“Oh.” The courthouse clerk, Connie, pauses, staring at the piece of paper in her hand. Her bright-red frames match the lipstick on her teeth. A phone rings in a cubicle somewhere behind her.
“Is there a problem?”
“Active military?” she asks. “No, ma’am.”
“Then I will need to see your driver’s license or proof of residence.” I pull my wallet from my back pocket and slide my new, shiny license from the aged leather card slot. It lists the address of the condo I recently purchased, burning up what little was left of my inheritance and savings account. It will all be worth it. She accepts the ID with pursed lips.I can’t tell if she’s skeptical or curious?Bracing my elbow on the desk, I ask, “Hey, I heard your brother was selling his Camaro. He get any buyers yet?”
She cocks her head to the side, trying to place my face. “Not yet.”
“I might have to give him a holler, yellow is my favorite color.” When
I picked up my application a couple weeks ago, I eavesdropped on her telling another clerk about her brother Jerome selling his beloved car.
“Yeah . . . I’m sure he’d love to talk about it.”
“Oh, I bet he would,” I say with a chuckle. “Jerome would talk to a brick wall.”
That gets a loud laugh out of her, and her shoulders relax. “So true!”
May as well go for broke.“Did you see they’re putting in another Village Pump on 191?”
She sucks her teeth and shakes her head. “Ugh, I heard.”
“I swear they’re the closest we get to the mafia,” I mutter—convincing her with every word. “They’re trying to put up a bunch of hotels too.”
She glances from left to right, then leans forward and lowers her voice. “They’ve been buying up everything lately.”
Setting my other elbow on the desk, I lean down. “I always say they’re casinos disguised as gas stations.”
“Well, when you hold all the town’s liquor licenses . . .”
I chuckle. “Don’t let ’em hear you, Connie. They’ll come after you next,” I joke.
She laughs and passes me my license with a smile. I resist running my tongue over my front teeth where she has lipstick on hers.
“Okay, do you have the rest of your paperwork? And have you arranged for a representative?”
I push the folder across the desk to her. She opens it and flips through the papers with practiced efficiency. A copy of her driver’s license—that I stole from her purse a few months back—her legal form, Thor’s paperwork, and finally, the affidavit that was written in flawless imitation. It took me a couple weeks toperfect her handwriting, but now I have no problem swirling myG’s andY’s the same way she does. It wouldn’t be the first time I had to forge documents. All notarized by Casper, of course, who is patiently waiting in the car outside.
“Well, aren’t you organized!”
“Oh, Connie.She’sorganized. I’m just the delivery boy.”
That earns me another laugh. She turns one of the forms around to face me. “Initial here.”
I do.
Then she points to another line. “Signature.” I scribble my name.
She plucks a self-inking stamp next to her computer and sets it on top of the paperwork, then presses down with a mechanicalthunk. “You’ve got one hundred and eighty days to?—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. My representative and I will be here with bells on.”
“Excellent,” she says, peering down at the paperwork and double-checking my name before handing it over to me. “Well, Logan. I’ll get this filed and you’ll be all set.”
She holds out the document and I take it from her with a smile—it’s the first thing I haven’t faked—then fold it in half and slip it into the pocket inside my jacket.
“Great, thanks, Connie. Take care of yourself.” I nod. “And say hi to Jerome for me.”
