Elite Fraud

Chapter 28: Christmas Must Be Tonight

Every once in a while, a curious civilian—a mother with a stroller; a man in a business suit; a toddler with wide eyes—stops to stare at us as we pass by, and I try to imagine what they see from their eyes. A giant Roman and Co. blue logo slapped on four consecutive black vans: a circle entwined with two shaking hands. They must think, wow, maybe there still are some good people on this Earth.

I think of a scene in a movie I watched when I was younger. Two kids going on a road-trip with their foster parents. One of them held up a 'help me' sign through the window that grabbed other drivers' attention, and consequently, they were pulled over and were able to run away.

That's when I recall Mom's words from this morning, and the movie scene dissipates from my mind.

I'm brought out of my reverie when the van slows down and the engine lulls to silence. Atlas is the first by the door, and he pulls it open before we all pile out behind each other.

We stand in the poorer parts of South Bronx, an area near the home of Johnny Miles. There is a large banner with David's face on it and an advertisement about doing good. The shiny banner showcases his sharply trimmed salt and pepper beard, piercing lead eyes, and a dashing smile. It makes me see why people would think he is a good man.

A team of workers starts to unload the food from the truck to the long tables set up. The three other vans park alongside us, and soon enough the image of us attracts a lot of people within seconds. People with grime on their faces, in layers and layers of torn up sweaters, jackets, scarfs, and hats. They share the same expressions: downturned lips and heavy eyes—eager to get their free meal of the day.

I stare at David. He stands with his wife and a few assistants, passing piles of folded clothes. He has his hands clasped behind his back, in a crisp suit with a perfectly etched smile on his face but wary, darting eyes: we're here to help you but don't get too close to my Armani watch. It glints under the pale sun that watches us from above.

A warm hand wraps around mine and straightens my clenched fingers. I look down to see Theo squeezing my hands in reassurance. He smiles, and a small, white snowflake lands on his thick brows. "This is good for them. Just think of them today."

I nod and try to listen to him, forcing myself to tune out the sound of flashing cameras and choosing, instead, to direct my gaze to the line of people forming before me.

I stand between Theo and Yvonne, passing on cans and warm containers of food. The people take it with their heads down, muttering thanks and words of gratitude, but avoiding my eyes. It pains me, and I want to tell them, look at me, I can only afford canned food, too.

Yvonne impatiently passes on the food with her manicured index finger and thumb, as though these people were poisonous. A reporter holding a camera calls out to us for a smile. She presses her face to mine so that our cheeks touch and I whiff her expensive perfume. She smiles a gracious smile before the camera flashes, and her scowl is back.

"Would you stop that?" I ask Yvonne, my tone laced with annoyance.

"Huh?" She raises her plucked eyebrows in a challenge.

"You know what I'm talking about." I narrow my eyes. "They deserve better."

She scoffs. "Mind your own business, Mother Theresa."

I grit my teeth and breathe through my nose. This will all be over soon, and today is not about me, or David and his people. It's about the people standing in this line. I turn away from her and hand the next Styrofoam container to the scrawny kid that's been too patient for this.

"Just be glad you're on this end of the line," Yvonne whispers as she leans in close. She stands straight and slyly directs her gaze to David who is shaking a man's hand.