CHAPTER One
How did I end up a hundred thousand dollars in credit card debt? It wasn’t as hard as it sounds.
I went to Colombia and studied anthropology with a minor in tribal culture. The perfect background to get a great job. Right?
Okay. It was a stupid choice. As it turns out, one of several. But I was still a teenager when I picked a major. I’ve since learned that brains aren’t fully developed until years later. A lot of good that information does me now.
Anyway I graduated with honors and was perfectly prepared for a job at McDonalds across the river in New Jersey. That got me a two bedroom flat in a questionable neighborhood with three roommates who would make most of you run from the building screaming.
Don’t pity me. After eight months I parlayed that experience into a job as a bank teller. Sigh. You can pity me a little if you insist.
The point is that, during the last months before graduation, I got dozens of credit card offers in the mail. I said yes to everything. Remember, brain still not fully developed at that point. The result was a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of credit.
My thinker may not have been firing on all cylinders yet, but I did know enough to not compound the dismal prospects for my future by adding credit card debt to my school debt, which was already enough to overwhelm Bill Gates.
Of course I made a decision equal to my stunning track record of good choices. I married a cute loser with brown eyes and hair that fell over his forehead in a dreamy way. Six months later he left me for a skank ho. Shortly thereafter, I had a divorce that was very much wanted and a surprise that was very much unwanted. He’d left me with a hundred thousand dollar credit card debt.
Yeah. He’d been getting to the mail first and hiding the notices. Let me tell you. Ignorance is only bliss if you’re blind to things that can’t hurt you. If you’re blind to things that can hurt you, you’re not a Pollyanna goofball. You’re an idiot.
I may have been contemplating suicide when I opened my gym locker and found a really cute Bed Stu zip tote with two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in it. I looked around to see if it was a joke. Or a bad spy cam TV show.
Of course I didn’t know exactly how much money was in there at the time. I wasn’t going to count it while standing there. What I was going to do was maintain my stellar record of always picking the worst option. Because I may be well-educated, but I’m an idiot. I quietly pulled the tote straps over my shoulder and walked out.
Well, what would you do?
After counting out the money in the bathroom, the only place where I can find privacy these days, I lowered the toilet seat cover, sat down, and decided that if the gods had seen fit to give me a second chance, I wouldn’t be dumb with it. Again.
I was scheduled to start work at nine. I got ready for the day and walked the two blocks to work like every other day. Except that day I had a large, alright huge, cash deposit. In a gym bag.
If I’d tried to conduct such a transaction as a customer there would have been many questions accompanied with raised eyebrows. But I wasn’t a customer. I was an employee. I should mention that it was also an ideal day. Wednesday.
I knew there would be sometime during the day when I would be the only person at the counter. The drive-through would be dead. The other teller would be on lunch. The manager would be in the corner office. The “personal bankers” would be at their desks in the front of the building and wouldn’t be able to see what was happening behind the glass even if they’d cared.
Of course it would be on camera, but no one would ever see the feed unless I was unlucky enough to deposit all that money on the same day the bank was robbed. I figured my spell of unluck had just taken a major turn for the better. I had a rich secret admirer who could pick a lock and wanted absolutely nothing in return for a whole lot of cash.
I pulled it off.
The money was in my account for less than a couple of hours before it had paid off credit cards and student loans.
I was free.
Until the rightful owners of the money, who wanted it back, traced the hasty stash to my locker. I learned this during a very scary conversation in the restroom at Starbucks. Just as I was about to close and lock the unisex door behind me, two guys with dark hair, dark eyes, ill-fitting suits and eyebrows that met in the middle stepped inside, shushing me as they did.
I took a big lungful of air to scream, but number two goon grabbed me from behind and clamped his sweaty palm over my mouth. Did I mention it smelled like week-old garlic press? Ugh.
While I was wondering if the man was a cook masquerading as a thug, the other one said, “Where’s the money, Clover?”
Oh, god, they know my name.
I shook my head, meaning that I couldn’t talk with number two goon’s hand over my mouth. He thought I meant that I was refusing to tell him.
“Don’t even think about telling me you don’t know where it is.”
I didn’t shake my head, but tried to talk against, retch, garlic hand. Apparently he got the message. His attention flicked to my captor. When he nodded, I was released just enough to speak.
“I do know where it is. Part of it is in the banks that sponsor my credit cards. The rest is in the U.S. Treasury Department of Student Loans.”
Goon number one’s eyes narrowed in a way that would have been much more chilling if I hadn’t known that, just on the other side of the door down a short hallway there were twenty-five people ordering coffee and sipping such concoctions as venti cinnamon lattes with a splash of classic syrup and a dribble of caramel sauce while five baristas dashed around trying to keep up.
“That’s not good news for you.” He waited for me to say something. I didn’t. “Here’s the thing, doll. We know who you are. Obviously. We know where you are. Obviously. And the fella I work for wants his money back.”
After a lengthy uncomfortable stare, I said, “You want me to get the money back.”
His mouth twitched ever so slightly.
I suppose he was talking to goon number two when he said, “She’s quick, this one.”
Goon number two chuckled in a way that caused fear to begin building. There was something dark in his laugh. It creeped me out in ways that required an expanded imagination and adequately conveyed the urgency of finding a way to appease.
“I can get it.”
“You can?” number one said slowly.
I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. I just need, um, six years?”
That got me another lip twitch. “Funny.” He looked over my shoulder again. “She’s funny. Right?” Goon number two repeated that low laugh that made goosebumps break out, not the good kind. “I was thinking more along the lines of six hours.”
“Hours?” I squeaked.
Goon number one studied me for a minute. “Look. You’re cute and we’re reasonable guys. We’re gonna give you three days. Till Saturday night. If you have the money, we’ll call it square even though you’ve caused some trouble.”
“I’ve caused some trouble? I didn’t put that bag in my gym locker.”
Goon number one lowered his chin and gave me a menacing look. “Maybe not. But you knew it wasn’t yours.”
“Did you want me to turn it into Lost and Found?”
He pressed his lips together. “Saturday night. No matter where you are. No matter who you’re with. If you don’t have the money, you’re going to work for our organization.” His eyes drifted up and down my body slowly as goon number two’s hands drifted up and down my body slowly. I took in a horrified breath when he grabbed private girl parts. “And I figure you’ll work it off in about sixteen years.”
Shit!
Goon number two released me abruptly as they both stepped toward the door. “Don’t worry about contact. We’ll find you.” Goon number two opened the door. Goon number one looked back over his shoulder. “Get the money.”
My first thought was… I can’t get the money.
My second thought was to go home and review my options.
My third thought was to run.
I went with my third thought.
This is the story of what happened after that fateful decision.