“What did the note say?”
“That basically he was out of there, he was sorry, and that he’d fallen in love with another woman. Oh, and that he’d always love me, too. He said I could have his stereo.”
Blu’s eyes were huge, and his mouth was opened to a small circle. He reminded me of a hungry baby bird.
“His stereo? You know, I never really liked him…” he started to say, shuddering from the indignation.
I put my hand up.
“People always say that after the fact. It’s not doing me a bit of good right now.”
“Sorry, sweetie. Just trying to help. Anyway, how’d you find out it was Dagney?”
“I put two and two together. First, she left me a note at the gallery that she was resigning. She’d thrown her key back through the mail slot after she left.” I had to say, she did a good job of finishing up everything she’d been working on. She was conscientious that way. Didn’t do anything halfway, including steal my husband.
“Okay, so she quit. How did that give it away?” Blu asked.
“Well, I was outside the gallery, locking up to go home, and the owner of the gallery across the street came over to tell me she’d seen Dagney’s husband spending a lot of time in the gallery, especia
lly at night, after closing time.”
“But Dagney has no husband, right?”
“Exactly,” I said.
Where had where the damn bank manager had gone?
“I asked her to describe the man, and boom. It was my Devon.”
“What?” Blu gasped. “Jesus Christ. You can’t make this shit up.”
We turned toward some rustling papers and found the manager standing right there.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have some information for you.” His tone was low and quiet. I guess it sort of was as if someone died. He settled back into his chair, and Blu tossed the rest of my soggy tissues.
“Ms. Crane, it seems as if all but one of your joint accounts with…” he flipped through some papers, “…here we are, Mr. Devon Crane, have been closed. There is one that remains open, with a balance of…” He slipped a piece of paper that looked like a cash register receipt across the desk towards me.
Blu grabbed it before I could see it. “What the fucking fuck?” he screamed, standing and shaking the piece of paper. He leaned over the desk toward the manager, who’d moved back in terror.
But Blu wasn’t letting him off the hook. “Please check again. It’s not possible my friend here has an account with a balance of only”—he clutched the piece of paper to his chest as if his heart were breaking, then lowered his voice to a whisper—“one thousand freaking dollars. You know how loaded her husband is?”
Holy fucking shit. I go from a Park Avenue penthouse and a limo to take me everywhere to a bank account with one thousand dollars? Actually, he’d not taken away the penthouse or the limo. Yet.
Tears didn’t threaten this time. A nauseous stomach did.
Blu took returned to his seat and the bank manager recovered, leaning toward me. “Ms. Crane, you have a job, right?”
I nodded, wondering where he was going. I didn’t know if I should go as far as explaining that it was more of a sort-of job. Like, I didn’t really make any money at it.
He snapped back in his chair.
“Okay. I think all will be well then,” he said with a proud smile, like he’d just discovered a cure for cancer.
Maybe that was why people hated banks.
Yeah, I had the gallery, and yes, it was growing nicely. But after covering some very expensive rent, catering for openings, and the generous salary I paid my ex-assistant Dagney the whore, there wasn’t much left. I didn’t even pay myself. I donated any extra money we had to the school down the street, the Children’s Art Center, where I volunteered. Devon had liked calling these activities my hobbies. Fucker.
Shit. Speaking of volunteering, I had to be downtown in forty-five minutes for the drawing lesson I was scheduled to teach. I stood, leaving the bank manager and Blu discussing my financial situation.