Dear Wife(27)

“It’s not that I mind cleaning toilets,” I say. “It’s just that I lost my ID.”

Martina gives me a look. “You lost it, huh? That happens a lot around here.” She carries the mugs to the table and holds one out to me. “You don’t have anything? Not even an old, expired one?”

Especially not that. My Arkansas license is a charred lump at the bottom of a hotel trash can four states away. I take the tea and shake my head.

But according to the internet, this city has more than three hundred thousand undocumented workers. The question isn’t if there are jobs here, but where to find them.

“I can still get a job without one, right?”

She sinks onto the table, swinging her legs onto the wooden surface and crossing them underneath her, resuming her old position. “Sure, if you don’t mind working construction or cleaning rich ladies’ houses. Know any Buckhead Betties?”

I open my mouth to answer, but she waves me off.

“Never mind. You do not want to work for one of those bitches, I can promise you that. What I meant was, you’ll need a roster of regular customers, people with big houses who don’t mind paying you cash under the table.”

My stomach sinks. “The only people I know in this city are you and Miss Sally.”

“Miss Sally can maybe help you, but I can’t. I try to stay out of the northern suburbs.” She blows over the surface of her tea, regarding me with a thoughtful expression. “How much money you got in that bag strapped to your waist?”

The hand I press to the bag is automatic, as is the expression on my face, a mixture of distrust and defiance. Don’t even fucking try it.

Martina laughs. “Come on, chica. I already told you people here don’t try to steal your shit, and that includes me, though it’s probably not a bad idea to keep your cash on your person at all times. What I’m asking is if you would be willing to part with some of it. Because if you are, I might know where you could find an ID.”

I lean back on my chair, eyeing her with suspicion. My hand is still on my money belt, my legs still ready to pounce. I’m bigger than Martina, and thanks to you, I know the most effective places to land a punch. Kneecap, face, solar plexus, throat, temple. I’ll be back upstairs, barricaded behind the door of my room before she stops writhing on the floor.

But an ID would solve a lot of problems.

“How much?” I say warily.

“Last I heard, Jorge charges somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred dollars. You can probably talk him down some if you find him in a good mood. The hard part is finding him in a good mood.”

“Is he any good?”

“The best. The Rolls-Royce of fake IDs. That’s why he’s so expensive.”

I sip my tea and do the math. Three hundred dollars is a lot of cash, almost two weeks’ worth of rent and 15 percent of my rapidly dwindling stash. But if Jorge is as good as Martina says he is, it might be worth the money. Finding a job will be so much faster and easier if Beth is legit.

“And you?”

Martina looks up from her mug, her brows sliding into a frown. “And me, what?”

“How much do you charge for telling me where to find this Jorge person?”

Martina looks at me for a moment, letting the silence linger. Her expression is that of someone making a hard decision, and I know what she’s thinking. How much is the information worth to me? How much is too much? Your words run through my head—no such thing as a free lunch—and I hate you even more for being right.

“Las Tortas Locas on Jimmy Carter Boulevard,” she says finally, unfolding her legs and pushing to a stand, walking with her mug to the door. “Consider it your housewarming gift.”



JEFFREY

A pounding on the front door lurches me out of a dead sleep. I sit up on the couch and rub my face, blinking into the room. The only light comes from a thin slice of morning sunshine where the curtains don’t quite meet, blanching a strip of carpet. I check my watch—11:00 a.m. I’ve been asleep for all of two hours.

The past two days have been a shit show. Coming home to find Sabine missing, discovering she’s been screwing around, my surprise rendezvous with her lover, Trevor accidentally spilling the beans about the pregnancy. By the time I drove across town to Sabine’s client, then did the same with her boss, every muscle in my body was knotted up, my skin vibrating with fury. Corey and Lisa told me exactly what they told the detective: that Sabine never showed up for the showing.

There’s another pounding at the door, followed by three rapid-fire rings of the doorbell. I push off the couch and stumble to the door.

Ingrid doesn’t look like she’s slept much, either, but she’s cleaned up since the last time I saw her. She’s fresh from the shower; her hair is still damp, the ends gathered in wet clumps, dripping onto her dress, some awful blue-and-white thing. She barrels into my foyer, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, cloying and sweet.

She takes in my T-shirt and rumpled sweats, the same ones I was wearing the last time she was here, and frowns. “Why aren’t you dressed? Didn’t you get my messages?”

I wince, pressing down on my throbbing temples with a thumb and middle finger. Ingrid’s volume, louder than usual, isn’t helping what’s pounding in my head like a hangover. And then there’s that constant edge to her voice. I can’t take much of her on a good day; now, after two bad days in a row, she’s chipping away at my last threads of civility.