no distinct purchasing patterns to speak of, mostly restaurants, bookstores, music stores, the odd TV or microwave at P. C. Richard, Moviefone tickets here and there, a few clothing stores, no favorite bars, no masked charges, you know, dummy corporations for whores, lap dances, massages, any kind of sex or sex-related products.
“Has, at present, three hundred and four thousand dollars in a Prudential-Bache money market account, down from an opening balance of three hundred seventy-seven, six months ago, no further deposits, so it’s most likely what he could save from that high-priced writing job out in LA, living off it like his own trust-fund baby. No stocks, bonds, any kind of investments, shares or partnerships . . . OK. The mortgage on Othello Way runs him fourteen hundred and eighty bucks a month, lays out another thirteen hundred per in child support, has never missed a payment on either one. OK,” turning the page. “Withdraws, roughly another five thousand a month, deposits it into a checking account at First Dempsy for, I’m guessing cash machine access, you know, general out of pocket and to pay the smaller bills, cable, gas and whatnot, however, last month he transferred sixteen thousand, not five, could be to cover holiday expenses, could be something else, but that’s the one thing I don’t have yet, the canceled checks from the First Dempsy account. My guy in the proof department over there’s on vacation, but I should have it for you in a few days.”
Sugar nudged the Plexiglas bowl toward Nerese. “Candy cane?”
“So what do you think?” Nerese had filled the page with tornadoes, dollar signs and “Satchmo.”
“Well, if it was me, what I’d like to know”—Sugar pulled his elbows back, a hollow pop emanating from his sternum—“is how you go from driving a cab to raking in four Gs a week writing a television show. And
then
I’d like to know, who in their right fucking mind walks out on that kind of cheddar, comes back to Dempsy fucking New Jersey with their hands in their pockets whistling Dixie.”
“Anybody out there have anything to say about it?”
“Hard to get a straight answer.” Sugar flipped some pages. “I talked to three people—two said he just quit, happens all the time, high burnout rate, guy’s a good guy, everybody wishes him well. The third said, well, he wouldn’t say straight out, but there might have been an incident, maybe not, of a, get this, a racial nature. Something said at a party, some kind of, of misunderstanding or misinterpretation or . . . I couldn’t . . . Usually I got people talking till my ears bleed, but I don’t know. I got all the names and numbers for you if you want to take a crack at it, but frankly I don’t think anything out there followed him back to New Jersey just to go upside his head. If I were you? I’d stay local, canvass the neighbors, talk to the kids at the Hook, other teachers or, even more to the point, I’d just ask him what the hell happened and keep asking until he’ll tell you just to fuckin’ get rid of you. That’s what I’d do.”
Nerese looked down at her open pad, “racial” having joined “Satchmo,” the doodles and the dollar signs.
“So,” Sugar said, sliding the folder across the table, Nerese lost in thought until the silence caught her attention. Snapping to, she fished the check out of her purse: three hundred dollars, a third of Sugar’s usual fee.
“So how’s Darren doing?” he asked, palming the check.
“You asked me that already,” Nerese responded with a little bit of an edge—despite the massive discount, three hundred dollars for anything not life and death was a painful amount of money. “How’s your guy?”
“Taylor?” Sugar’s face came alive. “Come here.”
Rising from the dinette, Nerese followed him into the living room, a six-piece chocolate-brown velour sectional-and-easy-chair ensemble camouflaged atop a chocolate-brown wall-to-wall rug so new
“Has, at present, three hundred and four thousand dollars in a Prudential-Bache money market account, down from an opening balance of three hundred seventy-seven, six months ago, no further deposits, so it’s most likely what he could save from that high-priced writing job out in LA, living off it like his own trust-fund baby. No stocks, bonds, any kind of investments, shares or partnerships . . . OK. The mortgage on Othello Way runs him fourteen hundred and eighty bucks a month, lays out another thirteen hundred per in child support, has never missed a payment on either one. OK,” turning the page. “Withdraws, roughly another five thousand a month, deposits it into a checking account at First Dempsy for, I’m guessing cash machine access, you know, general out of pocket and to pay the smaller bills, cable, gas and whatnot, however, last month he transferred sixteen thousand, not five, could be to cover holiday expenses, could be something else, but that’s the one thing I don’t have yet, the canceled checks from the First Dempsy account. My guy in the proof department over there’s on vacation, but I should have it for you in a few days.”
Sugar nudged the Plexiglas bowl toward Nerese. “Candy cane?”
“So what do you think?” Nerese had filled the page with tornadoes, dollar signs and “Satchmo.”
“Well, if it was me, what I’d like to know”—Sugar pulled his elbows back, a hollow pop emanating from his sternum—“is how you go from driving a cab to raking in four Gs a week writing a television show. And
then
I’d like to know, who in their right fucking mind walks out on that kind of cheddar, comes back to Dempsy fucking New Jersey with their hands in their pockets whistling Dixie.”
“Anybody out there have anything to say about it?”
“Hard to get a straight answer.” Sugar flipped some pages. “I talked to three people—two said he just quit, happens all the time, high burnout rate, guy’s a good guy, everybody wishes him well. The third said, well, he wouldn’t say straight out, but there might have been an incident, maybe not, of a, get this, a racial nature. Something said at a party, some kind of, of misunderstanding or misinterpretation or . . . I couldn’t . . . Usually I got people talking till my ears bleed, but I don’t know. I got all the names and numbers for you if you want to take a crack at it, but frankly I don’t think anything out there followed him back to New Jersey just to go upside his head. If I were you? I’d stay local, canvass the neighbors, talk to the kids at the Hook, other teachers or, even more to the point, I’d just ask him what the hell happened and keep asking until he’ll tell you just to fuckin’ get rid of you. That’s what I’d do.”
Nerese looked down at her open pad, “racial” having joined “Satchmo,” the doodles and the dollar signs.
“So,” Sugar said, sliding the folder across the table, Nerese lost in thought until the silence caught her attention. Snapping to, she fished the check out of her purse: three hundred dollars, a third of Sugar’s usual fee.
“So how’s Darren doing?” he asked, palming the check.
“You asked me that already,” Nerese responded with a little bit of an edge—despite the massive discount, three hundred dollars for anything not life and death was a painful amount of money. “How’s your guy?”
“Taylor?” Sugar’s face came alive. “Come here.”
Rising from the dinette, Nerese followed him into the living room, a six-piece chocolate-brown velour sectional-and-easy-chair ensemble camouflaged atop a chocolate-brown wall-to-wall rug so new
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