-6-
The Step Monster
Bunny took Simone back up to the bank the next morning, so she could get her car from up there. There was a big police crime command center on wheels still outside of the bank to try to collect evidence.
As soon as she got there she was whisked away inside, for the next two hours, they begin to ask her pretty much the same questions they'd asked her the day before.
By the time the police were done interviewing all of the bank's employees, Simone was exhausted and beyond ready to go. She asked one of the men who seemed to be in charge, “How much longer do I have to be here?”
Agent Mark Dugan scrutinized, Simone carefully with his hazel, quick eyes. “You're Ms. Banks, right? The twenty-nine-year old U of R graduate? And it was your first day at the bank?” He couldn't help but notice how beautiful she was and chastised himself for being momentarily distracted by it .
“Correct. Correct. And correct,” Simone said, a little nervous, but even more impressed. Dugan hadn't been the officer who'd questioned her earlier, yet he ran off her information without the aid of any notes. “I'm a suspect now?” she joked, but was serious.
Agent Dugan shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks before saying, “It's my job to know who is who and what is what,” he said with a corky smile. “Actually, we have everything we need from you. And to answer your questionâNo. You're not a suspect.”
“Well, what about my pocketbook? One of the robbers had taken my purse and I haven't seen it since.”
“Your pocketbook isn't a suspect either,” the officer said with a smirk on his face.
Handsome and a sense of humor she thought to herself, “What I meant to say is, may I please have my purse back so I can go on with my life,” Simone said in a serious tone. She refused to let the officer see that he was having an effect on her.
Agent Dungan, who resembled a younger Denzel Washington, was being a comedian, “I'm sorry. I was just trying to make light of the situation. . . .”
Simone had a feeling she wasn't going to like what he was going to say next.
“Your purse is evidence. Therefore, we're going to have to hold on to it for a while.”
And she was right
.
She wasn't happy. She looked at him, and said as humble as she knew how. “Look I really need my stuff. My wallet, keys and cell phone. I can't drive my car without my keys.”
After a few seconds of thought, Agent Dugan offered a compromise. “I can get your keys and your phone, but that's it.”
“That would be greatly appreciated detetective.”
Simone went to tell Bunny, who had been waiting patiently, “He's going to get my keys and my phone, but that's all. Everything else is being held,” she sighed, “for God knows how long.”
“That's some bullshit,” Bunny said exactly what Simone was thinking, but wouldn't say out loud.
“I agree, but this is the struggle.”
“I know, sis. But it's going to be okay.” Bunny tried to convince her sister, then asked, “You need money?”
“No, Buns, I'm good. I have that money the church gave me,” she said, knowing she should have taken her sister up on the offer, but she didn't want to accept the dirty money.
“Girl, let me help you. After all that's what sisters are for.”
“Bunny, I appreciate you, but I will make a way.”
“How? You just said you're not going back to work again.” She looked into her sister's eyes and saw how petrified she was at the sight of being back at the scene of yesterday's nightmare. “And I don't think your trust fund has magically reappeared yet. And even if you do get interviews, that whole thing is a process, it's not like you are going to be able to get paid right away. And honestly I don't know how far your check for one day at the bank will stretch. So let me help you.”
Simone took into consideration what her sister was saying, and knew she was speaking the truth. As bad as she did need the help, she would feel like a hypocrite if she took the money knowing where it came from.
“I can't tell you how much I appreciate you offering me money, but really sis, I will be okay.”
“I know you don't want to take it because you feel like it's blood money, but look money is money. Shit,” Bunny sucked her teeth. “It all spends.”
“You are right,” Simone agreed, but still had to kindly decline her sister's offer, “and if I happen to change my mind, will the offer still stand?”
“And you know this, sis.”
Simone looked at Bunny, “Thanks Buns. I love you.” She leaned inside the car and gave her a hug.
“Ms. Banks,” the detective called out to her.
Simone turned to look back to him, and he had her keys. She turned to Bunny told her that she would be okay, bye and had to go around the other side of the bank to get her car.
After finally getting her keys, Simone bailed out of the bank as fast as her Gucci sneakers would carry her. Outside, was a circus of news reporters and yellow tape separating the crime scene from a growing number of curious onlookers. She still felt like it was still the day before. She couldn't bare to look at the bank's surroundings. She couldn't get the scene from yesterday out of her mind. There were dead bodies under white sheets, pools of congealed blood, and bullet casings everywhere. The air smelled of death and anxiousness. Simone tried to block it all out, damn near running to her car like an immigrant escaping from a third-world country.
“Miss . . . Miss . . .” one reporter noticed her, prompting the rest of the media frenzy to go after her. It was a good thing that she had a great head start in front of them.
Once she made it to her car, a Mercedes C-350 convertible, she sped off. The Mercedes, as if on autopilot, navigated itself to her father's house. The house Simone had grown up in, the house that now legally, belonged to her stepmother, Marjorie.
Simone would've gave anything to have been able to talk to her dad. He always knew exactly what to say to her, regardless of the situation. No problem was too big, or too small for daddy dearest. And on those rare occasions when Simon, her father, couldn't physically fix what was bothering her, he comforted her with the perfect words, hug, or ear to make her feel better.
But those moments were gone.... forever.
Simon was dead. He'd passed six months ago and that had to be the absolute worst day of her life. She took a deep breath as she parked in front of her father's mansion. She hadn't been there since the day of the burial when his wife basically packed all her stuff and kicked her out of the house. She hated having to humble herself to ask her stepmother for help but under the circumstances, she didn't have much of a choice.
Standing on the porch in a funk, Simone punched her key into the deadbolt lock and nothing happened. She wiggled it. Still nothing.
Odd
, she thought. This was the same exact key she'd been using since she was nine when her father and her first moved into the house. She removed the key from the lock, looked at it, then tried it again.
And at that moment, when the lock still refused to cooperate, reality plowed into her like a dump truck carrying a load of shit. And she didn't want to believe the ugly truthâthe place where Simone had grown up in and had once called home no longer welcomed her.
Simone had been front and center at her father's funeral, burial, and wake but for some reason, the full reality hadn't hit her until right at this very moment where her key no longer worked in his house. Her dad was dead. Gone for good. And he wasn't coming back. Deep down, at that very moment, she felt a part of herself softly die.
She was on the brink of breaking down like a discarded, broken lawn chair when the front door flung open. Simone, reaching deep within herself, pulled herself together.
Even if it killed me,
she thought, she wouldn't give Marjorie, the satisfaction of seeing her looking like a stray animal on the porch yearning to be rescued.
Marjorie stepped out onto the porch, the picture of smugness. “Simone darling,” her exaggerated tone reminded Simone of the late Eartha Kitt. “The doorbell works just fine,” she said, pushing the button with her pink and white French-manicured index finger to demonstrate, just in case Simone hadn't for some reason understood.
Simone stood in silence.
Filling the gap, Marjorie asked, in mock politeness, “Now what do I owe the pleasure?” Then the pretense of cordiality vanished as quick as it had appeared. Marjorie, as if just noticing Simone, balled her face up in disgust. “By, the way, you look a fucking mess. In fact you should be ashamed of yourself walking around here looking like who did it and why. You look despicable.”
She had no makeup on her face and had on a velour Juicy Couture sweatsuit on. That morning She honestly just wanted to just stay in her Me-Ma's house under the covers, but she knew she had to go back to the bank to attempt to get her stuff.
Simone wanted to say, “And you always look like the fake two-faced woman you've been since I met you,” but instead she bit her tongue to avoid any more of a scene. She just said, “I had a rough twenty-four hours.”
Reluctantly, Marjorie invited her in. “Make it quick, honey. I have things to do, people to see, and places to be.”
Once inside, under the light, she was able to give Marjorie a once over look and it was a official. It was rumored, by Ms. Godfrey, her neighbor next door, that Marjorie had been under the knife, getting all types of plastic surgery procedures. Once inside the house, under bright light, the rumors were confirmed. Marjorie's face was tight as fish pussy. She'd gotten a new nose, a facelift, and enough botox to fill the holes in the foundation of the Titantic. And if that wasn't enough, Simone couldn't help but notice, Marjorie had got permanent make-up tattoos in place of eyebrows and lip liner.
If her goal was to imitate a frozen clowns face, she'd succeeded with flying colors,
Simone thought.
Marjorie led Simone into the living room, which is off to the right of the grand foyer. “I see you've redecorated,” she said checking out the room.
Marjorie's face wasn't the only thing that had been drastically transformed into something almost unrec-ognizeable. The paint, the flooring, the furniture, the drapes, everything had been changed. Nothing was really wrong with the way it was before.
“The place needed it,” Marjorie said with an edge, “It was a long time overdue.”
“The Step Monster,” the name Simone used for Marjorie, behind her back, had went too far. The woman had done a master makeover on her outer person and the interior of the house, eradicating any and everything that could conjure memories of Simone's dad. Simone had always secretly disliked Marjorie, to be honest she hated the woman, but even she had no idea how much of a cold hearted bitch Marjorie truly was.
Her dad had been married to the woman for twelve years: filled with trips around the world, lavish gifts, romantic dinners and all the quality time, Simon's company would allow him to be away. In return, Marjorie repaid her deceased husband by not even bothering to display a picture in which to honor his memory. Simone had heard of a new beginning, and Marjorie wasted no time starting one.
The house felt cold, devoid of love. “So,” Marjorie said, “let's not play games, what is it that you want? I'm sure you're not here to give me any decoration tips.” Marjorie tightened the belt on her white satin, fur-trimmed robe. Her breast hanging like flimsy material like two sacks of sand, which were surprising to Simone that she had not gotten them done.
I guess even the best surgeon couldn't help those saggy things,
she wondered.
Simone gave Marjorie the tea about the bank getting robbed, leaving out most of the details.
“I saw it on the news. But exactly what does that have to do with me?” Marjorie asked without any kind of sympathy at all. “You are not dead, so clearly that has nothing at all to do with me.”
Simone took a deep breath, and let the comment roll off her back, like water, “One of the bank robbers took my Chanel Boy bag, with my money and IDâeverything in it. I need my birth certificate that dad kept in his security box so that I'll be able to get a new ID.”
Simone detested having to ask or to need Marjorie's help for anything. This was the same bitch that contested her father's will, and everything that Simon had left for her. Meanwhile, Marjorie was running through a life insurance policy she'd taken out on him. Simone would bet her life that her father was surely rolling over in his grave. His only child of twenty-nine years was broke, not a dollar in the bank. While his wife of twelve years was living the life of luxury in the fast lane with not one regard for her or care in the world.
“So, let me get this right,” Marjorie said with a chuckle. “The bank robbers took the bank's money, your money, and your Chanel bag.”
The old hag wasn't going to make this easy. Trying not to lose her cool, Simone politely said, “Yes, and my wallet. So I need my birth certificate so I can go to the DMV to get a new ID.”
Marjorie's eyes turned dark and the horns went up on her head. “And since they took your wallet will you be asking me for some money, too? Is that what your real intentions are? You came to beg money from me?” She spat the words out like they left a bad taste in her mouth.
Simone hadn't considered asking her for money, but she thought,
Hell yes! Well, that would be the least you could do for me. You should have given me the money
my
dad left me. Instead, you manipulated my dad's will, put me out of his own house and changed the locks on the doors.