Read Online Empty Ever After by Reed Farrel Coleman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Reed Farrel Coleman
Ads: Link
doing about it?”
“I was just about to call Ghostbusters.”
“Very funny, Moses.”
“I’m doing the only thing I can do. I’m gonna look into it. First, I have to pick your niece up at the airport.”
He grinned. My brother and Sarah had a special affinity for one another. “When does she get in?”
“I’m leaving for LaGuardia in about an hour.”
“Does she know what’s going on?”
“Some of it. Look, Aaron, I just want you to know, I’m going to take as long as it takes to find out what’s going on.”
“We’ve prospered for two decades without your full attention. We should be able to survive another few weeks.”
“Fuck you!”
“Fuck you, he says to me,” he stage-whispered to an invisible audience. “Let’s face it, the best thing you ever did for us was getting us started. That shit with Katy’s dad, look, you never wanted to tell me much about it, okay. It was your business, but enough already.”
I wanted to explode. He was right, but he was wrong too. I put in my time. I got us some of our biggest accounts, hired our best people. Even Aaron would have to admit that much. Klaus and Kosta were integral parts of our success and had been with us from year one. Both now owned small percentages of the business. Kosta was our head buyer and Klaus, besides running the day-to-day operations of the New Jersey store was, along with our lawyers and accountants, looking into the possibility of our franchising.
“Without me, there’d be no business,” I said.
“Yeah, I heard that refrain before. It used to mean something, too, when you said it last century. That was then. Four stores and twenty years later, it’s enough already.”
“Did Abraham Lincoln write that for you?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Go play cops and robbers with your Spanish hottie.” Aaron was very much of my parent’s generation. I’m surprised he didn’t call our African-American employees colored. He wasn’t a bigot. Far from it. He was just old. He was born old.
“Puerto Rican.”
“What?”
“Carmella is Puerto Rican and she’s not my hottie. Where do you come up with these terms anyway, Reader’s Digest ?”
“What’s wrong with Reader’s Digest ?”
No matter what our arguments started over, they always ended in the same place.
“You want coffee?” I asked.
“Sounds good.”
“The usual?”
“Always. Hey, little brother …”
“Yeah.”
“I love ya.”
“I know. Me too.”
THE NORTHWEST TERMINAL was bustling. The area airports were always busy, but there was just something about LaGuardia that brought out the closet claustrophobic in even the most hardened New Yorker. I found myself wishing I’d made the travel arrangements instead of leaving them up to Sarah. All this foot traffic was going to make things that much more difficult. No doubt a late afternoon or evening flight would have been a better option, but there was no use giving myself shpilkes over it now. For the moment, I only wanted to think about the best thing in my life, Sarah.
I loved the kid so much it hurt. Maybe it was her only-child status or that we were baseball buddies, but I had never gotten used to her being away from home. The sting was particularly sharp today with LaGuardia being just a stone’s throw away from Shea Stadium. Sarah had a double-major as a kid, learning about baseball and aircraft as we sat and watched the big jets roar over Shea on their final approaches to the airport. I remembered the first game I took her to, a weekday matinee against the Padres. She lasted only a couple of innings in the baking sun and passed out on my shoulder. When she woke up, she said she was firsty . I remembered that day for other reasons too.
It was the summer of 1983 and I had been hired to look into the disappearance of a political intern named Moira Heaton. Moira was a plain looking girl, a cop’s daughter, who had gone missing from State Senator Steven Brightman’s neighborhood
“I was just about to call Ghostbusters.”
“Very funny, Moses.”
“I’m doing the only thing I can do. I’m gonna look into it. First, I have to pick your niece up at the airport.”
He grinned. My brother and Sarah had a special affinity for one another. “When does she get in?”
“I’m leaving for LaGuardia in about an hour.”
“Does she know what’s going on?”
“Some of it. Look, Aaron, I just want you to know, I’m going to take as long as it takes to find out what’s going on.”
“We’ve prospered for two decades without your full attention. We should be able to survive another few weeks.”
“Fuck you!”
“Fuck you, he says to me,” he stage-whispered to an invisible audience. “Let’s face it, the best thing you ever did for us was getting us started. That shit with Katy’s dad, look, you never wanted to tell me much about it, okay. It was your business, but enough already.”
I wanted to explode. He was right, but he was wrong too. I put in my time. I got us some of our biggest accounts, hired our best people. Even Aaron would have to admit that much. Klaus and Kosta were integral parts of our success and had been with us from year one. Both now owned small percentages of the business. Kosta was our head buyer and Klaus, besides running the day-to-day operations of the New Jersey store was, along with our lawyers and accountants, looking into the possibility of our franchising.
“Without me, there’d be no business,” I said.
“Yeah, I heard that refrain before. It used to mean something, too, when you said it last century. That was then. Four stores and twenty years later, it’s enough already.”
“Did Abraham Lincoln write that for you?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Go play cops and robbers with your Spanish hottie.” Aaron was very much of my parent’s generation. I’m surprised he didn’t call our African-American employees colored. He wasn’t a bigot. Far from it. He was just old. He was born old.
“Puerto Rican.”
“What?”
“Carmella is Puerto Rican and she’s not my hottie. Where do you come up with these terms anyway, Reader’s Digest ?”
“What’s wrong with Reader’s Digest ?”
No matter what our arguments started over, they always ended in the same place.
“You want coffee?” I asked.
“Sounds good.”
“The usual?”
“Always. Hey, little brother …”
“Yeah.”
“I love ya.”
“I know. Me too.”
THE NORTHWEST TERMINAL was bustling. The area airports were always busy, but there was just something about LaGuardia that brought out the closet claustrophobic in even the most hardened New Yorker. I found myself wishing I’d made the travel arrangements instead of leaving them up to Sarah. All this foot traffic was going to make things that much more difficult. No doubt a late afternoon or evening flight would have been a better option, but there was no use giving myself shpilkes over it now. For the moment, I only wanted to think about the best thing in my life, Sarah.
I loved the kid so much it hurt. Maybe it was her only-child status or that we were baseball buddies, but I had never gotten used to her being away from home. The sting was particularly sharp today with LaGuardia being just a stone’s throw away from Shea Stadium. Sarah had a double-major as a kid, learning about baseball and aircraft as we sat and watched the big jets roar over Shea on their final approaches to the airport. I remembered the first game I took her to, a weekday matinee against the Padres. She lasted only a couple of innings in the baking sun and passed out on my shoulder. When she woke up, she said she was firsty . I remembered that day for other reasons too.
It was the summer of 1983 and I had been hired to look into the disappearance of a political intern named Moira Heaton. Moira was a plain looking girl, a cop’s daughter, who had gone missing from State Senator Steven Brightman’s neighborhood
Similar Books
