This is the third Convertible story. The first two, "The Convertible" and its sequel "The Convertible -- Another Road" are closely connected and should be read together, but from this story onward the Convertible stories will all be standalones, the charmed 1955 TR2 being the sole thread tying them together.
Sometimes when writing a story, help comes from unexpected places. I owe many thanks and give much credit to my wonderful muse RiverMaya for her invaluable cultural guidance and inspiration on this one. Without her input, there would be no Tia Maria Regina, Zamboangueñas heritage or 'satti at puso'. Please make sure you check out her well-crafted story "Maria del Sueño", as well as her music elsewhere.
Also, a huge thank-you to the eagle-eyed Verbalinians -- my ace in the hole while editing this story.
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The Convertible -- The Time of My Life
After ten years of working for the New Jersey Federal District Court's Parole Office, I was ready to make a change in my life, needing to clear my head and find a new career direction.
My legal name is Araceli Ochoa, but most people I work with just know me as Norma -- it was the nickname my roommates in the dormitory gave me in college when I was working on my BS in Criminal Justice, I used it when I became a parole officer because Araceli was too unusual for people to remember. It's a Filipina name meaning 'Altar in the Sky', but constantly explaining my name to people was tiresome. So, for the last 10 years I've gone by Norma.
My official job description duties included 'responsibility of effective community supervision, enforcing court-ordered sanctions and safeguarding the public, and aiding the offenders in improving their conduct and conditions.' That was mostly bullshit; during my tenure, probably 80% of the non-violent offenders I supervised were charming but incorrigible assholes who kept their noses clean until their parole ended; then they'd jump right back to their old habits. It was the remaining 20% that made me feel like I'd actually done some good. One of the recent 20 percenters was a poor-little-rich-girl type named Arianna Bradford.
The first time I met Arianna, it was in jail during a transition assessment meeting to see what I had to work with. Upon meeting her, I really wanted to hate her. She was 5'8" tall, big-boobed and gorgeous, unlike the 5'6", skinny and plain cocoa-skinned woman I saw every morning in the mirror. But then when we started talking, I realized underneath her good looks was a bona-fide member of the walking wounded. This was no hard-core jailbird sitting across from me; even though she'd only done 3 months, it had taken a real toll on her. She was humble and contrite, almost at the end of her rope.
Ordinarily, I try to match my people with low-level employment opportunities so they can keep a low profile and stay out of trouble until their parole ends. Going through Arianna's file I saw she was educated and, given her previous employment as a stockbroker, probably way smarter than most of the other offenders I managed. It just so happened I was contacted earlier that day by a buddy of mine, Hal Parrish, General Manager at the Ramble Inn.
The Ramble Inn is a low-budget place near LaGuardia airport that caters mostly to travelers and business people. Hal needed a 6pm -- 2am desk manager. I thought Arianna would be a good match for the position, and it would keep her out of trouble, so I put the two of them together.
Thankfully, Arianna took to it right away and Hal was thrilled. She abided by all the rules; passed her weekly drug and alcohol screenings, was always at work on time, her till was always balanced, plus she was good with the guests. Then a couple of months into it, a surprise hotel guest shows up -- her former brother-in-law. Get this -- not only was he her ex-brother-in-law, he's her ex-husband's twin! They have dinner to catch up, one thing leads to another and they're in love. But then it gets way weirder.
Arianna and former brother-in-law/now new boyfriend make an appointment and come to my office, wanting to talk about possibly transferring the remainder of her parole to California. She's got family there -- her mother -- who just so happens to be married to -- bear with me now - her ex-husband, whose name is Joel. The boyfriend, whose name is Jacob, shows me pictures. Mom's 49, 16 years older than hubby, but a hell of a looker and apparently quite the fertile Myrtle -- damn near 50, she's got one baby on her hip and another on the way!
I tell the two of them OK, the family thing is covered, but Arianna will still need employment. Boyfriend says no problem, that he's gotten her a job at a car import and restoration shop owned by none other than his brother, Arianna's ex-husband! That's some twisted family dynamics right there. I imagine Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations with them will be chaotic, to say the least. I can see how kissing the wrong twin brother under the mistletoe might get a little awkward.
Anyway, Arianna's a good woman, so I write up a transfer request and send it over to the Interstate Commission for Adult Offender Supervision. Two months later it's approved, and she's on her way to California. On the way to LaGuardia, Jacob - former boyfriend, now upgraded to fiancé - pops by my office cubical and asks me for $40. I figure, OK, I'll play along, and slide him a pair of Jacksons.
He congratulates me and gives me an envelope with some keys and the title to a restored 1955 Triumph! The car is a restored British racing green TR2 convertible. My Dad Paolo used to race a later model Triumph, a 1956 TR3 before his big stoke that paralyzed him on his left side; after that he couldn't drive it anymore, and I eventually had to sell it to pay the medical expenses not covered by insurance.
Every time I'd visit him in the convalescent home he'd ask me to drive him somewhere in his car. There was no way I could tell Dad the truth, he would have been heartbroken, so I had to tell him some bullshit about it being in the shop. Since the stroke also trashed his short-term memory, I got away with repeating that lie, but having the TR2 meant I could take my dad for rides in a sports car again!
On the way out of the door, the fiancé mentions the car is kind of charmed; it brought his brother and new wife together, and now him and Arianna. Basically, it's a 4-wheeled love machine. Given the state of my love life over the past 10 years, I was not optimistic about my chances.
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I mentioned how the non-violent offenders I supervised were 80% charming-but-incorrigible assholes; when it came to the violent offenders, 100% of the ones I supervised were assholes, with no charm at all. In better times when prisons weren't overpopulated these guys wouldn't have seen the light of day, but these were not better times so now here they were, needing someone to supervise them. Lucky me. Then again, it was because of one, Raoul Moran, that I met officer Alejandro Perez.
Raoul was 32, but he looked 45. He was 6'3" and his file listed his weight as 245 pounds, but I think the scale was undercounting. He had scars on his cheeks and chin, and I gave up trying to count his tattoos. He'd been in prison most of his life; this last go-round was for simple assault because the prosecution failed to find evidence of a gun he allegedly waved around while threatening his victim. Not surprising, as guys like Raoul were quite good at making evidence disappear.
The file notes said Raoul could be volatile, but his overall behavior in prison "met minimum standards". That meant he hadn't been caught beating up anyone or breaking any rules. He may have in fact been doing all of those things but nobody caught him at it, so the parole board determined he was my problem now.
With guys like these who might not work well with a female officer, I usually get a police officer/risk partner in there with me; I play it safe and don't take anything into the interview room that could be thrown, no hot drinks, or anything like that. My usual risk partner was a guy named Frank Kerr, 22 years on the force. Frank was a big, easy-going guy who knew how to talk to the bad mofos. He'd seen some shit, knew a lot of these guys, and they respected him.
On the Friday in early March that I was to meet with Raoul Moran, however, Frank was out with a nasty case of the flu. In fact, a lot of the older experienced officers were; the virus had run rampant through the building. After calling around, somebody managed to pull in a motorcycle officer from the city's Traffic Department to fill in. He introduced himself as Alejandro Perez, but asked me to call him Al. He was tall, a good 6'1", and ironically resembled Erik Estrada from the old CHIPS show. "This one's a cutie', I thought to myself.
We entered the conference room where Mr. Moran was seated at the table waiting. I sat down across from him while Officer Perez remained standing. "Hello, Mr. Moran, I'm Officer Ochoa, and I've been assigned as your parole officer." I didn't extend my hand; I wasn't here to make friends.
