The Lies I Tell(81)

I checked my watch. “In about twenty minutes, the story is going to hit. The press release has already been sent to all the major outlets. ‘State Senate Hopeful Ron Ashton Donates $7 Million for the Homeless.’” I lowered my voice. “Though we both know not all of it was your money. A good chunk of it belonged to your donors.”

People were beginning to recognize Ron. One young man had his cell phone out, and I gestured toward him, saying, “Careful. You’re being recorded.”

“How could you—”

“You might be asking yourself ‘Why the homeless?’” I interrupted. “I’m sure your base will be wondering.” I took a breath, cementing the details of this moment in my mind—the afternoon air with just a hint of salt in it. The distant sound of waves crashing on the beach below. “Do you remember a woman named Rosie Williams? You dated her about fifteen years ago.”

He looked confused.

“Rosie was my mother,” I continued. “In 2004 you lied your way onto the deed of our house—the one I just sold for you. She was terminally ill, and yet you kicked us out. Do you remember what you told her?” When he didn’t answer, I delivered the words from so long ago. “‘There are winners and losers in life. You’re the loser here. Take the loss and be smarter next time.’”

Ron looked around, suddenly realizing we had an audience as more people gathered. “That’s a lie,” he said. “That never happened.”

“I think evicting people from your properties is a critical part of your business model.”

I lifted my phone and hit play on the voice memo I had ready. Ron’s voice floated into the air around us. My dream scenario is to find something in need of repair—I’m a developer and contractor at heart—evict the welfare queens and drug addicts, do a quick and cheap rehab, double the rents, and rent to college students too dumb or drunk to know better.

I stopped the recording and said, “The major outlets should be reporting on your surprise announcement very soon. Your statement is excellent. ‘Many years ago, I took advantage of a family’s trust,’” I recited from memory. “‘My actions then have always haunted me, and I’ve regretted them for years. My donation to the Los Angeles Homeless Cooperative is my way of repairing that mistake.’”

Ron’s face twisted into a sneer. “What you’ve done is illegal. You stole my money.”

I gave a tiny shrug. “The problem is, you stole it first. Which puts you in a real bind,” I said. “If you let the donation stand, you’ll lose your base and, likely, the election. I suppose you could report the money as stolen, claim that it was given to the homeless against your wishes, but how will you explain your business manager transferring campaign money into an escrow account?” I decided to give him one final nudge. “When police investigate someone, I imagine they’ll want to look at all their financials. Personal and business. Probably going back many years.” I stepped back, signaling the end of our conversation. “It’s been a pleasure working with you,” I said. “Best of luck on the election.”

I turned and began jogging up a side street. A glance over my shoulder showed Ron, standing there in his bright white running shoes and overpriced track suit, soft and sagging around the edges.

I sent the text to Kat right after I ordered an Uber to the airport. Can you come over? I need your help with a new transaction I have open with Ron.

Before she could respond, I turned my phone off. I knew she’d come.

***

Once I’m through security, I pull my carry-on behind me and pass gates for Las Vegas and Nashville. I see two women seated next to each other in the airport bar, heads bent together, and I wonder who they are to each other. What plan they’re cooking up. One of my mother’s rules pops into my head at the sight of them.

Two women working together are a force to be reckoned with.

I locate my gate—a flight to Houston, connecting from there to Costa Rica—and find a place to sit. Across from me, an old woman knits, her yarn spooling out of a bag at her feet. I watch as her needles click, her fingers deftly winding and tucking, the length of whatever she’s making growing, row by row.

But then she ties a knot. Slips the needles out, the square piece complete, and she tucks it all away. I think about the last ten years—row after row, city after city, mark after mark. Ron was the knot, and now it’s time to put that part of my life away.

I have a rental house waiting for me—a small bungalow on a hill overlooking the beach. I imagine warm sun, soft sand, and sea salt drying on my skin. Maybe I’ll learn to surf, or work in a bar selling drinks to tourists. Or maybe I’ll spend my time reading on my porch. Perhaps one day, I’ll read a novel about a female con artist traveling the country, dreaming of the day when she will finally mend her mother’s greatest heartache.





Kat


October

By the following morning, every local news outlet is reporting on Ron’s enormous and unexpected donation to the Los Angeles Homeless Cooperative. I woke up early, just so I could see newscasters puzzling over it at the top of every hour. I look up from Meg’s notebooks to catch the latest update.

“With only two weeks until the election, it’s an odd choice for a candidate whose tough position on the homeless was so well publicized,” Kent Buckley, Channel Five Morning News anchor says.