“I don’t think so.”
“No, who do you think I am?”
“Blake Malone.”
He gave me a familiar lopsided smile. “No, you have me confused. I’m his cousin, Ty.”
“Take off your glasses,” I said, my voice back to its default setting: irreverent cynicism/sarcasm.
He hesitated, no doubt due to Ty’s heterochromia. I was sure he was hoping against hope I didn’t know my neighbor that well. Little did he know just how well I knew his cousin.
Not biblically, but that wasn’t for lack of trying.
I could almost sense when he came to the decision—“might as well give it a shot”—and then decided to take off his glasses.
Uncanny.
They said every person had their twin, but the resemblance with my Malone was over the top. At a distance, no one would’ve been able to tell the difference between the two. Up close? Brown eyes, slightly thinner lips, and a smile that didn’t reach all the way to his eyes.
“Nope. You’re Blake Malone, and you’re hiding for some reason,” I said.
“And who are you?”
“Just your friendly neighborhood process server.”
“No, you’re more than that,” he said with a smile as he put his aviators back on. “Let me buy you lunch, see if we can come to an understanding.”
Ah, a charm offensive. Such sudden shifts in demeanor always reminded me of Ted Bundy.
“No, thank you. I have errands to run.”
“Trader Joe’s, right?”
“That was just a ploy to get your attention.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I shop at Whole Foods.”
“I don’t know what lies my wife’s been telling you, but I’m really a nice guy.”
Sure. All the truly nice guys say that. Saying it makes it so.
But I knew how to play the game. One, keep the smile on my face to prevent any unwanted ugliness. Two, keep Trista out of it, but,three, don’t tell an outright lie. “Your wife? I work for lawyers. Have a nice day.”
With that, I quickly sat down in my Corolla, being sure to lock the door before I fished around in my bag for my keys. In my peripheral vision, I saw Blake take a look at the papers, then pinch the bridge of his nose while looking up at the sky. On his way into the salon, he tossed the papers in a trash can.
Bad move, Bizarro Malone. You’re gonna need those papers, and tossing them doesn’t mean you haven’t been served. They make affidavits for that sort of thing.
More paperwork for me, but ... I would drown my sorrows in a cheap Côtes du Rhône and some white-cheddar corn puffs.
I took a meandering route through the parking lot, curious about the license plate on the Land Rover Blake had been driving. Probably a rental, but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Just in case he was watching, I didn’t stop to write it down. Instead, I chanted the letter and number configuration to the tune of Outkast’s “So Fresh, So Clean” all the way to Trader Joe’s.
To say Trista was happy I’d managed to serve her husband with papers would be the understatement of the century. When I called, she squealed so loudly that I feared permanent hearing loss. And in both ears, at that, because I had called on speaker.
Malone, on the other hand, had answered neither phone call nor text by the time I headed back for Bel Air Apartments with a treasure trove of snacks.
My phone rang as I was juggling a bag while unlocking my apartment door. I put the bag down and looked to see who was calling me.
Malone.
“Guess what?” I asked in lieu of “hello.”
