kitchen drawer where it had spent the last two years.
The picture framing store I lived above had taken up most of the basement, which was lit by two naked bulbs with long, beaded pulls. My corner was still there, although I had to move a large oil painting of a clown’s face—rather creepy, actually. But there I found my two suitcases, a few pots for planting and the box. While it wasn’t large or particularly heavy, it smelled moldy and I hoped no creatures had taken up residence in it.
I hauled it upstairs, sneezing as I went, put on a pot of coffee and settled in for a long night.
Around one thirty, I unearthed a nugget that sent me scrambling for my computer.
CHAPTER 5
Although my internet search kept me up past three a.m., I was out of bed by seven the next morning. I showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and hustled Bix out the door for his morning walk. If I timed my visit right, I could get to Dryden Manor before my mother had breakfast, and then it would be easy to lure her into a meal of blueberry pancakes with maple syrup at Malone’s. I wasn’t craving her company; I was itching for a showdown. And I had no qualms about my plan to pump her for information while pumping her full of flapjacks. After my night of research, I was convinced that your average supermarket tabloid contained more facts than my early recorded history.
Bix cooperated and finished his business quickly, and we were on our way back to my apartment when a red Porsche drove by, then slowed and pulled over to the curb about ten feet in front of me. I’m generally not impressed by cars. It’s not that I’m above all the superficial materiality that has made us the greatest consumers in the history of the world. Possibly the universe. Hardly. If I had the money I’d buy the same digital camera every time it got upgraded. But I am not a car person. To me, driving is overrated. But this little convertible—black top up—perched beside the curb and humming at me, made me wonder if maybe I’d just never driven the right car. As I slowed, the passenger-side window slid down, and I saw Mick Hughes behind the wheel.
It was too late to run or walk away. His Porsche had snared me as surely as a grappling hook.
“Hey,” he said, smiling as he twisted in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “That your dog?”
No, it’s the badger I’ve leash trained. “ Yeah. This is Bix.”
“Hey, there Bix,” he said, then lifted his chin toward me. “I was on my way to see a client and I saw you. Wondered if you got my message. About the casino.”
“I did. But I got home kind of late last night. I was tired.”
Bix, affable to a fault, was trying to pull me toward the car. But, small as he is, he didn’t stand a chance against my desire to remain inert.
“Sure,” Mick said, sounding not at all convinced. Despite the fact that the morning had brought with it a thick layer of gray clouds and a fine mist, he wore a pair of sunglasses that prevented me from reading any further. “So what do you think?”
“I really don’t like casinos. They’re too... discordant.”
He removed his sunglasses and squinted up at me. “Discordant, huh?”
I nodded. My feelings were difficult to describe in one word, but that came pretty close.
He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip. “Do you like to eat?”
I considered telling him I was on a macrobiotic diet, eating only that which I grew in jars in my apartment, but lies always came back to bite my ass. “I’ve been known to.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. We can talk about your money. And other stuff.”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.” Clearly, I would have to spell it out for this man. But not until I had the money to keep my mother from being put out on the curb. And the place for either of those subjects was not on a public street with him leaning across the passenger seat of his hot little car.
He put his sunglasses back on and as he pulled away
The picture framing store I lived above had taken up most of the basement, which was lit by two naked bulbs with long, beaded pulls. My corner was still there, although I had to move a large oil painting of a clown’s face—rather creepy, actually. But there I found my two suitcases, a few pots for planting and the box. While it wasn’t large or particularly heavy, it smelled moldy and I hoped no creatures had taken up residence in it.
I hauled it upstairs, sneezing as I went, put on a pot of coffee and settled in for a long night.
Around one thirty, I unearthed a nugget that sent me scrambling for my computer.
CHAPTER 5
Although my internet search kept me up past three a.m., I was out of bed by seven the next morning. I showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and hustled Bix out the door for his morning walk. If I timed my visit right, I could get to Dryden Manor before my mother had breakfast, and then it would be easy to lure her into a meal of blueberry pancakes with maple syrup at Malone’s. I wasn’t craving her company; I was itching for a showdown. And I had no qualms about my plan to pump her for information while pumping her full of flapjacks. After my night of research, I was convinced that your average supermarket tabloid contained more facts than my early recorded history.
Bix cooperated and finished his business quickly, and we were on our way back to my apartment when a red Porsche drove by, then slowed and pulled over to the curb about ten feet in front of me. I’m generally not impressed by cars. It’s not that I’m above all the superficial materiality that has made us the greatest consumers in the history of the world. Possibly the universe. Hardly. If I had the money I’d buy the same digital camera every time it got upgraded. But I am not a car person. To me, driving is overrated. But this little convertible—black top up—perched beside the curb and humming at me, made me wonder if maybe I’d just never driven the right car. As I slowed, the passenger-side window slid down, and I saw Mick Hughes behind the wheel.
It was too late to run or walk away. His Porsche had snared me as surely as a grappling hook.
“Hey,” he said, smiling as he twisted in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “That your dog?”
No, it’s the badger I’ve leash trained. “ Yeah. This is Bix.”
“Hey, there Bix,” he said, then lifted his chin toward me. “I was on my way to see a client and I saw you. Wondered if you got my message. About the casino.”
“I did. But I got home kind of late last night. I was tired.”
Bix, affable to a fault, was trying to pull me toward the car. But, small as he is, he didn’t stand a chance against my desire to remain inert.
“Sure,” Mick said, sounding not at all convinced. Despite the fact that the morning had brought with it a thick layer of gray clouds and a fine mist, he wore a pair of sunglasses that prevented me from reading any further. “So what do you think?”
“I really don’t like casinos. They’re too... discordant.”
He removed his sunglasses and squinted up at me. “Discordant, huh?”
I nodded. My feelings were difficult to describe in one word, but that came pretty close.
He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip. “Do you like to eat?”
I considered telling him I was on a macrobiotic diet, eating only that which I grew in jars in my apartment, but lies always came back to bite my ass. “I’ve been known to.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. We can talk about your money. And other stuff.”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.” Clearly, I would have to spell it out for this man. But not until I had the money to keep my mother from being put out on the curb. And the place for either of those subjects was not on a public street with him leaning across the passenger seat of his hot little car.
He put his sunglasses back on and as he pulled away
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