“It must be a bitch, having to exist like that, struggling to survive through each day.”
Graham said, “It is, but he asked the wrong people for money. You’re out of work, and I’ve only been paid the first half of the advance on my play.”
“We don’t have to justify not giving a beggar money,” Allie said, a bit surprised at the vehemence in her voice.
“Yes, I’m afraid we do.”
At a newspaper and magazine kiosk, Allie paused to buy a Village Voice. She enjoyed reading the weekly paper, and it also contained help-wanted ads, maybe for computer programmers.
She abruptly yanked the Voice out from beneath the rock that was weighting it down on the stack of papers, and handed over a dollar bill for the paper to the grizzled old woman inside the kiosk, but after taking a step and starting to shove her wallet back into her purse, she stopped, realizing something was wrong.
She squeezed the wallet with probing fingers.
Opening it, she checked the plastic card and photo holders. She pried apart the leather compartments, her movements quicker and less controlled.
“They’re gone!” she cried.
Graham was staring at her, puzzled. “What’s gone?”
“My Visa and MasterCard.”
“You sure?”
She examined the wallet again, more slowly and carefully. “Positive. And something else is missing. My expired Illinois driver’s license.”
“Expired, is it? Good. Somebody might be surprised if they try to use it to cash a check. You sure this stuff was in your wallet at the restaurant?”
“Not absolutely sure. It might have been gone and I didn’t notice. The wallet felt different to me just now, not as bulky. I haven’t charged anything in over a week. Shit! The cards might have been gone for days!”
“Don’t panic, Allie, you can only be held responsible for fifty dollars on each card, even if the thief uses them to travel to Europe. It’s a law.”
“I know. Still . . .”
“And they’ve probably only been gone a short time, or you’d have missed them earlier.”
Allie didn’t answer, trying to remember how the wallet had felt in Goya’s when she’d gotten out money to pay for dinner. She hadn’t actually taken the wallet out of her purse, letting it rest inside so it and the folding money would stay out of sight below table level. Couldn’t be too careful.
“Better get on the phone,” Graham said, “and report the cards missing. They’ll cut credit on them and issue you some new plastic with different numbers.”
“I don’t understand how I lost them.”
“You probably didn’t lose them. Credit cards are stolen every day.”
Every day. Like obscene phone calls to single women. “But no one’s had the opportunity.”
“Haven’t they? Thieves can be damned clever. And no woman guards her purse every minute she’s out.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Maybe the creep who stole your credit cards and driver’s license is the same guy who phoned you. Maybe that’s how he settled on you to pester. If so, it’ll lose its thrill after a while and he’ll stop.”
“You sound sure of that.”
“I told you, I’m a student of human nature. But if it’ll make you feel better, maybe you should go to the police. Report the obscene calls and the stolen cards and license. Might not help, but it can’t hurt.”
“I’ll think about it,” Allie said. “Meanwhile, I’d better notify somebody about the missing cards. Whoever stole them might be off on a shopping spree right now. Buying one of everything at Bloomingdale’s.”
“I’ve gotta admit, that sounds like fun.”
She responded with morose silence.
“Maybe they’re only lost, not stolen,” Graham said to comfort her. “That wouldn’t be so bad.”
Allie thought inanely that nothing could be worse than being lost; she’d been lost for a while and knew.
She tucked the folded Voice under her arm, clutched her purse tightly, and she and Graham began walking at a fast pace back toward West 74th.
Graham said, “It is, but he asked the wrong people for money. You’re out of work, and I’ve only been paid the first half of the advance on my play.”
“We don’t have to justify not giving a beggar money,” Allie said, a bit surprised at the vehemence in her voice.
“Yes, I’m afraid we do.”
At a newspaper and magazine kiosk, Allie paused to buy a Village Voice. She enjoyed reading the weekly paper, and it also contained help-wanted ads, maybe for computer programmers.
She abruptly yanked the Voice out from beneath the rock that was weighting it down on the stack of papers, and handed over a dollar bill for the paper to the grizzled old woman inside the kiosk, but after taking a step and starting to shove her wallet back into her purse, she stopped, realizing something was wrong.
She squeezed the wallet with probing fingers.
Opening it, she checked the plastic card and photo holders. She pried apart the leather compartments, her movements quicker and less controlled.
“They’re gone!” she cried.
Graham was staring at her, puzzled. “What’s gone?”
“My Visa and MasterCard.”
“You sure?”
She examined the wallet again, more slowly and carefully. “Positive. And something else is missing. My expired Illinois driver’s license.”
“Expired, is it? Good. Somebody might be surprised if they try to use it to cash a check. You sure this stuff was in your wallet at the restaurant?”
“Not absolutely sure. It might have been gone and I didn’t notice. The wallet felt different to me just now, not as bulky. I haven’t charged anything in over a week. Shit! The cards might have been gone for days!”
“Don’t panic, Allie, you can only be held responsible for fifty dollars on each card, even if the thief uses them to travel to Europe. It’s a law.”
“I know. Still . . .”
“And they’ve probably only been gone a short time, or you’d have missed them earlier.”
Allie didn’t answer, trying to remember how the wallet had felt in Goya’s when she’d gotten out money to pay for dinner. She hadn’t actually taken the wallet out of her purse, letting it rest inside so it and the folding money would stay out of sight below table level. Couldn’t be too careful.
“Better get on the phone,” Graham said, “and report the cards missing. They’ll cut credit on them and issue you some new plastic with different numbers.”
“I don’t understand how I lost them.”
“You probably didn’t lose them. Credit cards are stolen every day.”
Every day. Like obscene phone calls to single women. “But no one’s had the opportunity.”
“Haven’t they? Thieves can be damned clever. And no woman guards her purse every minute she’s out.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Maybe the creep who stole your credit cards and driver’s license is the same guy who phoned you. Maybe that’s how he settled on you to pester. If so, it’ll lose its thrill after a while and he’ll stop.”
“You sound sure of that.”
“I told you, I’m a student of human nature. But if it’ll make you feel better, maybe you should go to the police. Report the obscene calls and the stolen cards and license. Might not help, but it can’t hurt.”
“I’ll think about it,” Allie said. “Meanwhile, I’d better notify somebody about the missing cards. Whoever stole them might be off on a shopping spree right now. Buying one of everything at Bloomingdale’s.”
“I’ve gotta admit, that sounds like fun.”
She responded with morose silence.
“Maybe they’re only lost, not stolen,” Graham said to comfort her. “That wouldn’t be so bad.”
Allie thought inanely that nothing could be worse than being lost; she’d been lost for a while and knew.
She tucked the folded Voice under her arm, clutched her purse tightly, and she and Graham began walking at a fast pace back toward West 74th.
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