Duffel Bags And Drownings (13 page)

They’d fallen behind on their payments a few months ago but I’d let it go—thus, the
twist
I’d put on my job description—giving them time to get some money together. Now Manny—and
Corporate—thought I’d held off too long. I had, but that didn’t mean I was going to
take their TV.

I got out of my Honda. The front gate squeaked when I opened it, the boards of the
porch groaned, the screen door rattled. I knocked, hoping the Sullivans wouldn’t be
there. They were.

Mr. Sullivan opened the door also squeaking, groaning, and rattling. His file indicated
he was 67. He looked older. His hair appeared more white than gray against his black
skin. He wore denim jeans and a red flannel shirt buttoned at the collar; he walked
on the backs of his corduroy house slippers.

He squinted at me and smiled, showing a missing bottom tooth, then turned back inside.

“Look who’s here,” he called. “It’s that Mid-America girl.”

I’m here to repo his TV and he’s glad to see me. Great.

“Dana Mackenzie,” I said, reminding him of my name.

He led the way into the living room. The house was neat and clean, decorated with
lace doilies and pictures of Jesus. It smelled like boiling beans and linoleum.

Mrs. Sullivan sat on a worn sofa wearing a floral house coat with snaps up the front.
She was watching television, of course.

“Hi, Mrs. Sullivan,” I said.

She glanced up at me. “Hi, honey.”

“Mama’s watching her stories,” Mr. Sullivan said.

A soap opera, I realized, glancing at the screen.

Mr. Sullivan eased onto his threadbare recliner and I sat in a straight-backed chair
beside him. We exchanged pleasantries and I stalled, but finally came to the point.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan, but my boss reviewed your account, and he wants me to pick
up your television,” I said.

He just looked at me, taking it in, making me feel worse, then shook his head.

“Well, if you got to, you got to.” He looked over at his wife. “But how’s Mama gonna
watch her stories? She loves her stories. What’s she gonna do?”

He wasn’t so much asking me as musing aloud how he’d let her down.

If ever I’d been tempted to give a customer some money, this was it. They were old
people. They didn’t have much. The home they’d bought when they were young was decaying.
The neighborhood they’d invested their time and emotion in had fallen to criminals.
Their health was about gone. Not much was left for them—except Mrs. Sullivan’s stories,
and Mr. Sullivan’s ability to let her watch them.

I’d be fired on the spot if I made a payment on a customer’s account. A partial payment,
a few cents, it wouldn’t matter. Even if I loaned it to them, I’d be gone. And I couldn’t
afford to lose my job.

“We don’t get money again until the first of the month,” Mr. Sullivan said. “I’ve
got Mama’s medicine money. I could give you that.”

I cringed.

“I’ll call Leonard,” I said.

Leonard was their grandson. He’d had an account with Mid-America some time back. Lots
of families had accounts with us. It wasn’t unusual. They passed us around and talked
about us over holiday meals.

Leonard was about my age. He had trouble holding a job—not finding a job, like most
people, just holding onto it. He’d been late on his payments more times than not,
yet there was something very likeable about him. I had no problem calling him and
asking for money on his grandparents’ behalf.

“He’s a good boy,” Mr. Sullivan said. “We raised him, me and Mama, after his daddy
died and his mama took off. He’s got a new job. I’ll call him. He’ll help us out.”

I felt more relieved than Mr. Sullivan appeared.

“I’ll tell him to come by the house after he gets off work,” Mr. Sullivan said. “Maybe
he can drive me down to your office.”

I didn’t want to take the chance that something might come up, so I said, “I’ll come
back out and pick up the money.”

“You come on back at supper time,” Mr. Sullivan said.

I waved to Mrs. Sullivan, who didn’t seem to notice, thanked Mr. Sullivan, and left.

* * *

In the short time I’d worked for Mid-America, the company had been bought out by a
major conglomerate, then a mega-conglomerate, neither of which had done much except
cause everyone a lot of unnecessary headaches.

Our office was located in downtown Santa Flores in a two-story building on Fifth Street.
Just down the block were the post office, the courthouse, and all sorts of restaurants,
bars, and office buildings.

Mid-America had one of the offices on the ground floor that offered great “signage,”
according to a guy in a thousand-dollar-suit who’d come out from the corporate office
in Chicago to evaluate our location and formulate an enhanced marketing plan, and
then had, apparently, forgotten we existed.

All I cared about was keeping our current location so I could look out our big plate
glass window all day.

When I got back to the office Manny was more concerned with a possible foreclosure
on a house out in Webster, a town about twenty minutes east of Santa Flores. He accepted
my explanation of why I wasn’t carrying a 42-inch Sony television with only a brief
nod, and I got on with my work.

My desk sat at the rear of the office near Manny’s. This placement was Corporate’s
decision, not mine. According to Mid-America’s seating chart, the cashier who took
payments from our walk-in customers sat at the counter up front. Just behind her were
the two financial reps who handled the lending end of the business, along with Inez
Marshall, their supervisor who was, thankfully, not in the office today. The beige
furniture, walls, and carpet, and seascapes in plastic frames, were about as generic
as an office could get.

The mail had been delivered while I was out, and I saw a neat stack of envelopes centered
on my desk—Corporate had not bestowed upon us online bill-paying capability, despite
our fabulous signage. I got to look at the mail before anyone in the branch because
I was anxious to know which of my customers had paid. Getting money together to make
a payment was tough for my customers. I didn’t want to be calling them if their payment
was at the cashier’s desk waiting to be posted.

I’d just about reached the bottom of the stack when a familiar return address leaped
off the envelope and smacked me between the eyes.

Nick Travis.

My breath caught and I felt a smile spread across my face. Oh, yeah, this was the
boost I needed right now.

I’d known Nick Travis in high school. Everybody knew Nick Travis. Football team captain,
student body president, gorgeous hottie. He’d dated my best friend, Katie Jo Miller,
for a short while—a very short while—when Katie Jo and I were sophomores and Nick
was in his senior year.

Nick got her pregnant, made her have an abortion, then dumped her and left town.

Imagine my surprise all these years later to find an account on Mid-America’s books
from Nick Travis. He’d financed a high-end television and sound system. I hadn’t even
known he’d moved back to Santa Flores.

When I’d seen Nick Travis’s name on the computer screen that day—and after I got myself
up off the floor—I accessed his file and proceeded to learn everything there was to
know about the man who’d ruined my best friend’s life.

The copy of his driver’s license that the TV dealer had provided indicated Nick was
six-three, two hundred twenty pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. He’d moved back to Santa
Flores a few months before the application was taken. He had checking and savings
accounts at a credit union, two Visas with small balances, a Chevy that was financed,
and a mortgage payment.

The mortgage surprised me because according to the application, Nick was unmarried.
He had no dependents and paid no child support or alimony.

The shocker was that Nick worked for the Santa Flores Police Department as a detective.
I guess they’re pretty desperate these days—especially here in the Murder Capital
of America.

Katie Jo’s abortion had been rough. Her parents had been supportive but they were
disappointed in their little girl. There were religious issues.

She stayed home for a long time. She wouldn’t return phone calls. She refused to talk
to anyone, even to me, her best friend. She was never the same after that. Neither
were her parents. Neither was I.

The only one unscathed was Nick Travis.

I logged onto my computer and pulled up his account. A lot of people waited until
the last minute to make their payment, getting it in to us just before it was considered
late. Nick Travis was one of those people. According to his due date, today was the
last day he could make his payment and avoid a late charge.

I looked at the computer screen, looked at his payment, and thought about Katie Jo
Miller.

I ripped Nick Travis’s check into tiny pieces and dropped it into my trash can.

* * *

At 4:50 I pulled up Nick Travis’s account on my computer and called his office.

“Travis,” he barked, when he came on the line. He sounded as if he was just short
of a bad mood. I was about to make his afternoon.

I identified myself with my sweetest voice.

“I’m calling because I was looking over your account and I noticed that today is the
last day to avoid a late charge,” I said, “and we haven’t received your payment yet.”

Silence. The cold, hard kind.

“I made that payment,” he finally said.

I pictured cartoon-steam coming out of his ears.

“Well, it hasn’t come in yet,” I said. “You can bring it in, if you want to avoid
the late charge.”

“You close in five minutes.”

I gasped—an Academy Award winning gasp—and said, “You’re right. Looks like you’ll
have to pay that late charge.”

I hung up feeling pleased with myself, and pleased for Katie Jo, too.

At five o’clock on the dot Carmen Chavez, our cashier, locked the door and began to
count her cash drawer. Carmen was a few years younger than me, but was already married
with a small child.

I was about to take off for the Sullivan place when a face appeared through the glass
on our front door.

Nick Travis.

My heart did a little flip-flop.

I recognized him because he’d been into the office on previous months to make his
payment. He’d changed so much I’d never have recognized him from high school.

Nick was taller now, bulkier as men got after their teenage years. In high school
he’d been drop-dead gorgeous; now there was a blunted, more angular look to his face.
Square jaw, strong chin, straight nose. Still good looking, but in a more rugged way.

He had on gray trousers, a navy blue sport coat, and a tie that actually looked good
together. I wondered if he had a woman dressing him.

I was pretty sure Nick had recognized me from high school when he’d come into the
office a few months ago and I’d waited on him at the counter. I’d seen that flash
of recognition in his face, but he hadn’t said anything. Maybe he didn’t like being
reminded of high school—or Katie Jo Miller.

Or maybe he was just being a jerk.

I unlocked the door and peered at him, pretending I didn’t know who he was.

“We’re closed,” I told him.

“You called me just now about my payment,” he said.

I stared, still pretending.

“Nick Travis,” he said.

“Oh, right. You’re the one with the late payment,” I said.

“I sent my payment,” he told me. “In plenty of time.”

“It was never received, obviously,” I said. “You can make your payment, if you’d like.
We’ll post it tomorrow. You’ll have that late charge by then.”

He glared at me. “Fine.”

I let him in and couldn’t help but take a long look as he headed toward the counter.
My heart did a little pitter-pat. To compensate, I stepped to the power position behind
the counter.

“You might want to stop payment on that check you claim you sent,” I said.

He pulled his checkbook from the pocket of his sport jacket and said, “That will cost
me another twenty bucks on top of the late charge.”

I gave him my too-bad-for-you shrug.

“This is the fourth time this has happened in the last five months,” Nick said. He
dashed off his check, then ripped it out of the book.

I made him stand there and hold it out for a few seconds before I took it.

My stomach felt a little queasy, but that was probably because I’d trashed his check
this morning, though my I’m-feeling-guilty stomach roll was a little different from
what I experienced at the moment.

Or maybe it was Nick. I always felt a little nervous when he came into the office,
but that was because he was in law enforcement. Policemen always made me feel as if
they knew everything I’d done wrong, like they could somehow see inside me and know
about the lipstick I shoplifted from Wal-mart when I was fourteen.

“I need a receipt,” Nick said.

Carmen was busy counting the day’s payments so I wrote out a receipt. When I looked
up again I caught him eyeing the office, using his police detective X-ray vision to
check out my trash can, no doubt.

“Here,” I said, distracting him with the receipt.

Nick tucked it inside his checkbook, then headed for the door. I followed. Once outside,
he looked back and gave me a half grin.

Nick had a grin other men would have paid serious bucks for. The kind of grin that
made women melt into their shoes. For a second, I got lost in that grin. I started
to melt.

Katie Jo had reacted the same way. How many other women had, too?

I locked the door, shut down my computer and left the office.

* * *

The neighborhood seemed oddly quiet when I pulled up in front of the Sullivan house.
No one was outside. No kids played in the yards. No music blared from the nearby houses,
no dogs barked. The sun was going down, the light fading.

I got out of my car and climbed onto the porch. The front door stood open a few inches.
I knocked and the door swung open a little more. A lamp burned in the living room
and the television played softly; it sounded like a basketball game was on.