IN THE ENTRYWAY OF HIS APARTMENT BUILDING, ZACK TURNED HIS KEY IN the lock of his mailbox and pulled open the flimsy metal door. Sometimes he went days, an entire week, even, without checking his mail, but the adoption agency had told him to expect a decision in mid-February and today was the fourteenth.
Valentine’s Day.
A day for lovers. A silly holiday of course, but still, today more than ever, he’d been unable to stop thinking of Mel. Whom he had not seen or heard from in almost two weeks. This morning, he’d taught four in a row at Color Theory, his usual upbeat cheer nearly impossible to summon, much less make the dumb little Valentine’s jokes he usually cracked. Irrationally, he’d hoped—okay, prayed, even—that Mel might show up for a class. Even though she hadn’t been at the gym in weeks. His sole consolation was the upcoming Woolsey Fire Benefit, the workout-for-charity event in which Jensen insisted every Color Theory staffer participate. The fundraiser was slated to take place in none other than Melissa Goldberg’s backyard.
Zack’s narrow mailbox was stuffed with paper, much of it crumpled and crushed to the bottom of the tight space. He pulled them out, a fat clog of envelopes, promotional postcards, Trader Joe’s newsletters, and fitness magazines.
And then there it was: a manila envelope with the adoption agency’s logo in the upper corner.
It was thinner than he’d expected.
He ripped it open and began to read the document on top.
Dear Mr. Doheny,
Thank you for your application to attain legal guardianship of Andres Manuel Mendoza. We regret to inform you that we could not grant approval, due to your prior Class-A Misdemeanor for Aggravated Criminal Sexual Assault Conviction issued in the State of Florida on October 11, 2010. Enclosed you will find supporting documentation for this final decision . . .
Nausea shot through him. He leaned on the wall for support. His breath shortened, his legs wobbled.
Misty Whatever. Back to haunt him.
Her and all the others. Forever haunting him, conspiring, it seemed, to bring him down. Why him? They hated him: all the girls from his youth in Florida, Misty Whatever and Casey from the laundry room, not-Arianna-on-Adelaide Drive, Regina and Lettie. And now, Mel. Each, in her own way, had made him choke, falter, fall on his sword. Made him learn to hate himself.
Thérèse: One must have passed through the tunnel to understand how black its darkness is.
An accumulation of angry women, turning his life to shit.
Bringing him to where he was now, at this moment, forehead pressed to the wall of his decrepit, overpriced apartment building on Pico, his tears falling on the scuffed, peeling surface.
He could not adopt Andres. If Lettie were deported, as she assured him she would be, any day now, her son would be placed in foster care—who knew where—and Zack might not see the sweet, limping little boy ever again.
It was too much. He already had nothing. No acting career, no real friends, no money, no Mel. And now, no Andres. His life was destined to sink further and further into its negative balance.
He swatted his tears away and ripped the documents from the adoption agency into quarters. The desire to see Mel gripped him with such force, he felt powerless against it.
Just to see her. She didn’t need to know. Just a glimpse of her would comfort him. She and Andres were all he had left.
And soon, Zack would not have Andres either.
He dropped all of his mail, including the adoption documents he’d just torn, into the wastebasket by the front door of his building and stepped back outside into yet another brilliantly clear and sunny afternoon. He climbed into his Tacoma and started the engine, but before he accelerated in the direction of Georgina Avenue, he pulled out his phone. Dialed *67 to block his number, then called Banc of California corporate customer service. A woman picked up on the second ring and introduced herself as Natalie.
Zack introduced himself as Jensen Davis. Calling from Color Theory gym to start the process for filing a fraud claim against a former corporate customer. A marketing firm called Big Rad Wolfe, LLC.
“Absolutely, sir,” said Natalie. “I’d be happy to get that process started for you. I’ll need to start by asking you a few questions . . .”
Zack answered the questions as he drove in the direction of Mel’s house, never hesitating or stumbling over his words, delivering a compelling, airtight story—the way, he thought to himself, only a halfway-decent actor could. When Natalie finished her questions, she assured him (“Mr. Davis”) that she’d filed an inquiry with the bank’s fraud prevention team, making note of his particular concern regarding Big Rad Wolfe, LLC, and that he could expect a response from them within thirty days.
Zack’s hands shook as he thanked Natalie and ended the call. He knew he was taking a major risk. Knew that in reporting Regina, he was essentially turning himself in, too. But he was prepared to use the skills he’d learned from her—Regina, the consummate liar, his mentor in crime—to defend himself. Yes, the actual computer transfers might be traced to him—it wouldn’t be hard to piece together the laptop’s IP address and Zack’s log-in times—but he was prepared to play dumb. To insist, with utter wide-eyed conviction, that he’d made an honest mistake—perhaps reprocessed old invoices, or confused her with another vendor, or something. He’d figure it out. What mattered was that Regina, thanks to her insistence on paying him in cash—had no proof that she’d paid Zack to help her. And since Zack had simply handed the money over to Lettie (minus the $3,500 Regina had stiffed him—his rage over it had since turned to relief—the less of her dirty money he’d touched, the better), there was no proof he’d ever had it in the first place.
Still: calling the bank to rat out Regina had been a questionable impulse, indulged, Zack admitted to himself, in a burst of raw emotion. But it was too late now. What was done was done. And anyway, since he’d lost both Mel and the prospect of adopting Andres, the risk he’d incurred seemed less menacing. He was pretty confident in his ability to convince authorities—if it came down to it—that he’d simply been a sloppy bookkeeper, a meathead fitness coach armed with nothing but an AA degree from a shitty community college, clearly unqualified to manage the vast and complicated finances of Color Theory. He’d summon fake tears to his eyes and blink with confusion, knowing how the sight of a man like him, strong and handsome, in the throes of emotional distress tended to move people. His looks had always been his superpower, and he would not hesitate to use it.
In the end, he told himself, as he cruised down Wilshire with Macklemore blasting on the truck stereo, the only hard proof in the case was that Regina had kept a large sum of money erroneously transferred to her account. She had not notified Color Theory of the error, or returned the funds, as any ethical business owner would have done.
Well, thought Zack, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, just let Regina Wolfe try to take him out. He would not back down, would never confess to having been her partner in crime. He’d rather die first.
He thought of Thérèse: My whole strength lies in prayer and sacrifice, these are my invincible arms; they can move hearts far better than words.
The words gave him fresh hope as he drove north across town, toward the grand houses lining Georgina Avenue.