Addie Combo by Tareka Watson Page A

city. Randolph stares at me, anger and shock in his
reddening face.
But I don’t wait to see it change colors yet again. My body is coursing with adrenaline and
temper and energy, and I use those things to get me back into Quinton’s car. Because I know
Randolph’s body is coursing with that same powerful energy, which I can already feel is a
terribly destructive influence. I don’t wish to destroy Randolph, despite what he’s done to me.
And even more, I don’t want to be destroyed by him, which I’m beginning to feel is a much
more likely outcome.
We drive on to our next destination, the string of new and used car lots along Brand
Boulevard in Glendale, just east of Los Feliz. We look at several before Quinton allows them to
run my credit. They all want to do that first thing, but he knows how many dings that can put
onto a record like mine.
“My manager insists that we run her credit before we do a test-drive,” we hear from almost
every salesman we meet, even those who say differently after we first approach.
Quinton’s answer is the same. “Your manager’s desires aren’t our concern. Do you think
we’re going around test-driving cars without wanting to buy one? Do you think we’d go onto a
car lot without the credit enough to make a deal?”
“Well, no, sir, but -”
“Then what are you and your manager insinuating?”
“Nothing at all, sir, it’s just ... a matter of policy, for insurance reasons -”
“Lie to me again and you’ll have the Better Business Bureau on your butt so fast they’ll be
repaving this place next week for a new WholeFoods, get me?”
“Okay, okay, let me see what I can do, if you’ll just give me a minute.”
Funny how they all managed to get us a test-drive before running my credit and having me
fill out the loan forms. Unfortunately, that might have saved us all a lot of time. My blood runs
cold when the salesman returns to his desk with a scowl and a manilla folder.
“I’m sorry, but there are some issues with your credit,” the salesman says, “and your
employment history, which we are unable to verify.”
Quinton and I exchange glances that tell the other what we both know happened; Randolph
has denied ever hiring me. Nearby, Emily seems to be flirting with one of the salesmen, or else
she’s letting him flirt with her. Either way, it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting a car loan today or
anytime in the near future, perhaps ever.
I say, “My former boss is a bit of a jerk, but my credit is good, and I have enough for a down
payment -”
“Not quite,” the salesman says. “I see that two of your cards are maxed out.”
“Two of the -? But I only have one credit card.”
“Not according to this.”
I rush home and start making some calls. The first thing I discover is that two credit cards
have been taken out in my name, and that while there isn’t much credit on either card, both are
maxed out with cellphone calls to Florida and other locations outside of California, some to
Belgium! The second thing I check into are the buildings, to make sure that whatever identity
thief has apparently struck me hasn’t somehow changed the deeds. But, like the credit cards,
everything is in my name.
This makes me feel better, but not much. I call Quinton. He reassures me that identity theft
happens to a lot of people, and he’s got a buddy who is just starting off on a career handling such
things. He’ll put me in touch and the matter of the cards and the phone will be worked out.
Quinton’s theory is that somebody in Florida has swiped my bankcard pin number from a
machine (something thieves can now do with ease) and did what he could with what he could
get. Judging by the cellphone, Quinton’s guess is that he’s a drug dealer.
A knock at the door startles me. I half-expect it to be Randolph, maybe ready to dish out
more lame excuses about the way he’s mistreated me. Maybe he wants me back , I think to
myself on the way to the door. Ha! Fat