Breaking the Bank Read online

  There was something printed on the back of the receipt, an offer extended by the bank for opening a CD or money market account. A gift for you . . . it began. There were those words again. Astonishing. Just astonishing. She thought of the numinous screen at the bank. If the bill really was a gift, it exonerated her from any wrongdoing. How could it be wrong to take what was given—specifically, unequivocally—to her? She put the receipt with all the others before getting back into bed. Her last waking thought was of her mother—she had forgotten to call her. Mia felt the familiar spark of guilt and tried to stub it out. Too late to phone now; Betty would have to wait until tomorrow.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Mia was out before nine, striding along Union Street in the brittle October air to the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library at Grand Army Plaza. She was there when the doors opened, and so was able to nab a seat at one of the library’s computers. She had only a thirty-minute window before her turn was up, so she had to work fast. But Google didn’t let her down, and, in minutes, she had retrieved the names of a dozen dealers in rare coins and currencies; she also found out that Salmon Chase was the Treasury secretary under Lincoln. Go, Salmon, she thought as she logged off. Sally, you sly dog.

  Back at home, she climbed onto the chair in search of the shoe box; when she found it, she half expected that the bill would be gone, or turned into a smaller denomination. But no, it was right there where she left it. She took it out of the box and tenderly carried it into the kitchen, where she set it on one of her new bathroom towels. Then she turned to the list. Four of the currency dealers were located in New York City. It was a long shot that any of them would be working on a Saturday, but why not try? Eden didn’t need to be picked up until noon, so Mia had a little time. Some of the names danced across the page; others marched. One of them, Oscar Kornblatt, actually seemed to ooze. Kornblatt was not a felicitous name, she decided. She wouldn’t call him. What about Tony Latazza? Or Mike Scopes? She liked those zz’s in Latazza; they had a certain flair. Scopes was strong, unapologetic, honest-sounding. She tried Tony first, but the number was no longer in service, no further information available. The number for Mike Scopes rang and rang; clearly he didn’t believe in answering machines. The last name on the list was Solly Phelps. She tapped in the numbers, not expecting much. But someone answered on the first ring.

  “Phelps here.” The voice was deep, rich, and smooth. Mia could imagine it being poured through the phone line, like molten chocolate. It was even better than Lloyd’s voice, which was saying a lot.

  “Solly Phelps?”

  “Solly Phelps. Can I help you?”

  “I found your name online,” said Mia, suddenly flummoxed. Now that she was actually about to tell someone about the bill, she was frightened. Her voice emerged from her throat in an unnaturally high pitch, almost a squeak. This would not do. Solly Phelps was not going to take her seriously if she sounded like one of the characters in the Mommy Mousie series.

  “Are you buying or selling?” Solly Phelps cut right to the chase. “Well, I’m not sure . . .” Mia said. “That is, I’m thinking of selling. But I wanted to get some more information first.” The bill glowed, silvery-green, against the garnet color of the towel.

  “What have you got? Silver? Gold? If it’s silver, I’m not really interested. Gold is good though; gold is always good.”

  “Actually, it’s paper.”

  “Could be interesting. The denom?”

  “Denom?”

  “Denomination.”

  Mia stalled. She was not ready to disclose the amount yet. “It’s a large . . . denom,” she said, carefully trying out the word.

  “Could be interesting to me. But condition is important. I’m really only looking for VF and EF.”

  “Sorry, I’m not following you,” Mia said. “VF is very fine; EF is extremely fine,” Solly explained in that expensive-liquor-smooth voice of his. “EF shows signs of light handling only. No more than three light folds or one strong crease. VF is still attractive, but shows more wear. You know—vertical and horizontal folds. Some dirt on the paper.”

  “Actually, the paper is very clean. It has a kind of sheen. And it doesn’t show any signs of handling at all.” Mia stared at the bill. “It looks new.”

  “You’ve got an uncirculated bill? Really? What is it? A five-hundred note?”

  “No. It’s bigger than that.”

  “Hey, what is this? I don’t have time for twenty questions.”

  Mia waited a beat. She had better just say it. Otherwise, she was going to lose him. “It’s a ten,” she began.

  “A ten?” He cut her off. “Listen, don’t waste my time.”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “A ten-thousand-dollar note? You’re kidding.” He was not asking, he was telling.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

  “But there are almost none of those in existence anymore. And certainly none in private hands.”

  “Well, I’ve got one in mine,” she said. Salmon Chase glared up at her. “I’m looking at it right now.”

  “How do you know it’s real?” he countered. “How do you know it isn’t?”

  Solly Phelps was silent. “I’d like to see it,” he said finally. “All right.” She had done it, she realized. She had taken the first step. Toward what, she didn’t know.

  “Can you come in later today?”

  “Not today. Not tomorrow either. Monday.”

  “Monday,” confirmed Solly. “Nine o’clock all right?”

  Mia thought for a second. No job to hustle to; Eden’s drop-off was at eight fifteen. Enough time to hop on the train and get to Manhattan by nine.

  “Nine’s fine.”

  He gave her an address: 540 West 30th Street. Must be over by the Hudson River. Or maybe in the river.

  “What did you say your name was?” Solly asked. “I didn’t say. But I will on Monday. Bye.” She clicked the button and terminated the conversation. Her hands were tingling again, and her heart was starting to pound. Was this smart? Could she trust him? She considered the idea of a sidekick, an accomplice. Julie? Yes? No. It should be a guy. Stuart was a natural for the job, but though she wished she could have told her wild story to Stuart, he no longer seemed like a willing ear. He had retreated to some inaccessible, Mia-free zone that she had to fight to penetrate. And Lloyd, even had he been around, was out of the question.

  Then it hit her. She knew just whom to ask. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was almost time to get Eden from Caitlin’s. But first, she dug into her wallet, where Fred’s card was still tucked in one of its creased leather folds. It took a minute to retrieve it from deep in the wallet’s innermost recesses; she sat looking at it briefly before she reached for the phone. Fred was a good guy, that much she could acknowledge. And if she were in the market for a good guy, he might even be the one.

  But if she asked Fred to accompany her, she would have to explain the nature of her errand, and how she came to be in possession of this bill. Which was something she did not want to do. As long as no one knew about the machine and its mysterious gift, a gift for her, it had said, the gift was hers alone, to ponder over, marvel at, use as she saw fit. Once she told someone else, everything would change, and her private little miracle would be exposed to the scrutiny—and the judgment—of everyone around her.

  Mia tucked the card back in her wallet, taking the time to smooth out its upper left corner, which had gotten a little bent. Like it or not, she was on her own.

  NINE

  SUNDAY IT POURED. Mia didn’t mind; it gave her an excuse to stay home with Eden and putter. Glorious, sunny weather brought with it a particular kind of reproach: shouldn’t she be out biking/skating/flying a kite in the park with her child? The rain absolved her of all that relentless good cheer; they could stay at home, content to watch the fat raindrops hit the windows and then trickle down, to pool on the cracked, chipped sills.

  After breakfast, Mia and Eden played a series of board games: Mono
poly, Life, Stratego, Scrabble. Not one of these games was intact; there were pieces missing from all of them, but Eden didn’t mind.

  “We don’t have to do what the rules say anyway.” She confidently rattled two mismatched dice in her hand. “We can make our own rules, right?”

  “Right,” said Mia, feeling irrationally proud of her. “We sure can.” It had been hard for Eden since Lloyd left. There were two more incidents of cursing in school—this time just at other kids though, and Eden claimed they cursed at her first—and a couple of extended crying jags. One morning she just wouldn’t get out of bed, and Mia, recognizing depression when she saw it, let her spend the day at home, drawing, watching TV, and leafing through her old comic books and

  Mad magazines.

  Mia had documented every bump in her daughter’s rocky road with the teacher, the school psychologist, the learning specialist, and the principal. Everyone had a different opinion, and everyone seemed to suggest a different course of action. She needed to be given more respon-

  sibility yet less pressure; she had to be held to a greater level of accountability but left to her own devices and not pushed too hard; she should spend more time on schoolwork, less time on schoolwork, avoid excessive stimulation, seek out more new learning opportunities. What Eden really needed, in Mia’s humble and admittedly not expert opinion, was to be assured of Lloyd’s continued love and devotion, which, given his highly erratic life at the moment, was something Mia could not do. Lloyd’s attention was like a tropical storm: heavy and drenching when it came, only to dry up and vanish with scarcely a trace.

  Late in the day, the rain cleared and they took a walk up to a pizza place on Fifth Avenue. Pizza was cheap and generally something Eden would eat. Mia used one of the twenties from the secret stash to pay for a slice with broccoli and red peppers. To her amazement, Eden wanted the same thing and ate it all. Score one for Mom. Or for the magic money, which seemed to charm whatever it touched. The only dark note in the day came at bedtime, when Eden began talking about Lloyd in that longing yet manic way of hers.

  “So you know that Daddy said he’s going to take me to Asia with him next time, right? We’re going to all these really cool places, like Japan, and Vietnam, and Korea,” she said. “He’s going to buy me silver chopsticks. Maybe even gold. It’s going to be great. No, not great. Amazing. It’s going to be amazing.” She had Petunia tucked up under her chin as she spoke, and was squeezing her hard.

  “He told you that?”

  “The last time he was here.” She sounded defiant now. “He didn’t mention it to me.”

  “Well, he mentioned it to me,” said Eden. “He really and truly did.” She flopped back on the bed, Petunia flopping down obligingly alongside her. “So I can go, right? Even if I have to miss, like, a ton of school?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mia hedged. “We’ll have to discuss it.” She prepared herself for another round of begging and badgering. But it did not come. Eden was uncharacteristically quiet, and in a few minutes Mia realized that she was asleep.

  When her daughter’s breathing had settled into an easy, somnolent rhythm, Mia was able to think about her appointment with Solly Phelps. How was she going to carry a ten-thousand-dollar bill, especially one whose condition seemed to be of the utmost importance? She rummaged around the apartment for a few minutes, managing to locate the pieces of cardboard that came with her new sheets (good thing her housekeeping was not that expert), a manila envelope, and a Hello Kitty backpack that just yesterday Eden informed her she no longer wanted. Mia trimmed the cardboard to fit the envelope, slipped the bill between the two pieces, slid the pieces into the envelope, and sealed the whole thing with a sponge—her mouth felt so dry she didn’t have any spare saliva. The envelope then went inside a book and the book inside the backpack. If she looked ridiculous with Hello Kitty’s bloated, wall-eyed face peering out from behind her, then so be it.

  Although she knew that the money was not exactly hers, Mia had a hard time believing that keeping or using it was an actual crime. If the mistake had happened once or twice and had then been noticed by the bank, she would, of course, have given the money back, because someone was going to be held accountable; someone would have to pay. But this was on a completely different level, one that seemed to defy human error or even involvement. A ten-thousand-dollar bill, especially one that came with a light show, music, and a personal message, was so outside the realm of the ordinary as to be fantastical, magical, otherworldly. Who didn’t notice that ten grand was missing? The only explanation that made sense to her was that it wasn’t missing because it hadn’t come from the bank at all.

  Her father, resolute scientist that he had been, nevertheless had his less-than-scientific side. He believed, for instance, that his grandfather had appeared to him in a dream, and had given him his blessing the night before he began his doctoral program in astronomy. Since his parents were visibly disappointed that their studious, A-garnering son had not elected to join the bright-Jewish-boy triumvirate of doctor/lawyer/ accountant, having his grandfather’s approval had meant a lot to him. He also owned various lucky objects, though none so predictable as a four-leaf clover or a rabbit’s foot. Mia remembered a flat white stone, almost perfectly circular in shape, and a black, crudely fashioned key that opened no door or lock she ever knew of. Then there was the brass gyroscope—still in its original, disintegrating cardboard box—he’d loved as a kid, along with his first penknife and a big blue marble that glowed with the intensity of a planet from a distant galaxy. Whether these objects possessed any actual magic power was immaterial. Mia and Stuart believed because their father believed—that was enough. On the day of a big exam, a tryout for a team, an audition for a play, the marble or the stone would be pressed into a moist palm. The gyroscope sat on Stuart’s desk while he typed out his college applications; the key accompanied Mia on her first solo trip to Europe.

  So it was conceivable—okay, not likely, not plausible, but in the end, not entirely impossible either—that she, Mia, had stumbled onto a mother lode of magic, right here in her very own backyard, so to speak. And if that were the case, then accepting the benefits that such magic might offer was not only not wrong, but was her right, her mandate even. Who was she to argue?

  THE NEXT MORNING was charmed. Eden woke early, dressed without serious incident (the yellow shorts worn over thick ribbed purple tights and topped by a frayed sweatshirt might have given some other mothers pause, but not Mia), and brushed her teeth without being asked. When they were on the way out of the apartment, Mr. Ortiz opened his door and asked Mia if he could speak to her. Mia couldn’t help a glance at her watch, but Mr. Ortiz seemed to be bursting with barely containable news.

  “I know you are in a rush, Señora Saul,” he said. Mariposa limped daintily into the hall, and Eden was happy to squat down to pet her. The dog was looking much better now: less thin, shinier fur. “But it’s about Señor Manny.”

  Manny? What trouble was he causing now? Mia’s good feeling about the morning quickly began to evaporate, a puddle in an August sun.

  “No, it’s not bad,” he added, seeing her worried expression. “Señor Manny—he’s gone away.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “The policemen came. Three of them. Just yesterday. There was a siren; it was so loud. Also Señor Manny was loud. He was yelling so much.” Mr. Ortiz shook his head at the memory. “So much. They put on the—how you say it?—wrist cuffs?” He gestured by placing his own knobby wrists together.

  “Handcuffs,” supplied Eden, still stroking the dog but looking up with curiosity now.

  “Yes, handcuffs. And he has not been back since.”

  “Well, that’s terrific,” Mia said. She didn’t know how she managed to miss all this, but it was great news. She looked again at her watch. “I really want to hear more about this, Mr. Ortiz. But right now, we’ve got to hustle.” She turned to Eden. “Let’s go, honey. You don’t want to be late.”

  “Of cour
se, Señora Saul,” Mr. Ortiz said. “You can ring my bell any time.” He made a clucking noise at Mariposa, whose pointy ears rose like twin peaks on her dark head. She trotted into the apartment, and he gently closed the door.

  “Is Manny going to jail?” Eden asked. “There’s a good chance that he will,” said Mia as they descended the stairs. All during the walk to school, Eden wanted to talk about Manny and his progress through the New York City penal system. How big was jail? Did you have to wear striped uniforms, like in the cartoons? Would his family send him a file baked into a birthday cake? Would his leg be shackled to an iron ball?

  “No, they don’t do things like that anymore,” Mia said. “Too bad. He deserves it.”

  Mia couldn’t exactly disagree, but she felt compelled to add, “He’ll have to have a trial first. No one is put in jail without a trial.”

  “Even someone like him?”

  “Even someone like him.”

  Eden was silent for a moment and then said, “Why are you wearing my Hello Kitty backpack, Mom? Isn’t it, like, a little young for you?”

  They had arrived at the school, so Mia didn’t answer. Instead, she resisted the impulse to kiss Eden atop her tousled head and confined herself to a chirpy “Have a great day!” Then she headed for the subway station, where she swiped her MetroCard, cursed silently until the train arrived, and squeezed in at the last second before the doors closed.

  She changed trains at the next stop. The express train was even more crowded. The backpack seemed to her transparent and ablaze with lights; people were staring at it right now; she could feel it, she was sure—she dared to raise her eyes and look around. Several of the seated passengers were reading; a couple of people had their eyes closed; someone in the corner was actually picking his nose—did he think he was invisible, for Christ’s sake? A tall, hefty girl with a large beauty mark on one cheek took advantage of the train’s brief emergence from the tunnel onto the Manhattan Bridge to pull out her cell phone and make a call. “Tommy?” she said in a breathy voice. “Tommy, it’s me.” Tommy said something on the other end of the line that made the girl press the phone closer to her face and smile.