An Unfinished Story(38)
He looked at her strangely. “I’d like you to step out of the car.”
“I have this whole routine. Glove, scarf, gum, hand sanitizer.”
“Are you drunk?”
Claire dropped her chin. “No.”
“Step out of the car right now.”
A boy yelled “Hole in one!” from somewhere behind the pirate ship.
“Are you joking?” Claire asked. “It’s ten in the morning. You think I’m drunk? What am I . . . a serial killer too?”
The officer opened her car door. “Let’s go.”
“If you only knew what I’m dealing with right now. You and your little speeding tickets are the last of my worries.”
With the subtle threat only a person with a badge can pull off, he said, “Get out of the car, ma’am.”
Claire relented. Several people on the Putt-Putt course were rubbernecking. So much for discretion.
The officer ushered her into the back of his patrol car and ignored her as he climbed behind the wheel and logged on to his computer. Claire was furious, but he ignored her further pleas.
Finally, he said, “You want to take a Breathalyzer for me?”
“Fine.”
The officer let her out of the back and handed her the Breathalyzer. He gave her instructions. “As hard as you can. There you go.”
When the digital readout stayed at zero, she offered a smile. “Told you.”
He nodded. “Seems like you’re having a bad day, so I’ll let you off with a warning.”
Her shoulders fell in relief. “Thank you. I’m sorry for being a . . . you-know-what.”
“I’ve dealt with worse. Hope your day turns around.”
The officer wrote her a warning and patted the top of the car as she drove away. It didn’t take her two minutes to put the glove back on and light another. This one was justified, and she puffed with fury as she processed the last hour of hell.
Once she neared the café, she followed her regimen to erase the evidence of her habit. Confident she’d succeeded, she pulled into her space and walked into work. Every chair was occupied. Beyoncé was coming out of the speakers.
Claire marched behind the bar and turned down the music. She looked around, waiting to find the guilty DJ. Jevaun, who was busy making a line of Bloody Marys, shook his head and said in a Jamaican rhythm, “You know it wasn’t me.”
Claire decided not to ask him to betray the guilty party. Instead, she eyed the line of drinks as he dropped long sticks of celery into them. She could smell the fire from his homemade Scotch bonnet hot sauce. “Will you make me one of those?”
“You got it, Claire. With a kick?”
“Yeah, with a kick.”
While she waited for her drink, she watched her operation. Her eyes always went to the guests. Was there anyone unhappy? No one was waiting impatiently for a check. Most wore smiles or were stuffing their faces.
Jevaun set the drink down in front of her. Celery and a house-pickled okra poked out of the glass. “One of those days?”
“Do you ever feel like the bad won’t stop?”
Always the Rasta philosopher, Jevaun waved his finger. “The bad never stop, but Jah always prevails. You gotta turn the bad to the good, girl.”
She nodded and took the drink. “I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me. Oh, and please change the music.”
“I gotcha.”
Claire sneaked the Bloody Mary past her diners, closed her office door, and sat behind her desk. What an awful day. While working through her emails, she gulped down her Bloody Mary and chomped down on the vegetables.
She couldn’t wrap her head around why Whitaker would say no after reading David’s incredible story. The money alone was enough. Reeling with anger, she googled his name. The first thing she saw was the cover of his book. Then his face. A charming young man with a bright future. The same man she’d met only a few feet away in the dining room so long ago.
“What a lie,” she said.
Finding Whitaker’s website, she angrily clicked around, as if each mouse click were a kick to his shins. The last blog entry was from six years before. She clicked on the Books section, only the one book available. She clicked onto his Facebook page. A picture of Whitaker and two of the actors from the Napalm Trees movie served as his profile shot. She looked at the date of his last post. It was late last night. The post read: The past is an alligator, but he’s not as fast as me. She was shocked to see that hundreds of people had liked or commented on his vague post. Was he even relevant anymore?
She scanned more posts. He was tremendously active. He didn’t have time to help her, but he certainly had time to write entire diatribes on Facebook.
As she polished off her Bloody Mary and her rage hit an all-time high, she decided to post on his wall. She wrote: Whitaker Grant is a selfish blowhard who pushes old ladies into the street. Claire laughed and stifled a burp as the hot sauce crept up her throat. She deleted her words and tried again.
Whitaker Grant is a has-been and a never-was. His artistry is as fake as his humanity. I’m sorry I wasted my time reading his first book, and it’s a blessing that he’ll never punish us with another.
Claire posted the message and then read it again several times. She almost deleted it but decided he deserved even worse. In seconds, a notification posted. He was private messaging her.