Lucca Marino—Eight Years Ago

Lucca Marino—Eight Years Ago

The bidding for the trip to Mexico is up to twelve thousand dollars. I know they all say “It’s for a good cause!” but you’ve got to be high to pay over ten thousand dollars for a trip that’s worth two grand at best.

I’m just glad everyone here has the credit limit to be so generous.

I hold my empty tray just above my shoulder and wander through the ballroom. It’s another Saturday night in Raleigh and yet another fundraiser where hundreds of items are being auctioned off. Tonight these tux- and ballgown-clad people are here to support the local opera guild.

A man in his fifties appears in front of me, and he stares at my chest a lot longer than necessary if he’s just trying to read the name on my name tag.

“Susan, any chance I can get a Macallan on ice?” he asks.

“Sure thing, Mr. Fuller. What’s your member number?”

He’s not surprised that I knew his name, and he rattles off the five digits, even though I already know it.

I take two more orders before I get to the bar, then spend the next ten minutes hunting each member down to deliver their drink. Some patrons I recognize as regulars. They are here for some function or another every weekend. But quite a few are new to me.

I’ve had this gig for a few months, and it’s been more financially beneficial than I thought it would be. Earlier today, after everything was set up and ready to go for tonight, I added a scanner to one of the credit card machines. When the guests pay for the overpriced items they bought, I’ll get a copy of every credit card name, number, and expiration date.

The scanner was expensive, and I’m hoping after tonight I’ll be able to afford an additional one.

The trick is to hold on to that data for a bit. It won’t do me any good if the club is alerted by a bunch of members that their credit card was stolen tonight and then they look closer into who was here. As Mama used to say: The pig gets fat but the hog gets slaughtered. No, I’ll use those credit cards here and there in small increments a few weeks from now. Not enough to raise a flag or question the transaction right away. With so many numbers at my disposal, those insignificant amounts add up pretty quick.

“The all-inclusive trip for four to Cabo is sold to Mrs. Rollins for thirteen thousand five hundred dollars!” the MC announces over the mic, then slams the gavel down on the podium. Cheers erupt through the crowd.

Yeah, not going to feel bad about this one.

The band cranks up as soon as the last auction item is sold. The line to check out wraps along the back wall of the ballroom and the waitstaff jump into action so that any member stuck waiting in line doesn’t want for anything. I even hold a few places while they excuse themselves to go to the restroom.

As the evening starts to wind down, I stick close to the organizers’ table so I can retrieve the scanner.

“Can I be of service?” I ask the woman in charge as her team starts breaking down their area.

“Yes! We could use all the help we can get!” she says, a little overexcited. She reaches over and squeezes my arm in what is probably meant to be a Thank god you’re here way, but I get a ping in my gut that makes me straighten my spine and survey the scene with a critical eye. Something feels off. I start loading the leftover programs into boxes, then stack them on the cart they will use to transport everything to the parking lot while I keep an eye on everyone else. It seems the same as any other weekend, and I swallow my apprehension. Waiting until they are distracted, I move to the credit card machine and pick it up quickly, popping the scanner out in one swift move.

“What’s in your hand?” a voice behind me asks.

A cold chill settles over me. Spinning around, I hold both hands out, the machine in one and the small scanner piece in the other. “I’m so sorry. You can take it out of my pay. I didn’t realize how fragile it was when I picked it up.”

I offer both pieces to my manager, then look him in the eye. I can tell he’s a little thrown for a second or two, but then seems to pull himself back together.

“You can cut the wide-eyed innocent look. We know what you’ve done. Stealing from our members and their guests.” Mr. Sullivan yanks the pieces out of my hands and thrusts them toward the pair of uniformed officers who have appeared at his side. But neither officer takes the device. The one closest to him offers a big plastic bag for Mr. Sullivan to drop the evidence into instead.

My forehead is creased in confusion. My lower jaw hangs open just enough.

There are a few members still loitering around the room, and my interaction with the cops has caught their attention, which causes them to move closer. My mind is racing. I’m thinking about my laptop and modem hiding under the dessert table just a few feet away from where we’re standing. The cleaning crew is only minutes away from pulling the tablecloth off and exposing it.

I hold both my hands up, palms out toward Mr. Sullivan. “Wait. You think I have been stealing from people? With that black plastic thing?” My voice is soft and breaks on a few words, as if I’m too choked up to get them out whole. I turn toward the officers, reading their name badges quickly. “Officer Ford, I was only trying to help clean up!” Tears gather in my eyes until a big fat one spills over. I just need a moment to grab my stuff and get out of here. I can’t let them take me in. I’m employed under a fake name and social security number that won’t hold up under any type of scrutiny. I need to disappear.

Mr. Sullivan turns to Officer Williams, since Officer Ford seems like he’s willing to believe me. “I want her out of here. Now.”

Williams nods but pulls a small notebook from his back pocket. “Of course, but I’m going to have to get a little information before we go.” He points to a chair beside the table and indicates that I should take a seat. I consider running for about three seconds, but without my laptop I won’t get far.

I settle in and scan the room, taking in every face still present, while Williams speaks with the organizers and Ford stands next to him.

“Can you tell me how you determined there was a problem with one of the machines?” Williams asks the woman who squeezed my arm earlier.

“Of course,” she says, beaming. “We ran a card earlier in the evening and when we pulled it out, we noticed that black piece came out with the card. After looking at the other machines, we discovered it was an addition made only to this machine, and that made us question what it was. We brought it to the attention of Mr. Sullivan, and we determined it was one of those scanner things. We didn’t use that machine again.”

He’s writing everything down. “Can you tell me which one of you was working the machine in question?”

A short blond woman nearby raises her hand. “It was me,” she says, then throws me an apologetic look, like she feels bad she played a part in my getting busted.

Williams takes her name and asks question after question.

Mr. Sullivan finally interrupts Williams’s questioning. “You should know all of this. The police sent you here so you could wait and watch to see if the perpetrator would try to retrieve that device.” It’s been about thirty minutes since he first caught me and the members still present are circling closer; it’s clear he wants me gone from this room before they butt in. “We want to press charges and I’d like her removed from the property immediately.”

“Excuse me, someone left their stuff under the table.” One of the guys on the cleanup crew is standing not far away, holding a rolled-up tablecloth in one hand and pointing to the floor with the other.

My equipment has been discovered. The laptop is password protected so they won’t be able to get in, but if they take it from me, I lose everything.

The woman in charge walks closer to look at it, then turns toward the cops. “It’s not ours.”

Ford moves toward the table, and using napkins so he doesn’t touch it directly, he picks up both the computer and modem. He looks at me and asks, “I’m guessing this is yours?”

I ignore him. He puts both into a box one of the organizers provided. They take my backpack, retrieved from the breakroom, too.

“Get her out of here,” Mr. Sullivan says, his voice full of disgust.

Williams pulls me up from the chair then turns me to face the room. “Give me your hands.”

He cuffs me while reading me my rights. My head hangs as Williams ushers me out and Ford follows behind us carrying all my gear. I’m so mad at myself. Mad for getting caught. Mad for not listening when my gut was trying to tell me something felt off.

We’re out in the parking lot next to the cop car, and Ford puts the box down on the ground so he can dig out his keys. As soon as the car is unlocked, Williams opens the back door and motions me forward.

“I guess you have to take me in,” I say, not really a question.

At least he looks less than enthusiastic when he replies, “Yeah, I do. But if this is your first offense, there’s a good chance they’ll be easy on you.”

Ford moves to put the box of my stuff in the trunk just as an older man in slacks and a cheap brown jacket approaches us.

“Williams,” he calls out, and the officer turns in his direction just before he can stuff me inside the car.

“Detective Sanders,” Officer Williams says in a surprised voice. “Did they call you in for this?”

The detective looks me over then turns his attention to Williams. “Yeah, some bigwig in there is worried about his credit card information blah, blah, blah and called the captain. Told me to hustle on down here and handle it so we don’t hear shit later.”

His arms are stretched out and he clearly wants Ford to hand him the box with my laptop, modem, and backpack, which he does with little resistance.

Officer Williams nods at me. “Want me to take her in or is she with you?”

“With me,” he says. “Uncuff her. I’ll secure her with my set.”

Within seconds I’m free, only to be handed over to the new guy.

He towers over me. “Can you walk with me to my car without causing a problem or do I need to put the cuffs back on you right now?”

“I’ll cooperate,” I say.

The officers get back in the patrol car and drive away just as we approach his unmarked vehicle. He puts the box in his back seat then turns to me, a small phone in one hand and my backpack in the other. “Call the number in that phone and do what he says, and you’ll get your stuff back.”

When I don’t take either immediately, he shakes the phone around in the air in front of me. “I wouldn’t pass this offer up. You won’t be getting another one.”

I snatch both and stare at him. “You’re letting me go?”

He moves to the driver’s door without a word. I stand frozen in place until his taillights fade away in the darkness.

Noise from the front door of the club spurs me into action; the crowd is dissipating now that the excitement is over. I run for my car and pull my keys from my bag. The phone is on the passenger seat, but I don’t touch it until I’m pulling up at the garage apartment I’ve been living in.

Racing inside, I throw my backpack on the small kitchen table then take the phone to my bed. There is one contact listed: Mr. Smith.

I press the contact name and hit send. “I was told to call this number,” I say as soon as it connects.

“We’ve been watching you.” The mechanical voice catches me off guard and I almost drop the phone. He’s using one of those voice changer devices. “First in Greensboro, now in Raleigh. Sorry to hear about your mother’s passing.”

I go cold inside. There’s no way anyone should be able to connect the girl in this apartment to the one from the trailer park in Eden. I’ve made sure of that.

Or so I thought I had.

“Why?”

“You were able to take something you shouldn’t have had access to. It took us some time and resources to find out it was you. I’m hard to impress but somehow you did just that.”

Oh shit.

Even though I am freaking out inside, I take a few breaths to calm myself. It didn’t take long for me to graduate from the simple pieces of jewelry to paintings, silver, antiques . . . anything I could get my hands on as long as it was small enough for me to carry on my own. And when you dig deep enough on the internet, you can find a willing buyer for anything.

“Do you need it back?” I ask.

“We’ve already retrieved the item.”

This is even worse somehow.

“You’ve found yourself in a bit of trouble, though. Bad piece of luck your equipment gave you up like that. I might not have been able to get you out of trouble if you had made it to the station.”

I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. This feels surreal, and I don’t know how to process it. No one has watched out for me since before Mama got sick, but I didn’t think my guardian angel would sound like a machine. “I guess I should thank you. How’d you do it?”

“Called in a favor,” he says. “I have your laptop, which I’m assuming you’d very much like back. I’ve got a job for you, and if you’ll hear me out, I’ll return your property.”

“Even if I pass on the job?” I ask.

“You won’t pass. You’ve been digging for change in the couch. I’m offering you more money than you’ve ever seen and the support behind you not to get caught as you did this evening.”

I don’t respond because we both know I’ll be there.

“I’ll text you the address. Be there Monday morning at nine a.m.”

And then the line goes dead.

When Monday rolls around, I’m waiting down the block just out of sight before the sun comes up. The address brought me to a bail bonds place, and by eight a.m., there’s a steady stream of traffic in and out, which I guess would be normal for an establishment like this after the weekend.

I don’t like walking into the unknown, and I’m hoping I’ll see someone who looks familiar before I’m expected. The voice on the phone gave me nothing to go by. I’m not sure an accent would make it past the voice changer, but something tells me that if he ever had one, he did what I did—spent years wiping away any trace of who I was or where I came from. It wasn’t long after I took that first job at the flower shop that I realized my twangy accent created a greater divide between me and the women who came into the store than our bank accounts ever would. The way you walk, the way you talk, the way you move your body screams more about you than anything else ever could.

Mr. Smith and I must have crossed paths in the past if I was able to take something from him. Faces, names, places, events, numbers lock into my memory the moment I hear or see them. But as the clock inches closer to nine, I resign myself to going in blind since the only people on the street are strangers.

The squatty brown brick building sits in the middle of the block with similarly depressing buildings on either side of it. I pull open the door under a blue sign that says AAA INVESTIGATIONS AND BAIL BONDS. And in smaller letters underneath: check cashing and payday loans.

A rush of heat mixed with the smell of sweat washes over me once I step inside. The receptionist points me toward the waiting area after I give her my name, then she picks up the phone to announce my arrival to whoever is on the other end. Mismatched chairs sit against walls covered in those posters that combine wildlife photography and inspirational quotes, as if a bald eagle knows the first thing about leadership. I drop down in an empty seat between two mostly dead plants. The only other people left waiting are a couple quietly arguing in the corner and an old man to my right who is hunched over in his chair, snoring loudly.

Several minutes later, the receptionist calls my name and points down the hall behind her desk. “Last door on the right” is all she says.

I pass three closed doors in the narrow hallway before stopping in front of the one she indicated. I take a second or two to center myself, then knock on the door.

“Come in!” a muffled voice yells.

I push the door open and am surprised by the man sitting behind the desk. In my head, I pictured the stereotypical sleazeball: short balding man, leering grin, cigarette burning in an ashtray nearby. But this man looks the exact opposite of that. He’s blond. And gorgeous. He stands when I enter, reaching across the desk to shake my hand, pumping it enthusiastically. His light-blue button-down matches his eyes perfectly, and the effect is so dazzling that I know his closet is full of shirts in the same color.

“Lucca! Good to see you. I’m Matt Rowen.”

There’s no way to know if this is the same person I spoke with last night, but I’m betting it’s not.

I nod. “Mr. Rowen.”

He throws me a brilliant smile and says, “Call me Matt. Please, have a seat.”

Perching on the edge of the chair, I spy my laptop sitting on the corner of the desk.

He notices me eyeing it. “Go ahead. It’s yours just for showing.”

I pull it off the desk and rest it on my lap, fighting the urge to clutch it to my chest.

Matt flips a pen and catches it, over and over, while he studies me. “I have to say, we’ve been impressed at the places you’ve gotten in and out of.”

“Who’s we? How many creepy guys are in your little gang?” I ask.

He gives me a smirk as if he thinks I’m cute. His phone chimes and he slides it off his desk. Matt’s thumbs move across the screen at an amazing speed, his attention firmly on his phone.

“Is that Mr. Smith?”

He ignores me completely.

That’s fine. I can wait him out.

Matt finally looks up from his phone and says, “We have a job for you. A chance to make some decent money.”

“Doing what?” I ask.

Matt rests his elbows on the arm of his chair and kicks his feet up on his desk, the phone forgotten for a moment. “You’d be doing what you’re good at. We’ll drop you in a situation and you’ll get us what we need. Without anyone being the wiser. You won’t believe the difference it will make with us behind you. I’ll give you the details as soon as you tell me you’re in.”

My mind splits, showing two different paths; this is definitely a crossroads moment. Taking the job Matt offers moves me deeper into this world but comes with the support that would make the feel of those cuffs biting into my wrists a distant memory. The other path requires me to go straight. To get out before I’m in any real trouble. Because as Saturday night proved, it will only be a matter of time before something else goes wrong.

Mama always said to be successful in life you need to do three things: learn everything you can, try your hardest, and be the best at what you do.

Saturday night taught me I have a lot to learn.

Just thinking about Mama makes my chest hurt. But I shove it down. She’s gone and there’s nothing for me in that old life. One day I will go back to being Lucca Marino, small-town girl from Eden, North Carolina, who lives in that fantasy house with that fantasy garden, but today is not that day. Today, I learn how to make the money I need to make that dream a reality.

“Okay, I’m in. What’s the job?”