“Shut up.” I pointed at Nate with my slice of pizza. “Or I’ll break the ribs on your other side.”
“Dare you.” He stuck his chin up defiantly.
“Yeah, so what’s up with that?” Laurel asked.
“The broken ribs?” Nate asked. She nodded. “It’s cool. We’re handling it.”
“I hesitate to ask,” she said.
“We’re going to threaten the guy’s wheelchair bound father.”
“Charming. Is this a normal occurrence?” Laurel asked.
I threw a pillow at Nate. “Keep your mouth shut.”
“Well, we are drug dealers.” He acted like that was an explanation.
“Wait. You’re actually going to threaten some old guy in a wheelchair?” Laurel looked back and forth between Nate and me.
This was so not helping me get the girl. “It sounds worse than it is. And, no, it’s not normal.”
Nate grimaced as he realized what he had said. “She’s right. It’s not that bad. I can explain.” He set down his pizza and mustered all his strength to get out of the chair.
I really hoped he wasn’t doing what I thought he was doing. But then he came back in the room with a stack of files. Of course he was doing exactly what I didn’t want him to do.
“What’s this?” Laurel took the files he handed her.
“Police files. The top one is the guy you punched. Asshole, but not in the fun way like Cash. Next one is his brother, who gave me these lovely presents.” Nate pointed at the bruising on his face. “But that thick one at the bottom is their father, the guy we are going to threaten. His whole file is just him beating on his wife for like half a century.”
Laurel shook her head and set her pizza down. She flipped through the files on Jerome and Raymond. “These guys are like sweet little puppy dogs, aren’t they?”
“Wait till you get to Dad. He’s a real piece of work,” Nate said.
This was exactly what I didn’t want to involve Laurel in. To be fair, I didn’t want her involved in anything related to my dealing, but I really didn’t want her looking at police and hospital records that I’d gotten from a dirty cop.
“Okay, you did your show-and-tell. Can we put away the police files now?” I asked Nate.
“Fine.” Nate caught the look I was giving him. He collected the files. “I’m just saying. These are not nice people. It’s not like we are threatening sweet old grandmothers.”
“Noted. They’re bad, you’re not.”
“See, Cash? She gets it.” Nate was a little nervous now. Too late for that. The line had been crossed.
“So how the hell did you get those files?” Laurel asked. And that was why I hadn’t wanted to show her.
“Oh, a friend of mine is a sheriff. He does the occasional favor for me.” I felt terrible lying, but I couldn’t exactly tell her the truth either.
“That’s some favor.”
I scoffed convincingly. “Yeah, I’m going to owe him big.”
“So what about you? We’re drug dealers. What does Laurel do?” Nate asked.
“Don’t ask that. It’s embarrassing.” Laurel drank her beer and hung her head.
“You realize you have to tell us now,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s so boring.” We waited. “Okay, fine. I work at my dad’s law firm.”
“Whoa. Establishment.” Nate said what I was thinking. “Are you a lawyer?”
“God, no. I just work in the office. It’s like nine to five shit, but then I don’t show up and my father lectures me on being over thirty and irresponsible. He tells me I’ll never be able to take over the firm if I don’t go to law school. I tell him I don’t want the firm. It’s a thing we do.” She took another slice of pizza and pretended that she had explained everything.
“Your dad should get together with my mother and write lectures on teaching responsibility to unruly children,” Nate said.
“I think he would really enjoy that.” Laurel leaned forward with her beer bottle and Nate tapped his soda against it.
*
“Thank you for making time in your schedule to meet with us.” Henry was in full charm mode the moment we entered the nursing home. Our tour guide was a Mrs. Whittling. She was a lovely fifty something woman who looked like she belonged in the office of a sorority, not a nursing home. Perfect blond hair, tastefully cut to her collar. Perfect white suit, tailored to her perfectly trim frame. Perfectly cerulean eyes behind fashionable, but not trendy glasses. And she was already half in love with all of Henry’s perfection, right down to his raw denim jeans and Italian loafers. They made quite a pair.
“Not at all. I’m happy to show you around. I think you will find our facilities have every amenity your mother could hope for. And, of course, our staff is highly trained to meet her needs. Why don’t you tell me a bit more about her?”
And we were off. Henry wove the story of our mother who had recently suffered a stroke and was ready to move out of her hospital room. Yes, selling the family home was proving quite difficult. So many memories. Oh, and Mother was just beside herself, but we all knew that this was the right thing to do.
I trailed behind them, looking at every patient we passed. At some point Henry looped Mrs. Whittling’s arm through his. She was utterly delighted. There were two sides to the nursing home. One was assisted living for the more mobile patients. The dining room there had waiters who worked with the regular attendants. It looked more like a day spa than a nursing home.
Henry directed us to the other side. Poor Mother had hopes of regaining her fine motor skills, but we needed to face the reality that she might not. As we passed through a series of doors using Mrs. Whittling’s key card, I realized how much a facility like this was a prison. For the safety of the Alzheimer’s patients, she explained.
We emerged into a common room filled with elderly people in wheelchairs. There was a quiet difference on this side. The conversation seemed more wild, outside of social standards. There was a feeling of wasting time. Waiting for an inevitable moment. Dreading that moment, but only out of obligation. Everyone was unfettered. When time was inconsequential, and mobility was based on the day’s luck, and you realized how useless all of the constructions were, maybe irreverence was the only thing left.
It only took me a moment to find him. Mr. St. Maris looked exactly like his sons. Maybe it was a triumph of genetics, but—considering the violence they all surrounded themselves with—it seemed like more of a curse. He was dressed in designer sweatpants and two hundred dollar sneakers. His hair was trimmed into a close crew cut; it was both convenient and trendy. Jerome and Raymond’s collective influence was obvious.
Henry saw him almost at the same time I did. He stopped walking and turned to Mrs. Whittling.
“Would it be all right if we spoke to some of the patients? I don’t want to upset anyone. I just want to chat, see how they feel about the home.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Whittling patted his arm. “You’ll find that some of them are non-verbal. And those with dementia and Alzheimer’s may mistake you for someone else.”
“That’s perfectly understandable. You know, my sister volunteered in a nursing home in high school.” He put his hand on my back and drew me into their circle.
“You did?” Mrs. Whittling was delighted. Okay, most of the things in life delighted her.
“Yeah, it started as a work study program and grew from there.” I tried to match Henry’s smile. “I just loved hearing their stories. So many of the patients I worked with had an almost childlike joy. It was infectious.” And just like that, Mrs. Whittling loved me too.
“That is wonderful. It’s so nice to hear from young people like the two of you. I truly hope you choose our facility for your mother. We could use your influence.” She winked at us. Actually winked. We needed to get out of this place. “I’ll let you two look around. I need to go speak to someone, but I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Thank you again, Mrs. Whittling.” Henry was laying
it on thick.
She smiled, perfectly, and left us.
It took all of my willpower not to go directly to Jerome Sr. Instead, I sat on a sofa with a woman older than God who was cradling a doll. She stared at me for a moment, then reached over and patted my hair into place.
“Look at this handsome boy. Haven’t you grown?”
I didn’t know what to say so I decided to go with it. “I sure have.”
“It has just been years, hasn’t it?”
“It has.”
“Well, you certainly have grown.” This was a winning conversation right here. “You know Harold used to wear his hair just like this.” She petted my head again. “You never got to meet him, but I swear you look just like him. Doesn’t he look just like his grandfather?” she asked her doll.
For some reason, I smiled at her. A genuine smile. She had no fucking clue what was going on around her and she did not give a fuck. She was just chillin’ with her doll and patting strangers on the head. Well done, old lady.
I glanced over at Henry. He was perched on a coffee table next to Jerome Sr. talking to a lady with pink hair. His position was perfect to take an unobtrusive photo.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” I told my new friend. She smiled and nodded. I figured it wasn’t a lie because she was going to forget me in two minutes.
I worked my way around the room until I was standing behind Jerome. Henry pulled out his phone and lifted it to his ear like he was taking a call. I leaned over Jerome’s shoulder and smiled in the sweetest, most terrifying way possible. Henry nodded at no one.
“Henry.” I reached out and tapped his shoulder as if he had been my goal all along. “I think we’ve seen enough.”
He looked at his phone and quickly swiped through the photos he had taken. “Yep. I agree. We’ve got what we came for.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“We should say good-bye to Mrs. Whittling.” Henry came around to where I was.
“Is that necessary? Can’t we just go?” I kept my voice very low.
“Appearances matter.” Henry put his hand on my back again. I leaned close like we were having a normal, private conversation. “I don’t want to burn this bridge yet. We might need it. Plus, we don’t want Whittling to realize that we are anything other than caring siblings helping out Mother. It would raise suspicion.”
“You’re right.”
Henry smiled at a younger guy in scrubs. “Excuse me, we’re looking for Mrs. Whittling. Is she around?”
“Yeah. If you want, I can grab her for you.” The boy smiled at Henry.
Henry realized he was being cruised and smiled back. “That would be great, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He disappeared down a corridor. Half a second later, he emerged with Whittling.
“Mrs. Whittling, thank you again for the tour. It was enlightening,” Henry said.
I took a step back and let them lead us out. Despite my obvious gender presentation, Mrs. Whittling still seemed more comfortable with Henry taking the lead in our false sibling dynamic. It was fascinating, in a way, that she hadn’t been thrown by my queerness at all, but she was still a little bit sexist.
When we got to her office, she handed Henry her card and a million pamphlets that outlined all of the paperwork we would need to institutionalize our dear mother. We each shook her hand and let ourselves out.
“So what’s the plan?” Henry asked once we were in his car.
“Drop me at my place. I need to get my car. I’ll stake out Jerome’s house. You go get copies of the photo printed.”
“Why are you staking out his place?”
“Because I want to break in and leave the photo for him to find. If he’s there, that will be harder.”
“You’re disturbingly good at this,” he said.
I decided to take that as a compliment.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I hadn’t considered the possibility that Jerome might not be home. I’d been sitting outside his house for an hour and there were no signs of life inside. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. I wasn’t dumb enough to break in to a house that was potentially occupied.
I was almost ready to ring the bell just to see if he would answer.
This neighborhood was disgustingly similar. The homes looked like they had been built in the late eighties, early nineties. Apparently, there had only been four models to choose from. In the intervening decades, people had added extra rooms and expanded garages, but the result was multitudes of cheap, identical houses screaming for their own identities and failing. I was a little bit surprised that Jerome had chosen such an unimaginative place to live. I couldn’t imagine having a beige house with beige trim and a beige door.
My phone rang. It was Henry.
“Hello.”
“How goes the stakeout?”
“It’s shockingly boring. I have no idea if he is home. And if he isn’t home, maybe I should just go in. Or if he is home and he leaves, I don’t know if we should follow him just to make sure he isn’t going out for milk and will be back in five minutes.”
“Whoa, there. You need to chill. Is this your first stakeout?”
“Yes. Normal people don’t do stakeouts. I don’t like it.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. If he leaves, follow him and call me so I can take over. Sit tight.”
I was pretty sure he was trying to reassure me, but it didn’t help much. Thirteen minutes of drumming impatiently on my steering wheel, and Henry pulled up behind me. He got out of the car and came around to my passenger side. I rolled down the window.
“Any movement?” Henry asked.
“No.”
“Here are the photos.” He handed me an envelope from the drugstore down the street.
I opened the envelope. It was ten copies of the same photo. And the photo was perfect. I was leaning over Jerome Sr.’s shoulder and smiling rather wickedly. He looked like a clueless, drooling man. There was something nefarious about it. It was a facsimile of a sweet photo, but I’d managed to look predatory.
“This is disturbing,” I said.
“Damn right.” Henry grinned, pleased that everything was going according to plan, I guess. “You stay here. I’m going to drive around the corner and see if I can get a better look. He might be in the backyard. Hold on.”
Henry returned to his electric blue muscle car and climbed in. He gunned his big ass engine and eased around the corner. So much for subtlety. Two minutes later, he pulled up behind me again. My phone rang.
“Nothing.”
“So we wait?” I asked.
“Pretty much.”
“Can you wait and I’ll go buy a coffee?” I looked in my rearview mirror. Henry was shaking his head.
“You want a coffee?”
“No, I want an iced coffee. A big one. With crushed ice that I can chew on.” Damn, that sounded amazing. I was going to die if I didn’t have it right now.
“Hey, Cash?”
“Yeah?”
“When you drink a big ass iced coffee, how long is it before you have to pee?”
Damn it. “Like two minutes.”
“I promise I’ll buy you an iced coffee when we’re done, okay?” He smiled at me in the mirror. “A huge one with crushed ice.”
I didn’t even mind how condescending he was being because I knew he was right. “Real big. Like the size cups they sell in the South.”
“Do they have different cup sizes there?”
“In my imagination, when you go east of the California border, everything is bigger. Like, if you order a small iced tea, it’s forty ounces and comes with a hat.”
“And all of that is the South?”
Christ, it was like he had never studied geography. “Yes. Until you hit New York.”
He started laughing. Hard. “Your brain is a very special place.”
“Thanks. Clive says I was an imaginative child.”
“Yeah, imaginative. That’s yo
u.” Henry hung up the phone. He was still shaking his head at me.
I pushed my seat back and settled in for long wait. Between my attempts to see movement in the windows, I texted my regulars. I had drugs again. It was time to maintain those relationships. I got responses from eight customers right away. My housewives were feeling neglected. Two people wrote back and said they didn’t need any. One would have been odd, but two? Something was off. Especially since one of them was Brant. He had a drug problem and money to burn.
I decided to text Nate. My gay boy housewife just canceled his weekly order again.
The one in fab 40s?
How many gay boy housewives do u think I have? I checked the street again. Still boring nothingness. Jerome’s house, also nothing.
I don’t kno, but I think I need one. Do they do laundry?
Of course. They’re not heathens. Nate was proving distracting. Which was helpful with the whole boring stakeout thing, but not so helpful with figuring out what the deal was with Brant. So that’s weird right?
Totally. Isn’t he like a quarter of ur business?
Not quite, but close enough.
Maybe he got sober?
And didn’t tell me? That was what bothered me. Brant was a social boy. If he was succeeding at cutting back or getting sober, he would have bragged to me.
So ask him. Dumbass, Nate said.
Well, that seemed logical. I texted Brant, You sure? You haven’t put in an order for two weeks.
Brant wrote back right away. Yeah, I’m cool. But thanks.
I took a screenshot of the conversation with Brant and sent it to Nate. Weird, right?
Totally.
I still couldn’t pinpoint what felt off about it, but maybe Nate would come up with something.
It turned out that all my whining was for nothing because I only had to wait another fifteen minutes. The front door opened. Christian Dilsey came out, and the door shut behind him. Jerome was home. Christian climbed into a Mazda parked a few houses down and took off. Ten minutes later, the garage door opened and Jerome’s silver Cadillac pulled out. Henry waited to start his car until Jerome was at the end of the street.
Cash Braddock Page 13
