Ricky rolled the loan over two more times, and a month later he owed $35,707.50. Wadi grinned when Ricky stopped by the CashFast office and called him his best customer. Ricky missed the next payment and the next one. He was coming out of the Original Pancake House in Southfield after breakfast one morning, and noticed two Arabs getting out of an Escalade with twenty-four-inch rims. They were coming toward him. One was tall, six two maybe, with a bad complexion and a blank expression. The second guy was shorter and stockier. He had dark serious eyes and a sculpted beard that must've taken a long time to keep so neat and trim-skinny lines of hair that started at his temples and swept down curving along his jaw, meeting his mustache and goatee. He wore his sunglasses on his head, black hair, razor-cut like the beard. His shirt had a zipper that was open at the top, showing chest hair and gold chains.
'Mr. Nasser is concern about you,' Beard said. He had a heavy accent. 'He does not see you in a long time, want to know, are you okay?'
'Tell him he's got nothing to worry about,' Ricky said. 'Everything's fine. Wadi and I went to school together. We're old buds.'
Beard said, 'You know how much you owe?'
Sure, Ricky knew. $35,707.50.
'You know how much is going to be on Thursday of the next week?'
Beard's dark eyes stared into him, never looking away for even a second.
Ricky couldn't figure out what 15 percent of $35,707.50 was, but knew it was a lot. 'You're Wadi's collection agency, huh?'
'Forty-one thousand sixty-three dollars and sixty-two cents,' Beard said. 'Roll it again and it will be-'
'I know,' Ricky said, cutting him off. 'I get it. You don't have to keep reminding me, okay?' Now they were pissing him off.
'You have collateral?' Beard said.
'You have collateral?' Ricky said, trying to sound like him, imitate his heavy Middle East accent.
Beard grinned now. 'You give us something of value. We give to Mr. Nasser until you pay debt.'
Ricky said, 'Like what?'
'This is your automobile?' he said, looking at Ricky's Lexus.
'You're not taking my fucking car,' Ricky said. He put his hands on his hips, flexed his biceps that were sticking out of a black Gold's Gym tank top. They wanted to get tough he'd give them all they could handle.
'Listen to me,' Beard said. 'It's not finish until you pay. You have to give Mr. Nasser something.'
Mr. Nasser. Jesus. If he called Wadi Mr. Nasser again, Ricky was going to deck him. Wadi, the midget Chaldean rich kid. Ricky would always think of him as the loser from high school who didn't have a friend. Ricky considered his situation, heard what the Arab was telling him and took his watch off and handed it to Beard. 'It's an 18 karat gold Rolex President worth fifteen grand.' He loved it. Hated to give it up but he had to give him something. 'Tell Wadi to hang on to it. I want it back.' That's how he got out of that one, but now another payment was due and he didn't have the money.
Chapter Four
Karen had met Samir on the way to the ladies' room at the Blue Martini in Birmingham.
He said, 'I'm Samir.' He took her hand and kissed it. 'Where do you want to have dinner?'
Karen said, 'I'm with someone.'
'Now you're with me.' He said it like a guy used to getting what he wanted.
She liked his confidence, thinking he could stop someone, a stranger, and ask her out. She found him attractive, but she was also curious. Who was he? Karen went back to the table and told her date, a stockbroker named Jon Uffelman, that she was leaving. She'd heard enough about economic indicators, the devaluation of the dollar and the risk of deflation. Uffelman was talking to her like he was giving a seminar. It was their first and last date.
He said, 'What're you… kidding? We just got here.'
She stood up and said, 'It wasn't going to work anyway,' and walked across the room past the scene makers, up the stairs to the foyer. Samir was standing by the door ready to open it for her, Omar Sharif from Doctor Zhivago, dark hair going gray and a silver mustache.
A car was waiting, a white Mercedes, and a man in a suit was standing at the rear door holding it open. Karen got in and Samir got in next to her, close but he didn't crowd her. They had dinner at the Lark. Karen asked him how he could walk in and get a table at a restaurant that was booked for months in advance.
Samir said, 'There must've been a cancellation.'
He owned the big Mercedes and had a chauffeur, but he was cool. He made fun of himself. He was in the grocery business. He sold fruit and vegetables and owned a few stores around town, and then it hit her: he was the guy that owned a chain of gourmet markets called Samir's. Karen said, 'You're that Samir?'
He said, 'I'm a greengrocer, like my father.'
That's what Karen liked about him. He was a down-to-earth rich guy with no ego. She liked his accent too, and his deep voice that sounded gentle.
He said, 'What about you?'
He was staring at her tan legs, crossed and sticking out of a black miniskirt. 'I model,' Karen said.
'You mean fashion?'
'Sportswear and swimwear, and I do TV commercials.'
'Where would I see you?' Samir said.
'I just did a Chevy spot,' Karen said. 'I'm driving a red Corvette convertible on the Pacific Coast Highway north of Malibu.'
'That was you?'
'And a few weeks ago I did a swimwear spread for Lands End,' Karen said. 'Do you get the catalogue?'
'You think that's the way I dress?' He said it serious, but smiled.
She touched the sleeve of his sport coat. It was custom-made. She could tell by the buttonholes, they were real. One was unbuttoned, the way it was done. 'You dress well for a guy who sells fruit and vegetables.'
He smiled again.
'How did you get into modeling?'
Karen told him it was a long story that started the night her father was killed. 'He was a manufacturer's rep. He sold injection-molded parts, door trim panels and center console assemblies to Chrysler and GM. How do you decide that's what you want to do with your life?'
'It's luck or timing or maybe bad luck,' Samir said. 'You do what your father did. Or you get a job, get married and get stuck in something. I sell fruit and vegetables. You think I planned it?'
'My dad was driving home after having dinner with a Chrysler purchasing guy,' Karen said, 'and was hit head-on by a drunk driver, killed instantly at forty-four. I remember him in the kitchen, tying his tie, getting ready, excited because he was sure he was getting a contract for the new X platform cars. With the commission we'd be able to move to a bigger house.' She paused and sipped her wine that tasted like butterscotch. Samir's eyes were on her as if he couldn't look anywhere else. 'It's strange because when I think about that night, I think of the movie Grease. I was watching it with my mom and sister, Virginia.'
Samir said, 'Travolta was skinny then with a pompadour.'
'He reminded me of my dad, who was still a greaser from high school-slicked-back hair and a black leather jacket. He could've been an extra. Travolta was singing a duet with Olivia Newton- John when the Garden City police came to the door. I remember my mother was hysterical while they were belting out You're the One That I Want.''
Samir met her gaze and reached for her hand.
'I'm not a big fan of musicals,' Karen said.
'Me either.'
She didn't tell him about the funeral home, her dad's life told in photographs displayed around the visitation room. Shots of a skinny teenager in a bathing suit, someone squirting water from a hose outside the frame. Her dad
