We get into the car and I tell him what I’ve learned about Kobra.
“We had coffee with a drug lord this morning?” He stops to reflect for a moment. “That might be why Crystal isn’t talking to you.”
Come to think of it, that makes sense.
“You know, I’ve made it until the age of twenty-nine as a black man without getting into trouble. And here you are, a pretty white girl, and you can’t seem to stay away from it.”
He has a point. The only question is: how much trouble am I really in?
Max navigates us smoothly to a nearby Vons and then offers me his arm as we walk up to the storefront. I don’t know if I’m just desperate and vulnerable or if I’m falling for him. His arm feels warm, solid, and muscled. “Max.” I look up at him all, let’s be honest, desperate and vulnerable, but also overcome. This man has been here for me like no one else and he doesn’t even know me. I want to tell him he looks handsome and reach up on my toes and kiss him. I want him to wrap his arms around me tight. Instead, I say, “Thank you.”
Outside Vons is a homeless guy, and I recognize him immediately; he’s the guy from the beach on Friday. “Yo, Mia,” he says.
“Wassup, Don?” His name rolls off my tongue without thinking.
Max stops and does a double take. Then he looks directly at the guy. “You know Mia?”
“I told you I volunteer at a local soup kitchen,” I say, all self-satisfied and smug. “Don remembers me.” I must have been one of the kindest volunteers.
The guy laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Um, no. Iworkfor you.” Then he adds, “And you ate at the shelter with me at least once, back in the day.”
“Sorry…what?”Whatdoes not capture how confused I am.
Iateat the homeless shelter? How real does my life have to get?
Max laughs. “I work for Mia too.” He holds out his hand and says, “I’m Max, I’m helping her with…day-to-day operations.”
The guy nods.
“I also chauffeur now and then.”
Don brightens. “Really? God I’d love driving that Ferrari. You wouldn’t even have to pay me. Glad you do, Mia, but damn that’s a fine machine.”
Just in case Don knows me better than I suspect, I ask him if he knows any other pertinent details, like, for instance, where I live. I kind of hope he says no, even though I want him to say yes. One way or the other, I’m not as highbrow as I thought. You can only be so much of a snob if you’re homeless.
Don’s memory of me doesn’t extend that far. “I just know you have a thing for Jacques-o-late,” he says. This actually makes Max rolls his eyes.
“Whaaat?” I say, all sarcastic. In a teasing voice, I add, “Once you go Jacques-o-late, you know.”
Don laughs, and Max makes a noise like he’s holding in a comeback that’s about to burst out.
After I verify that I still have Don’s number and give him another five bucks, we head into Vons. Max grabs a cart and then changes his mind and gets one of those half-size carts.I can tell he’s processing the conversation outside. Either that or he’s way too concerned about grocery carts. I act casual and look at a stand filled with Republic of California T-shirts. “Maybe I should get one—”
“Mia, this worries me. I think you might have been running with a…dangerous crowd before.”
“Max, you can’t say that just because I hired someone who’s struggling with homelessness. That’s how you make the world a better place, by offering people who are down on their luck a second chance.”
“Um. True. But…” He stops pushing the cart in the middle of the aisle and looks into my eyes. “You’re currently vulnerable, and for whatever reason you’re making connections with—”
“Don’t worry. It’s not like I’m hanging out with them. And any shady characters Ihavebeen hanging out with are being investigated by the police right now, remember?”
He seems satisfied with that. After I grab some headache meds, we meander into the deli area. I peruse the deli counter sushi and stare so hard at the little plastic trays of California rolls with ginger that isn’t the right color and thumbprint-size dollops of wasabi, as if I think they’re about to tell me a secret and…they do.
I suddenly flash back to the art museum. It’s not like I’m watching a movie, but I can see glimpses of the accident. I see sushi rolls arranged in an elaborate design. I’m eyeing the California rolls and some with the orange caviar stuff on top. I’m picking up a few and balancing a wineglass when I hear a commotion just outside the building.
“Bitch!”
I look up from the sushi table toward the door, along with a whole room of people dressed like they’re going to the Grammys. I don’t want to miss whatever is about to go down. I feel a little thrill, like I’m about to watch an after-school fight. Whoever yelled isn’t in sight so I add some wasabi to my plate, thinking I still have time before the fight breaks out. I pick up my drink and start walking somewhere with a better view of the drama. I spot a nice place close to an ice sculpture of Cupid.
