“Welcome to Corman & Mackelvy. May I help you?” inquired the attractive blonde who was sitting at the reception desk, wearing a headset.
“Yes, thank you. I don’t have an appointment, but I’d like to see Mr. Corman if possible.”
“And you are?” She raised an overplucked-to-the-point-of-being-almost-nonexistent eyebrow.
“Dr. Pilar Alvarez. I rent an office in South Beach at 2390 11th Street. It’s one of the properties this company manages.”
“I see.” The young woman rose to her feet. “Please, have a seat over there,” she gestured at a grouping of empty chairs and a coffee table covered with books that looked like they were for show, not for reading, “while I pull your file and see if Mr. Corman is available.”
She waited until I was settled in a chair before disappearing down a long corridor to her right. The phone rang several times while she was gone and I wondered if the calls were going straight to voice mail, or if the receptionist was able to answer them remotely with that headset of hers. I amused myself by trying to picture Margo with one of those things perched atop her heavily shellacked, teased-up ‘do. With her hair being so gravity-defying, she’d probably be able to pick up radio signals and transmissions from outer space in addition to incoming phone calls.
I don’t know how long I sat in that waiting area; it might have been a matter of minutes, but it seemed like forever and I got antsy. I was so desperate for some form of entertainment that I was about to crack open a dusty tome entitled “Indigenous Water Fowl of South Florida” when the blonde finally returned.
“Mr. Corman has a few minutes to spare, and he’d be happy to see you,” she proclaimed. “Follow me, please.” Which I did, back to a huge office with a nice view of the Biscayne Bay out its 21st Floor window. The office was inhabited by a rotund, ruddy-faced man in a wrinkled white suit that was a size too small and a blue bow tie. He looked like a character in a Tennessee Williams play, and this image was only enhanced by the heavy Southern accent he greeted me with.
“Well, come on in, pretty lady,” he beckoned as he waddled out from behind his massive desk with a manila file folder tucked under his arm.
“I appreciate you seeing me without an appointment, Mr. Corman.” I shook the meaty paw he offered me. “And I won’t take up much of your time. I just wanted to thank you in person for working with me on the raise in my rent. Having a six-month grace period is such a—”
“Grace period?” His brow furrowed, and he looked over my shoulder at the receptionist who was lurking behind me. “Didn’t the owner ask us to raise the rent effective immediately on all the short-term tenants in that building?”
“Yes, but there were special circumstances in Dr. Alvarez’s case. It’s all in her file.” She pointed to the folder in his possession.
“Special circumstances? Hrumph,” he cleared his throat, which sounded disgustingly phlegmy, and pulled a pair of drugstore reading glasses out of his coat pocket. After placing them on the tip of his bulbous red nose, he opened the file and slowly flipped through its pages.
“Ah, yes. It’s all here. Special circumstances,” he muttered the phrase once more, this time with understanding, then closed the file quickly as if he was afraid something might jump out of it, and gave me an obsequious smile.
“It’s our pleasure to accommodate a responsible, hard-workin’ businesswoman such as yourself, Dr., uh,” he peeked into the folder again in search of my name, “Alvarez.”
I was getting a very strange vibe off of this man. Like there was something in that file I should know about, but didn’t. What were these “special circumstances” everyone was talking about? And what made me different from all of the other tenants in my building? I’d only rented space there for half a year and since the ownership of 2390 11th Street had changed hands, I didn’t have any connections or influence. Should I ask Mr. Corman to explain, or should I just leave well enough alone? I wasn’t sure. If I annoyed him by looking a gift horse in the mouth and being too inquisitive, he could rescind his offer of the grace period and then where would I be? Out on the street, with no office, and no place to see patients or ply my trade.
“I’m very grateful,” I said, deciding not to press my luck, “and as a show of good faith, I brought my rent payment for July.” Reaching into my purse, I extracted a check for $3500.
“Well, that’s just fine. Why don’t you give the money to Vicky,” he handed my file to his assistant, “and she’ll give you a receipt.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you, sir.” And that concluded my business with the corpulent Mr. Corman.
Vicky led me back out to the reception area, where she entered the particulars of my payment into her database and was about to print up a copy of the revised invoice for my records, when Mr. Corman buzzed her in a tizzy because he was having trouble opening an e-mail attachment.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “It’ll only take a minute. Would you mind?”
I shook my head ‘no,’ and she hurried away, leaving me completely and temptingly alone with . . . my file. It sat on her desk, just a few inches from my fingertips. I tried to ignore it, I averted my eyes, I started humming to myself, I even pulled out my cell phone to see if I had any messages, but the paper-filled manila folder that held all of my account information called to me just the same.
‘I have a secret,’ the file sought to entice me. ‘Don’t you want to know what it is? Come on, you know you’re dying to open me. Stop being such a goody two-shoes, and just DO IT!’
It was my file after all. My name was the one that’d been typed neatly on its label. Ergo, I should be allowed to read its contents, right? What harm could there be in me taking a little peek? Before my conscience could kick in and talk me out of the possibly criminal act I was about to engage in, I grabbed the folder and peeled back its cover.
The first item I saw inside was a copy of a cashier’s check from a local bank for $1000 dated the day before. I hadn’t given Corman & Macklevy a cashier’s check, so who the hell had? The check provided no clues as it had been signed by a representative of the bank, with no mention of the person who’d fronted the money for it. Examining the bank-issued form more closely, I noticed a short description in the memo section: ‘Partial payment for Dr. Alvarez’s July rent.’ Aha! So, the owner of my office building hadn’t had a change of heart and postponed raising my rent until next year. Someone had paid the difference for me. But who?
Raymond? Ana? Sara? I ran down a list of my nearest and dearest. Papá! Of course, it had to have been him. He must have found out about my financial woes (Maybe Izzy had broken down and told him?) and in order to spare me the humiliation of having to ask for the money, he’d made a deal with Corman & Macklevy on the sly. Yes, that sounded just like something my father would do, the dear, sweet man. I got misty-eyed when I thought about all the trouble he’d gone to on my behalf. How would I ever repay him for his kindness and generosity?
With a sigh, I flipped to the next page in my folder. It was a $3500 invoice for July’s rent with my name and address on the top. I’d already seen the invoice when it had been sent to me via FedEx along with the letter from Mr. Corman, so that was nothing new. However, there was a yellow post-it stuck to the invoice with some scribbled instructions that looked interesting. I removed the note and brought it up closer to my face in an effort to get a better look at the almost illegible handwriting.
‘Continue to bill Dr. Alvarez $3500/month and send a second invoice for $1000 to . . .’ I turned the post-it over, ‘. . . Jonathan Fordham, MD at . . .’
“What?!?!?!?!?!” I shrieked with surprise, then clapped my hand over my mouth and held my breath, wondering fearfully if anyone had heard my outburst.
The sound of footsteps scurrying back up the hallway a few seconds later was my answer. In a panic, I closed my file, threw it down on the receptionist’s desk, and hightailed it out of the office.
OHMYGOD. OHMYGOD. OH . . . MY . . . GOD!
My hands were trembling so hard that it took me several tries to push the DOWN button on the elevator. My father hadn’t bailed me out, nor had my well-to-do brother-in-law or almost-famous best friend. It had been Ford. FORD! The man I’d mistrusted. The man I’d accused of being self-serving. The man I’d more or less kicked to the curb three days before. I couldn’t believe it.
I was still stunned when I arrived home several hours later. Leaving my keys in the front door, I stood motionless in the foyer with the mail in one hand and my briefcase in the other, trying to process everything that had happened.
“What’s up with you?” my sister wondered as she came bustling into the living room in a state of half-dress, fiddling with an earring that she was having trouble getting in.
“I have had the most incredible day,” I told her.
“You may have cured some bored housewife of her addiction to bonbons and Judge Judy, but your day has got nothing on mine.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, for starters, I got this amazing job off— Damn it!” Izzy cursed when she jabbed her finger with the pointy back of the earring, and it slipped out of her hand.
“One that doesn’t involve letting drunk men stick fives in your cleavage?” I asked as she bent down to retrieve the jewelry. “Hey! Isn’t that mine?”
“Yeah, it matches this top perfectly, don’t you think?” She glanced down at her body-hugging halter while she stuck the dangly turquoise earring in her right lobe. “These are too funky for you anyway. You should just give them to me.”
“I am not giving them to you. You’ve already appropriated half my wardrobe and most of my good jewelry.”
My sister pursed her lips at me irritably. “You never were good at sharing. Do you want to hear about my job offer or not?”
“Tell me.”
“I’m going to do a bathing suit calendar,” she announced, reaching behind her back to zip up her short, denim skirt.
“You mean, model? Professionally?”
“Yep. I got this call from a photographer who’s doing a shoot down in St. Croix this weekend. He saw me at the fashion show on Saturday and thought I had the right sultry look, so he called to see if I was interested. What do you think? Down or up?” Izzy piled her hair up on top of her head to show me the second option.
“Up, but with a few pieces hanging down around your face,” I mumbled distractedly. “Are you sure that this photographer is the real deal? He’s not just some sleazy guy who’s making you a bunch of false promises so that you’ll sleep with him?”
“Please,” my sister scoffed, then turned on her barefoot heel and sashayed towards the bathroom with me in close pursuit. “Simon’s not even into girls, and I checked him out with Sara. She said that he’s like the Francesco Scavullo of swimwear photography. He even shot the cover of Sports Illustrated’s last swimsuit issue.”
“Wow!” I was impressed. “That’s big time.”
“It’s big money, too. I’ll make $5000 for three days’ work.” Staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, Izzy twisted her dark, silky tresses up and secured them in place with a few bobby pins.
“I leave for the islands on Friday,” she informed me while pulling down some strands of hair in the front as I’d suggested.
“But how can you do that?” I balked. “You’re not allowed to leave the country when you’re out on bail with a trial pending. If you do, I’ll lose everything, my money, the house . . .”
“No, you won’t. You’re going to get all that stuff back as soon as my lawyer takes care of the paperwork.”
Izzy scooted past me out into the hallway and headed for her bedroom.
“What? How? Why?” I queried as I scurried after her.
“That’s the second part of my incredible day,” she explained once we were inside her filthy mess of a room.
“Mr. Sullivan called a little while ago to tell me that the private detective he hired found an eyewitness to the theft of that Ferrari.” Izzy dropped to her hands and knees and raised her bed skirt, searching behind it for who knows what. “This lady saw Marco, and Marco alone, break into the car, disengage its alarm system, then drive off by himself.” Dragging a spiky-heeled boot out from underneath the box spring, she gave it a disgusted look and tossed it in the direction of her closet. “So, I’m off the hook for Grand Theft Auto and Aiding and Abetting a Fugitive.”
“Oh, thank God!” I sat down on her unmade, magazine and clothes-cluttered bed and buried my face in my hands. For the first time in weeks, I felt a sense of peace. I didn’t have to worry about my little sister going to jail or some sweaty bail bondsman getting his hands on my beloved bungalow. No more anxiety, no more sleepless nights. It was like a hundred pound barbell had been lifted off my shoulders. I was so relieved I wanted to cry.
“Don’t start bawling,” Izzy ordered as if she sensed the imminent outpouring of emotion.
“I won’t,” I sniffled.
“Good, then get down here and help me find my black stilettos. I wore them the other night, so they’ve got to be around here somewhere.”
I joined her on the floor and began sifting through the piles of detritus that had accumulated there. “Why are we looking for your black stilettos?” I questioned.
“They’re my sexiest shoes. No man can resist me when I wear them.”
“Who are you trying to make yourself irresistible for?” I hoped that it wasn’t another shady character like Marco.
“Alex Muñiz,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“Alex Muñiz,” I repeated. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He was one of the police officers who arrested me. Remember, I bit him on the hand? Aha! There you are. Come to Momma, my little beauties.” She pulled the missing stilettos out of the small trash can on the other side of the room.
“I’m confused,” I said, using the bed as a counterbalance to push myself into an upright position. “Why would you want to have anything to do with the police officer who arrested you?”
Izzy hopped around on one foot while attempting to squeeze the other into her fashionably narrow pump. “I’ve still got that Resisting Arrest charge hanging over my head. To make it go away, I need the officer I assaulted to recant and say that it was all a big misunderstanding.”
“Won’t the permanent teeth marks on his hand prove otherwise?”
“I didn’t bite him that hard,” she dismissed the man’s injury as she slipped on her second stiletto.
“You broke the skin. He had to get a tetanus shot.”
“That was just a precaution. I’m sure he’s all healed up by now.”
“Just don’t expect him to forgive and forget,” I cautioned. “There might be hard feelings on his side.”
My sister smirked. “One look at this,” she ran her hand down her tanned, curvaceous body, which was alluringly displayed in her tight clothes, “and the only hard feelings Officer Muñiz is going to have will be below the belt. I am showing enough boob, right?” Izzy gazed down at her cleavage with concern.
“Any more boob and he’ll mistake you for a hooker,” I retorted.
“Perfect! Guys love slutty. Now, where’s my purse?” Her eyes darted around the room frantically, but she didn’t spot it.
“ARGH!” she groaned with frustration. “I need to get the hell out of here. His shift starts at 7:00, and I have to catch him before he goes out on patrol.”
“Try the living room,” I suggested, and we tromped back out there together.
“Yes!” Izzy exulted when she found her faux crocodile clutch tucked into a corner of the couch. She pulled some shimmery pink lip gloss from the bag and hastily applied it to her full mouth.
“How are my teeth?” she inquired, baring them at me.
“Nothing stuck in between them.”
“Good.” She squirted some spearmint Binaca in her mouth. “Later.”
“Hey!” I protested, following her to the foyer. “I never got to tell you about my day.”
She opened the screen door and with a bored expression, turned back towards me. “How exciting could it have been? Did you kiss and make up with Ford?”
“No.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Talk to him?”
“No.”
“Pull your head out of your ass and realize that he’s a good guy, you love him, and you need to stop being a chicken shit and tell him?”
“No,” was my meek response.
“Get back to me when you do.” She stepped outside and let the screen door slam shut in my face.