Page 33 of The Alibi Club

Shannon stiffened. “Um, thanks, but I don’t want to give any false impression. I’m fully…” Shannon put her arm straight out toward the bar, “into the man meat.”

Lorna chuckled quietly. “Same here, girl. It’s just nice to meet a new friend.” Lorna gently pushed her empty glass to the edge of the bar, and Nick, out of nowhere, put a freshly made margarita in front of her. The guy was good. “So, no luck on the dating front since you’ve been here?”

“I feel like I’m a little too broke and a little too imperfect for this beach town.”

“Nonsense.”

“Most nights I’d rather stay home and play video games. Not waste the makeup.”

“You just need to find someone who appreciates you.”

Shannon went on as if Lorna hadn’t said a word. She stared into her Cosmo and added, “Listen, I don’t expect to find love, but is it too much to hope for a connection? I have set the bar low.”

Lorna stirred her margarita, sizing Shannon up. Her chipped nail polish, her muffin top, her hint of Florida vibes but she was pretty, and warm, and real. Shannon shifted in her seat under her scrutiny. Lorna finally spoke. “What if I set you up on a date?”

“Like a pimp? No, absolutely not—”

“Like a matchmaker,” Lorna interjected as she handed over her pale pink business card.

Shannon looked skeptical at first, squinting at Lorna, then at her card. Then she shrugged as if she was opting in for ordering a conch fritter. “Sure. What have I got to lose?”

She really liked Shannon.

“Excellent,” Lorna said.

One more seat at the table filled.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A New Normal

CLIFF

When you’re incarcerated in a California State Correctional Facility, celebrations of any sort tended to be low-key affairs usually involving extra tuna packets to be bartered for future goods or the much-coveted uninterrupted time in the toilet. Cliff knew what to expect and how to behave behind bars. But in the real world, he couldn’t remember how to celebrate.

He stood in front of the Great Western Bank with his hand on a lump inside his jacket, humming with readiness. He entered the bank and smiled at the armed security guard near the door. Counted the steps to the teller window knowing exactly how far he was from the guard, greeted the teller, and felt a rush of adrenaline that made his fingers tingle, his mouth go dry. His eyes darted over toward the cameras and the exits, as the memories flooded in of the fear in a teller’s eyes when she realized it was a robbery, the scramble to get the bag of cash before the guard or the manager knew what was happening, the elegant escape with not a single person harmed. The rush of the getaway.

“Can I help you?” the bright young teller asked, bringing him out of his daze and back to the matter at hand.

Cliff looked at her nametag. “Hi, Elena Hernandez,” he said. He coughed roughly, trying to get a grip. “I’d like to make a deposit, please.” Cliff removed the lump from his jacket, which was the $2,000 deposit Lorna Gray had given him.

The teller said, “I can help you with that!” Cliff’s heart pounded so loudly in his chest, he was sure she could hear it. But within thirty seconds, she had given him a receipt for his deposit and wished him a good day. That was it. A celebration was in order. But how?

He’d spent a lot of time in prison working out what the perfect moment of freedom would look like. Deprivation has a way of crystallizing the things you most wanted. A bluebird mountain day. The freedom to walk in the woods as long and far as he wanted. A cabin with a stone fireplace, a favorite old leather chair, and a woman to make the whole place feel like home. That seemed attainable, but also completely out of reach. He’d made a promise to himself that he would make that moment happen. For now, it was just a dream.

Depressingly, and despite his gentlemanly qualities, deep down he knew quality women seldom dated ex-convicts no matter how much charisma he could summon. He was the male equivalent of a hooker with a heart of gold; a convict with a complicated past. This might be LA, but it wasn’t the movies.

Beyond looking forward to sharing this outstanding news of a new client with his parole officer Dez Wheeler, Cliff was at a loss. He considered calling his buddy Rob Colaluca, but realized he’d been denied parole last month and was still in prison in Arizona. He scrolled through his phone contacts, growing solemn as name after name came up—all criminals or ex-cons. Not a single normal, law-abiding citizen within his entire list of contacts, with the exception of his parole officer and Lorna Gray.

Something had to change. He was starting a legitimate business. With a little more seed money, he’d be well underway. With Vasken’s help, he’d soon have a meeting with The Siberian. He’d been perfecting a pitch for his upcoming meeting but was still missing one very important nameless, faceless woman. It was a mounting dilemma.

He couldn’t bring just any woman to this meeting. She had to be a woman who would impress The Siberian. A woman of substance, intelligence, and manners. A woman who could talk about chess and politics with a natural charm and a deep likability. The kind of woman like his elegant mother Janet and his aunts Ellen and Victoria, whom he had been surrounded by growing up in the gentle polish of the upper crust in the Northern Californian enclave of Mill Valley.

But how was he supposed to meet a woman like that now?

Cliff grew up in a world of pressed linen napkins, measured tones, and cocktail parties under coastal redwood trees. His mother, radiant and kind, softened the edges of that stuffy, refined world with her warmth, always there to kiss fevered foreheads and remember birthdays of the household staff. He learned from her that manners were not performance, but respect. Those formative years gave him a quiet confidence, an instinct to listen before he spoke, and a decency. Thankfully that knowledge had taken root in him before his father’s financial collapse, before his beautiful mother died of pneumonia in the winter of his thirteenth year, and before his father used his brilliance and shrewd nature to form a lucrative life of crime, indoctrinating Cliff against his will.

Cliff blinked away the self-pitying thoughts. He turned his attention to the world around him and studied it. He was good at learning by observing, a survival skill he’d picked up at his first group home—after his father had made one mistake too many and ended up behind bars for good. He observed how people dressed, what they ate, how they spent their time, how they spoke to one another. He learned to mimic these actions and activities until they became second nature. This soft skillset had served him well after his father was imprisoned for embezzlement and then outright thievery of purloined art and jewels of his wealthy friends, leaving Cliff at the mercy of Child Protective Services, which had dumped him into the foster care system at the age of fifteen. No attention was good attention. He learned to blend in—to be unnoticeable.