How to Save a Life

I gave Tommy the five thousand I had tucked away for my insurance, told him to negotiate some kind of payment plan with Ivan. Ivan being a criminal and a gigantic piece of shit inevitably agreed, but imposed a vig––an interest payment––on the rest of the sum. Upwards of twenty percent. This isn’t a guess; everyone in the neighborhood knows how these guys operate.

So, the plan…there’s only one way I can make the rest of the payments––by taking West’s offer. These are only two options that do not end with me serving time: work for free for the next few months for West, or hand over the paper on the two-family house I live in, the only property I own outright. The other is an investment property. Due to being constantly short on cash, I haven’t finished renovating, and it’s heavily mortgaged anyway. Bottom line is that I’m not going to lose them. I’m not about to give up everything I’ve worked and sacrificed for because Tommy, a grown ass man, can’t control his habit.

The walking ATM machine is the best chance I have of getting us out of this mess with the least damage. That is, if the offer still stands.

Which brings me here. I need Veronica’s help to pull off this impossible caper. The problem is, I can’t have her knowing the entire story. She would insist on involving Dom, and I can’t have that on my conscience. Which means this will take some finessing.

“Serves you right. Stop moving around. You’re ruining my art.” She dips a brush into the pot of metallic copper eyeshadow, taps the handle with the nail of her ring finger and paints some on me.

I’m the official guinea pig and have been since that fateful dinner all those years ago. Back then, I was going through a Goth phase and thought it would be perfectly appropriate to show up wearing black lipstick and platform knock-off Doc Martins. Needless to say, Veronica, with her perfect long brown hair and flawless makeup, even at seventeen was as intimidating as she is now.

“Why do you wear that?” she said an hour into staring at me from across the dinner table.

I shrugged. That was the extent of my response. I did a lot of that back then.

“It doesn’t make you look pretty,” she outright told me. I would later learn that this is literally a crime against nature in Vern’s book. For me, however, that was pretty much the point. I was growing fast and filling out and the last thing I wanted or needed was any male attention.

“Can I do your makeup?” she asked.

I shrugged and nodded. Because…why not? I had a severe shortage of female friends, and I didn’t want to do anything to make her mad at me. Veronica did my makeup and we’ve been best friends ever since.

“Bitch, how about you wear sunscreen,” says the skin police. She makes a face, and tugs my hair again. “I can feel your skin aging as we speak.”

“Ouch, ouch, I do, you sadist. This is the product of seven hours of roofing.”

“Then wear a hat. Or you’ll look eighty before you turn thirty.”

“Does it look like I care?”

“No. And that’s the problem.”

Time to change the subject. Otherwise she’ll punish me with a chemical peel. “Tommy asked about you again.”

She rolls her eyes. “Did you tell him I don’t date guys who steal wallets to pay for the date?”

Cringe. Unfortunately, it’s not far from the truth. “Kinda…”

I don’t have it in me to make him feel bad and she knows this about me. He already has low expectations for himself––and he’s so much more sensitive than he lets on. That’s why despite everything he’s put me through, I can’t stay mad at him.

“You told him I’m dating someone, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“When are you going to stop making excuses for that jamoke?”

Never. I will always do everything in my power to protect him. “You know I hate hurting his feelings.” Vern shakes her head and returns to abusing my eyelids with an eyelash curler. “Aren’t you anyway?”

“Kinda,” she says with a devious little smile. “His name is Brad. He’s a hedge fund manager.”

Poor Brad. For context, Veronica is a smaller, Puerto Rican version of Gal Gadot with the tactical smarts of a five star general. One plus one equals Brad is screwed and not in a good way.

“I saved a guy the other night…,” I casually throw out, baiting the waters in a manner of speaking. She stops and gives me the Vega stare which makes me fear for the children she’ll have one day.

“You saved a guy?”

“Don’t tell your Pops.”

“Depends––spill the sauce.”

“Nothing. He was having dinner––drinking mostly––at the restaurant, and when I finished my shift, I ran into him getting jumped.”

“You ran into the dude getting jumped?” The look on her face is priceless. Vern’s a lot of tough talk, but she’s the quintessential girly girl, the kind that panics when she chips her flawless nail polish. “And you thought…let me step in?”