Page 63 of A Long Con

Royal continued, “I’ll make up for it.”

“We both will,” I added.

“We’ll clean the fucking bathrooms at The Happy Hour.”

I said, “For the next six months.”

Royal said, “On hands and knees. With toothbrushes.”

“Ah, God!” whined Twinkletoes. “Are you serious? Do you know how many times Rover goes running in there after Brick makes a giant pot of chili?”

Fremont said, “That might start to make reparations.”

The entire scene was cut short by someone squealing in the kitchen. I mean, in a high, ladies’ tone. Imagine Hobie Cleminshaw seeing a mouse. [Editor: Thanks a lot, Berkeley.] Only it wasn’t Hobie.

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” the—presumably man—shrieked. “What the fuck is in this cake box?”

Every one of us gasped, probably all for different reasons.

Twinkletoes was the first to speak. “Someone found your sister! I’ll go run interference.” And he zipped down the hall.

Royal and I started to follow, but Fremont clutched my shirt sleeve. “Sister? Cake box?”

Royal said, “You have to see it to believe it.”

Fremont footed it down the hall too.

Royal held me back. “Artsy Dodger,” he said with affection. “I guess we should do something about your sister.”

“Yes,” I agreed. We’d discussed some kind of burial ceremony, maybe down on the Rez with Fremont and Father Moloney’s people. Only, we obviously hadn’t asked them yet.

“Mongolian clusterfuck!” shrieked the woman, who I later found out was Kingsley Statesboro, a former cross-country truck driver. “A fucking dead baby in a freezer?”

I thought he had seen worse things in his time. I bit Royal’s lower lip. “Cumon. We’d better go face the music.”

Royal kissed my forehead. “Artsy Dodger. I’ll always have your back.”

And, even though we were in deep shit with the club that was our entire family, I felt blessed.