Who was she kidding? Drink. It was an alcoholic drink.

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe love?” His blue eyes probed a bit. “Nope. Not love. Not now, anyway.”

“Well, that's a relief.” He was still looking at her with that pool-blue gaze.

“Fred,” Mia said, setting the mug down on the bar and glancing around to make sure there was no one else in earshot. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

Mia had the sense that she was taking a flying leap from a very, very high place. If the water below turned out to be rank and freezing, why that was just tough, wasn't it? Because once she'd stepped off the edge and taken the plunge, there were only two choices open to her: Swim. Or sink.

“Have you ever seen a ten-thousand-dollar bill?” she asked.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, Mia was sitting in the same bar, anxiously awaiting the arrival of a man Fred identified only as “Weed.” Not a nickname that inspired confidence, but Fred assured her that he was an okay guy.

“How do you know him?” Mia asked. “I'm a bartender, remember? Bartenders know people.”

The logic of this escaped Mia, but she had certainly been willing to talk to Weed. After two long cell-phone conversations and another brief one, he had agreed to meet her at the bar, to inspect the bill himself. So here she sat, checking her watch and sipping the ginger ale Fred had thoughtfully poured for her. The bar was closed; it was after two a.m. Wild youth notwithstanding, Mia was no longer used to being out this late, and she knew she would pay for it the next day. At
least she didn't have to worry about Eden, who was spending the night with Luisa upstairs; even though Luisa shared a room with her three sisters, Inez, her mother, had insisted that there was plenty of room, the girls would be fine.

Mia ardently hoped so. She had seen the grimy pink bedroom shared by four children: two sets of bunk beds flanking either wall, deflated Disney princess comforters covering each thin mattress, a scarred dresser like a deserted island marooned in between. There was no television set in this room, no computer, no DVDs, no iPod, though there was a single Sony Walkman that the girls took turns using. Eden told Mia about the dresser drawer filled only with white tube socks (“You just reach in and try to find a pair that fits,” she explained), the suppers of bright yellow rice and ink-black beans (“Like a sunflower,” said Eden), the underwear that was washed by hand in the bathtub and hung (“with those cool wooden clippy things”) on a line outside the window to dry. To Eden, Luisa's life was picturesque, quaint, and slightly unreal, like something she would read about in a mold-speckled book found at some roadside yard sale. To Mia, Luisa's parents, Inez and Hector, neither one taller than five feet and looking uncannily like brother and sister in their matching McDonald's uniforms, were heroes.

Mia checked her watch again. Now it was two eleven. Weed had said two, but really, what was another eleven minutes when her whole night and next day were shot to hell anyway?

“He'll be here,” Fred said for the third time. “Trust me.” Clearly, he was nervous, too. Mia liked him for this, as well as for listening intently to her story about the bill and not pressing her for details about where she had gotten it.

E
VEN THOUGH THE
bar was closed, Fred acted like he was still on call, wiping down counters with a fat green sponge, rearranging bottles of imported gin.

“Hey, aren't you off duty?” Mia asked. “Good bartenders are never off duty,” said Fred. “Couldn't you make an exception? Just for tonight?”

Before he could answer, there was a soft but distinct rattling of the metal gate covering the big plate-glass window. Weed. Mia watched as Fred let him in and the two men engaged in some ritual guy shake that involved pumping hand motions and gripping of forearms. When that was over, Fred nodded in Mia's direction, and Weed followed him across the room to where Mia was sitting. Everything about him was thin: lips, eyebrows, the pair of deep, curved lines incised around his mouth. His shoulder-length gray-blond hair was held by a silver clip at the nape of his neck, and the contrast between his puffy down jacket and his long, skinny legs made him seem unbalanced, like he might easily tip over.