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I walked over to her car and lowered my head to the window. “Do you have ten dollars I can borrow?” I said.
Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a massive wad of singles. “A man like you doesn’t have a credit card?” she said as she counted out ten singles.
“I locked my wallet in my car,” I said. “With my keys.” Sigh. “And my phone.”
She gave me ten dollars, all in singles. “Come back when you’re done washing up,” she said. “I’ll drive you home.”
No, she wouldn’t. I took the money and headed back to the store. After paying the guy at the register, I returned to the ever-so-charming bathroom. In addition to the word “gonorrhea” on the toilet seat, I found no less than twelve phone numbers of women who were available for a good time circa 1985. But the fun didn’t end there. If the Met ever decided to sponsor an exhibition called “Artistic Representations of Penises in New York City Public Toilets,” there were some brilliant works to be found on the walls. The etching next to the mirror was quite possibly an original Cezanne. At any rate, the cubist interpretation was certainly an intriguing one.
After giving myself a quick shave with a disposable plastic razor, I brushed my teeth and washed my face. Wetting my hair, I combed it into shape with my fingers.
I stepped back out into the street. The early morning sun was now shining brightly, and I could see my friend the streetwalker waiting for me, her window open, her eyes looking down at her phone. I supposed it was thoughtful of her to wait for me, but no way in hell was I accepting her offer of a ride home in that duct-taped death trap on wheels. I had a few casual friends in the city. Surely one of them would be willing to drive me back to Connecticut. At home I had cash, credit cards, a land line, and anything else I needed to get myself out of this mess.
She waved to me out her window. “Ready to go?”
“Thanks, but I’m good!” I yelled as I headed toward my car. “I’m going to call a friend to pick me up.”
She stuck her head out the window. “I thought you said you locked your phone in your car!”
I stopped in the middle of the street, my hands clenching into fists. Shit, shit, shit. As a rule, I was extremely gifted at taking things in stride; the only time I felt real anger was when I was with my father. But at the moment, I was freaking furious. And, for once in my life, not just at Dad. At Greta. At the nameless woman who’d passed out in my car. But mostly, at myself. If I hadn’t carelessly neglected to lock my car last night, I wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation in the first place. Now I had to rely on a hooker to get myself out of it.
Unclenching my fists and taking a deep breath, I climbed inside the passenger seat of her car.
“So I guess I’ll take that ride,” I said, feigning a smile.
“Glad I can help,” she said, giving me a smile back.
I couldn’t help but notice that she looked different. Sometime between the convenience store and now, she had changed into jeans and a cotton T-shirt. Her long blond hair was in a simple ponytail, her face was clean of lipstick and mascara, and her eyes were no longer bloodshot. She was really quite attractive. Her skin was pale, her lashes long and lush, and her wide eyes a stunning blue.
She extended her hand. “Clara,” she said. “Zapata.”
Reluctantly, I shook. “Ian,” I said. “Dun... Dunfordsomer.”
I dodged the bullet just in time. I’d almost given her my real name. If she looked up Ian Dunning on the internet, she would find out that she had a prime candidate for blackmail sitting at her side. Many a hooker had made a killing off extorting a rich man. I wasn’t about to become a victim.
“Well,” she said as she let go, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ian Dundunfordsomer. What kind of name is that? I’ve never heard it before.”
The kind of name an idiot like me comes up with off the top of his head when he’s trying to hide his true identity.In retrospect, I could have gone with Dunleavy. Or Dunham. Or just plain Dunne. Instead, I’d come up with Dunfordsomer. Oops, correction, Dundunfordsomer. This was why I could never follow in my father’s footsteps and become a brilliant businessman. You had to be an adroit and remorseless liar, and I sucked at it. “Norwegian,” I said.
“I would have guessed something Anglo-Saxon. How do you spell that?”
Beats the hell out of me.“Like it sounds. Hey, can we just get out of here? I’ve been here since ten last night and I’d like to get home by ten this morning.”
My tone must have been harsher than I realized, because she seemed insulted. She handed me her phone. “If my company is not to your liking,” she said, her voice stern, “call one of your friends and have them come pick you up.”
“I don’t know their numbers,” I said. “When I want to call someone, I just hit their name.” The only number I knew by heart was my father’s, and no way in hell was I going to let him know how badly I’d fucked up.
“Call an Uber,” she suggested.
“My credit card is in my car.”
“I recently came into four hundred dollars. More than happy to share some of it.”
“It won’t be enough,” I said.
“Four hundred dollars isn’t enough to get you home? Where the hell do you live?
“Connecticut.”
