Signing the Affidavits
Flicka von Hannover
Martinis and Weizenbier.
They had lived in Las Vegas for six weeks.
Flicka had been so intent on day-to-day survival those six weeks—from having enough money to pay the rent and eat to watching out for someone about to throw her in an unmarked van—that she almost didn’t realize how much time had passed until two days beforethe six-week anniversary.
Suddenly, she needed to gather the necessary divorce paperwork and have it signed and notarized.
The French lawyer, Joachim Blanchard, had provided all the forms they would need on that little flash drive. Some of the fields were even pre-filled, like her name and Pierre’s, and the dates.
She sat at the small kitchen table in their townhouse and sorted the paperworkwhile Dieter watched soccer in the living room with Alina, trying to explain the off-sides rule to the toddler.
As Flicka ground through stacks of paper, Dieter succeeded in teaching Alina to shout “Goal!” and raise her arms whenever the ball came anywhere near the goalie. His deep shout and laugh and the baby’s shrill screech made Flicka smile as she deciphered the paperwork.
Okay, so the firstorder of business was an affidavit of residency, attesting that Flicka had lived in the county and hadn’t left for any significant time period during the six weeks. It had to be signed by a person who had known her and seen her every two days or so but who was not emotionally attached to the outcome of the divorce.
So, Dieter himself was out. He had an emotional involvement.
Because she hadquit her job at the Monaco Casino after two weeks and then had taken the job at the Silver Horseshoe less than a month before, no one from her work had known and seen her every day for the whole six weeks. She only saw the townhouse rental agent-slash-blackjack dealer, Indrani, on weekends.
Damn it, she’d kind of screwed herself here.
Although, now that she thought about it, there was one personwhom she’d met right after she’d arrived in Las Vegas, on her second day working at the Monaco Casino, who’d followed her over to the Silver Horseshoe and then perched on a bar stool every day, talking with her about martinis andWeizenbier.
The next day while Flicka was at work, Bastien the silver fox again wandered into the Silver Horseshoe Casino and claimed his chair at the end of the bar,ordering his top-shelf martini and flicking out a newspaper to read the sports pages before he began placing bets on the various games playing on the screens above.
As always, Flicka’s bar was jumping by five o’clock in the afternoon. News of the bar’s good vibes had spread, and more people thronged her bar every night. People swarmed the betting windows and tapped wagers into their table consoleswhile they watched sports on the enormous televisions above the bar and hanging from the ceiling.
Flicka found a free few minutes and sidled up to Bastien, asking him if he would sign the affidavit of residency and attest that he had seen her at least every few days for the past six weeks.
Prissy wandered over, holding her notary embosser and a pen. Prissy didn’t handle other people’s pens.It was unsanitary.
Bastien grinned as she handed him the paperwork and asked, “An affidavit of residency? Are you divorcing someone,lieblingGretchen?”
“I mentioned that I had a problem ex. I need to finish making him an ex,” she said.
“That makes perfect sense. I am pleased to sign it for you.” He scrawled an illegible, loopy mess on the line. “Is it that big, blond brute from the MonacoCasino whom I see has followed you over here?”
In the month since she’d changed jobs, Bastien hadn’t asked about Dieter again. “No. He’s just a friend. I got to know him at the Monaco.”
Prissy grabbed the documents out of Bastien’s hands, crimped her seal on the page, and signed on the notary line before she trotted back to her office to work on the spreadsheets.
Bastien raised his eyebrowsat Prissy’s wordless retreat. “I’d hate to think of you two divorcing. You’re such a pretty couple. Who are you getting rid of?”
Before Flicka could grab the residency affidavit off the bar, Bastien flipped the top of the paper up and frowned. Indeed, his hands shook a little. “MylieblingGretchen, what have I signed? Is this for some other woman?”
Flicka bit her lip, but it probably wouldn’tmatter. She could leave Nevada soon, anyway. “It’s for me.”
“Friederike Augusta von Hannover?This is not your name.”
“I didn’t want my ex to find me, so I’ve been calling myself Gretchen. My legal name is Friederike.”
When he dropped the paper on the bar, the older man looked like someone had punched him in the gut. His cheeks flushed pink, and he was breathing heavily. His eyes looked likea thin film of glass covered them. “You’re not Gretchen Mirabaud.”
“No.” She squinted at him. “I never told you my last name. Or that last name, anyway.”
He looked at her. “You’reFriederike von Hannover.”
“Um, Bastien? I need you to not tell anybody—”
“I have to go,” he said, dropping some money on the bar. “Best of luck with your divorce,Friederike. I really must go.”
