Page 25 of You Know Why

On Second Thought . . .

Brooklyn

I am lost in thought when the cabdriver stops in front of the Marriott Marquis and stares at me in his rearview.

“Lady? We’re here.”

“Oh, yes, sorry.” I pull out my card and swipe. The machine thinks for a minute and rejects the card. I try again. Same result. Weird. “Shoot, sorry. Let me try one more.”

I only have two with me—one for all the expenses I anticipated we’d incur, and one debit card backup, just in case. I hate to use it in the cab, but what else can I do?

It, too, is declined. I try my Apple Pay, which has another card, but no joy.

“Your machine isn’t working.”

“Not on me, lady. Worked just fine for my last fare.”

Prickles of unease march down my spine. There’s no reason for the cards not to be working.

“How much is the fare?”

“Forty-five.”

I dig into my wallet for the emergency hundred-dollar bill I always carry. I don’t usually carry cash; this is a digital world. I do have a few euros stashed in my suitcase, left over from earlier trips, but we’d planned to withdraw the incidental amount we needed for the journey at an ATM near the hotel in Milan. The exchange rates are better that way.

“Can you break a hundred?”

Grumbling under his breath, the man relents and gives me back fifty dollars. “Keep the rest.” It comes across sarcastic, and he narrows his eyes at me. I have to wake the kids; they still haven’t stirred.

“Come on, guys. We’re here.”

A bellman helps with the luggage, and we follow him to the check-in desk like perfect little ducklings. A perky young woman with jet-black hair in a long, slick ponytail greets us.

“I have a reservation for Brooklyn Locke.”

The woman pulls up the reservation. “Yes, here we are. Two queens, city view. Can I have your license and the card you’re planning to use?”

I hand them over. The woman runs the card. “I’m so sorry, this was declined.”

A slight hum in my chest. Neve pulls on my coat. “Hungry, Mama.”

“I know, sweetie, hold on.” To the woman behind the counter: “Can you just use the card that the room was held with? Margot Thomas made the reservation. That’s my sister. We can call for her to verify that it’s all right to use the card.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, the policy of the hotel is to get a card for incidentals and the final charge.”

“I can give you cash to cover it.” I spread the two twenties and a ten on the counter.

“No, ma’am, we need a working card. I’m sorry.” She does genuinely look sorry—even her ponytail slumps.

“Okay, just . . . give me a minute. Let me call the bank.”

Four is drooping. I hand him a granola bar, and Neve takes a bag of cashews. “Hold tight, I just need to make a call.”

“I want Daddy,” Four wails, loud enough that everyone in the lobby looks at them. I hug him to my waist.

“I want Daddy, too, baby. Just hold on a minute, okay? Can you eat your bar and hold Neve’s hand for me? Let’s sit right here.” I guide them to a monstrous blue suede couch that is far too big for any human, much less two tired kids, and they disappear into it, nibbling their snacks, eyes red and round.

I call the number on the back of the credit card. After identifying myself and giving PINs and passcodes three different times, I’m told that the account was frozen yesterday.