Spoonbenders

“All right, then. Ever hear of the shoe bank?” Dad sat down on the ottoman and pulled off a shiny black oxford. “The first step, so to speak, is to make a deposit.” He folded the bill with his stiff fingers and placed it inside the shoe. Even crude tools could do crude work. Enough to fool a child, perhaps. “Then we wait for interest to develop. Don’t worry kid, these are all jokes you’re going to get someday and just laugh.” He slipped the shoe back on and stood up. “Now the tricky part. How to make a shoe-to-shoe transfer?” He slid the money-laden shoe forward. “Let’s go toe to toe, shall we? No, the other foot—right foot to right. Press the tip against mine. This, you see, allows us to combine our digits. No? Nothing? Okay, now we order the money. This is called a money order.”

Graciella groaned.

“As I mentioned, someday, hilarious. Are you ready?” Adrian looked at his brothers, then nodded. Dad said, “Repeat after me: Money! Order!”

“Money order,” Adrian said.

“Transfer!” Dad said, and kicked his toe against Adrian’s. The boy hopped back as if he’d been shocked. Dad said, “Now let’s see if the wire went through. Take off your shoe, my boy.”

Adrian dropped onto his butt and pulled off his shoe. “Under the insole,” Dad said. “That’s right, pull it right out.”

The boy pulled out the foam insole. Underneath was a folded bill. “It made it!” Adrian shouted. He unfolded the bill. “And it’s a five!”

“Holy shit,” Graciella said.

“Mom!” Adrian said.

Graciella laughed. “How did you do that?” she asked Dad.

“He’ll never tell,” Irene said. She’d never seen that one before. It was a pretty good gag. He hadn’t touched the kid’s shoe, except to tap it with his foot.

“Now the best part,” Dad said. “You boys like video games? Because we’ve got a whole setup down there.”

“What kind of video games?” Adrian asked.

“A brand-new whosit whatsit.”

“An SNES?”

“Undoubtedly,” Dad said. “Right that way.”

Irene said, “If there’s a boy down there, wake him up.”

Adrian, one shoe off and one shoe on, jumped down the stairs. The older ones followed.

Dad was excited by all this drama, despite the danger. Or maybe because of it. Irene had always known that her father was once a gambler, what Frankie euphemistically called a “risk taker.” She’d thought that was all behind him. After Mom died, he was at first depressed and unengaged, then frustrated and unengaged, and finally just unengaged. All this time, she’d thought he didn’t like children, but maybe it was just that he didn’t like his children. Only an audience of strangers would find him entertaining.

“What are we doing for supper?” he asked Irene.

“Don’t look at me,” she said. “Where’s Buddy? And Frankie?”

“Buddy’s out back, cleaning the grill. Frankie, no idea.” He clapped his hands. “I guess we’re ordering out. What do the boys like?” His eyes lit up. “What about fried chicken? Boys love any food that comes in a bucket. I’ll get it. You girls get comfortable. Make her a drink, Irene. Graciella likes Hendrick’s.” And then he was gone.

“Wow,” Irene said.

“I think he’s enjoying this,” Graciella said.

“And a little afraid to be in the room with you.”

“You think so?”

“He doesn’t want to disappoint you,” Irene said. “Don’t worry. He will, sooner or later.”

Graciella gave her an appraising look. “How about that drink?”

They sat at the dining room table, among the file folders and boxes from NG Group Realty. Graciella picked up one of the listings that Irene had marked up with red pen. “How bad is it?”

“Could be worse,” Irene said. She walked her through what she’d found in the last two years of files. Going by the number of properties being handled, most of the business was legitimate. But the cash flow was seriously weighted toward the suspicious house trades—and almost all of those were done by one agent.

“If you’re going to run this clean,” Irene said, “you’ve got to fire this Brett guy. And if you’re going to make a profit, the other agents have to sell a lot more houses.”

“I appreciate that you’re not sugarcoating it.”

“Who has time?”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They both did. “To fucking Nick.”

“Junior and Senior,” Irene said.

“And how about your guy?” Graciella asked. “How’s that going?”

“Down in flames,” Irene said.

“I thought you seemed down after your trip. You broke up with him?”

Broke up. With Lev, her almost husband, and with other boyfriends, the phrase felt right; she broke them off from her, let them fall away like the spent stage of an Apollo rocket. She was stronger without them and never looked back. With Joshua, though, it was as if she’d left a piece of herself behind. She was the one who was damaged, incomplete, adrift. Destined to grow cold and die alone.

She needed a story to tell Graciella, however, so she invoked a different destiny. “It was never going to work,” she said. “He can’t leave Phoenix. He’s got a daughter, and they have split custody. He wanted me to move out there, get a job with his company, but I couldn’t even get through the interview.”

“What happened?”