“She’s gorgeous, street-smart—everything I’m looking for in a woman. You matched me up perfectly.”
Funny he should say that, given that I seem to be matching Crystal with everyone. “That’s nice of you to say but I’ve fulfilled my part of the contract and so did Crystal.”
He pulls out a Crown Royal bag and scoots it across the table to me. “I think you’ll change your mind if you take a peek in there. You and Crystal split that up however you want. I want another date.”
I pull the golden draw cord. Inside, I find wads of hundred-dollar bills, maybe two or three packs, which I happen to know hold ten grand apiece. That makes it at least twenty thousand dollars.32
While I’m gaping at the money, which looks like the real-life version of the money bag emoji, he looks toward the counter. “Did you see the pastries here? I’m dying for a slice of pie to go with this coffee.”
He’s about to flag down the barista and seems genuinely concerned about what kind of pie he might be able to find here. I cut him off. In as badass a voice as I can manage, I say, “If Crystal doesn’t want to see you, she doesn’t want to see you. You’re done. I am no longer your matchmaker. You’re fired.”
Instead of responding to me, he looks at Max. “You hitting that, dude?” He gestures to me. “I gotta say, I’m getting a little turned on. I hate the timid ones. If you want to go out instead of Crystal, I’ll take it under consideration.”
Ugh. I’m going to vomit.
“Word of advice, sugar,” Kobra says. “You gotta know when your hoes are done. If Crystal’s not pulling her weight, she’s past her shelf life. You can’t run her anymore.”
“Eww! I’m not a pimp!” I throw the bag of money at his head. Hard. He ducks and it flies past him. “Asshole!” I scream. “No wonder Crystal won’t call you back! You’re. The. Worst!”
Kobra turns to see cash flying out of the bag. The other diners in the courtyard look on in total amazement, and a woman sipping a latte puts her mug down and looks like she might stand and make a run for the bag. Kobra sees her out of the corner of his eye and screams “You’re a crazy bitch!” at me before running for the money.
Max grabs my shoulder and says, “Let’s get out of here,” in a voice that is 190 proof, only-Poland-makes-that-kinda-alcohol serious. I thought he was focused before, but all of his intensity has been distilled into laser-like focus on getting out of the coffee shop before the police come or Kobra decides to bite.33 I agree.
* * *
On the way to the bank Max is quiet. After a moment, he says, “Do you think there’s any way that Crystal is dead?”
“She can’t be…” I start to say. “I don’t think so, anyway. She answered my call on Thursday afternoon and told me to leave her alone.”
Max seems satisfied. “I’m sure she’s fine, then.”
“Probably. She might not mind if I was dead, though.” Kobra was so awful. I can’t believe I knew he was that bad before I sent Crystal on a date with him.
“He can probably be charming when he wants to be. Most assholes can.”
“Can you believe he called me a pimp?”
“You’re not a pimp.”
“I know, right?”
Not a pimp. I’m just hooking girls up with sugar daddies. That’s…maybe not like United Nations—approved charity work, but it’s not pimping. I just have to get some better sugar daddies. Like Jules. Crystal will love him, if I can just find her.
30 Band name idea: Interstellar Food Fight, just in case I find out I’m a drummer.
31 I should probably pay him more.
32 Maybe I used to work at a bank?
33 Or strangle us.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
The Long Beach Wells Fargo is just a block or two over on Ocean Boulevard and has a stunning ocean view. In my head I hear a discordant buzzer and imagine crossing out bank with a big red X. There’s something messed up about a bank taking up a spot where a casual restaurant with a dolphin theme could be. The more I think about it, the more strongly I feel about dolphin-friendly businesses getting prime water views. Someone who grew up by the ocean probably wouldn’t even notice this or care. They’d be like “the ocean, who cares?” which makes me think I’m originally from the Midwest—someplace with a lot of corn and a dull, flat view. An ocean of corn isn’t an ocean, after all.
“Did you do 4-H as a kid?” I ask Max as we head toward the bank, mostly because I’m wondering if I did.
He gives me a weird look. “Where did that come from?”
“Well, you’re from Minnesota. I’m starting to think I might be, too. Or, you know, from some similarly dull place.”
He guffaws. “Watch your mouth. Prince was from Minnesota. Minnesota is dope.”
“I bet I was born somewhere right off the interstate, like in a pit stop on the way to somewhere else, destined never to arrive anywhere by virtue of my birth.”
Max stares flatly at me. “And you say you aren’t dramatic.”
“So you don’t think I’m from Minnesota, too?”
“I think you’re from the Midwest and you came to California to become an actress but ended up doing other things.”
Wow. That assessment was…a little too real. But it’s probably true.
“Did you know that I was in a commercial?” he says.
“Stop it. You were not.”
From his expression I know a good punch line is coming. “It was for a bacterial growth medium.”
I laugh. “Sounds sexy.”
“Basically every black kid in the sciences is an unpaid model. I’m the centerfold and cover model for every school I’ve ever been to.”
I laugh. “You don’t even need Instagram.”
We enter the lobby and find it completely empty. Literally no one goes into a bank anymore. The only people who come here are olds who don’t know how to digitally deposit checks. Most of the teller stations are closed but I see an Indian guy waving me over from the one open station. I walk up to him and see his nameplate: Kumar.
“Hi, Kumar!” I say brightly. “I need your help. I tried to reset my password for my account online but I got a message saying I need to come in.”
He doesn’t seem to be vibing with my cheeriness. “Driver’s license or government-issued ID, please.”