I force myself to stroll through the drugstore rather than rush straight to the hair color. I grab a can of men’s shaving cream and a stick of men’s deodorant. I don’t need them or anything, but maybe it’ll make it less obvious who I am if someone searches for me. Paranoid much? How can I not be?
I’d like to think I’m a nobody that the Mexican Cartel will take no interest in, but Luca didn’t make it sound that way. It feels a bit egotistical to think I need to go to so many measures to disguise myself, but someone doesn’t give you two thousand dollars and a burner phone if it isn’t important. So, I keep reminding myself of that as I wander over to the hair color aisle and grab a washout box of medium brown color. If I grab some cold medicine along with the hair color, is someone going to think I’m cooking meth or making a bomb or something? All right. I really have binged too many of those cop dramas. Regular people have allergies or get sick and want to have colored hair.
I swipe a box of cold medicine and head to the self-checkout. Of course, there are four machines, and three say debit or credit only. The only one that takes cash has someone at it. Patience is a virtue, my mom used to say. I’m apparently an unvirtuous person because I’m fighting the urge to fidget and get irritated as the guy takes forever to ring up his forty million things. For fuck’s sake, dude. Come on.
Finally, it’s my turn. I’m quick to scan and bag everything before I reach into my purse and dig into the cosmetic bag. I grab my change and drop the coins into my purse and shove the bills in the little bag. I’ll sort them out once I’m on the road again. I repeat the same process, buying a few other odds and ends, when I stop in Mamaroneck. I switched highways to be a little unpredictable because I think I saw the same car at the first pharmacy as I did at the gas station. I look around, but it isn’t here at the one I just came out of with the colored contacts.
I’m crossing into Greenwich and praying I can find a twenty-four-hour Walmart since it’s now three a.m. I’m nervous about using my GPS on my car or phone to find it, but I need clothes. Shit. My closest choices are White Plains, which is back in New York or going to Norwalk, which is just past Greenwich. Lucky for me, I had promo materials in the back of my car today, so I still have the backseat folded down. I have a couple bottles of rum in the back. I pull into the Walmart parking lot and reach into the back to snag a bottle of Malibu. I pour just enough in my lap to look like someone spilled a drink without looking like I’m a sloppy drunk who might be driving. I’m careful not to get any on my car seat.
I dash into the store and grab one of the hand baskets and make my way to the women’s clothes. I grab a shirt, a pair of leggings, a bra, and a pack of panties. I pretend to see something that snags my attention and take a step back. I look at a sweater top, then a shirt next to it. I grab both and toss them in my basket. I walk past some jeans and stop to look but skip them. I go to a different jeans rack and tilt my head as though I’m considering them. I grab two pairs.
The store pretty much only has self-checkout lanes open. Thank God.
“Ma’am, I can take you over here.”
“That’s all right. I’ve got it. Thanks.”
The one cashier I pass offers to check me out. Son of a bitch. She’s smiling and waving me over. I can’t ignore her.
“I can do it faster than those machines that always need someone putting in their employee number in when they freeze.” The woman’s brow scrunches as she looks at the stain on my clothes. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. I know, right? A guy turned around and didn’t see me right behind him. My drink landed on me without a drop hitting him. He didn’t even say excuse me. I couldn’t handle the smell, so I stopped to grab a couple things.”
“A couple?”
The woman is bagging up my stuff as we chat.
“I’m a horrible impulse shopper. I can’t turn down a deal.”
That is the furthest thing from the truth. I’m thrifty to the point of rarely buying new clothes. I have stuff from high school that is still in great condition. I find clothes shopping demoralizing too. I’m short. At five-foot-two, I can practically shop in the kids' section. It’s why Luca calling me little girl rankled at first. I’m also pear-shaped, so pants rarely fit well with a narrow waist and wider hips. I’m taking a leap of faith with the ones I’m buying. At twenty-eight, I’ve given up waiting for my boobs to grow in. I’m a B cup, which fits my frame, and I’m not exactly part of the itty-bitty titty committee. But neither am I what anyone would consider busty.
I hand her the cash and wait for my change. Thank God I thought to break another hundred-dollar bill at the last pharmacy. I don’t need Chatty Cathy here, who’s telling me about the deals she got at Target, to notice a big bill. I grab the bags, say thanks, and hurry out to the car. I toss everything in and leave. I pull off onto a residential street where there are no streetlights. I strip down, quickly changing all my clothes. What the fuck am I going to do with what I was wearing?
Do I just keep driving around until it’s really morning? I can’t stop at a motel because they’ll ask for ID. Now I really am being paranoid. I need some sleep. I need something to eat too. Okay. I’m going to find a drive thru, then I’m finding a hotel. I’m not going to some skeazy roach motel either. I want somewhere with a few floors and a proper front desk staff that’ll notice if a bunch of mobsters walk through. There has to be a Marriott or something.
I grab some fast food, grateful the burger place is open 24 hours, and I’m back on the road, scanning the highway exits for hotels.
Bingo.
Shit.
I don’t have luggage or anything. Not true. My gym bag. I forgot about that, which is fine because I didn’t want to put sweaty clothes that have been damp all day back on. I pull in, park, pop the trunk, and reach in. After I pulled out what I needed to get changed, I flung the Walmart bags onto the backseat far enough that I can reach them through the trunk. I quickly switch over the stuff and shut the trunk.
“Hello, welcome.”
The receptionist is way too perky for this time of night.
“Hi.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No. I got too tired driving and decided it would be better to pull off for the night.”
That’s not entirely a lie. I’m fucking exhausted all of a sudden. I want nothing more than to eat my food and crash. Oh, shit. I didn’t think about the fact that they’ll want a credit card to hold a deposit on the room. Fuck. Luca said not to use any. Even if I pay in cash, they’ll want it for incidentals. I have a company credit card that doesn’t have my name on it, but accounting will see a hold put on it for whatever amount even if they charge nothing.
“Do you have a credit card and ID?”
“I don’t. The reason I’m driving so late is that I got mugged in the city. They got my wallet while I was in the Guggenheim of all places. I didn’t notice until I left and tried to buy subway fare. I only have the money I had in my hotel room, so I can pay in cash.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It’s a mess.”
I can tell she’s debating whether to believe me or whether to turn me away. I run my hand through my hair and over my face, showing how tired I am. My shoulders sag, and I can tell the moment she takes pity on me.