Page 22 of Mine

“There, see.”

She stood up, leaned forward, and kissed my cheek. “How’s Landry?”

“He’s fine,” I lied, realizing that I was more than tired and really not able to hold onto my good mood or my fake smile much longer. I loved her and I’d wanted to see her before she left, but I was beat. “I gotta go, though; he’s expecting me for dinner.”

“Of course, you go ahead and go.”

I smiled at her, my mother, Serena Bean. “You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re full of crap, but I love you.” She beamed at me. “Come around here and hug me proper and then get out.”

I did as she said, very careful not to let her put her arms anywhere but around my neck. All I needed was her bumping the gun. I would never hear the end of it, and the questions about the true nature of my business would be interminable. I was in no way prepared to get into that with her, and I didn’t want her getting on the plane tomorrow pissed off at me.

“When I get home, I want you and Landry to come for dinner. He wants to learn to make bouillabaisse, and I promised I’d teach him.”

“Okay,” I agreed. I smiled at her, squeezing her tight, unable to help myself.

“I love you,” she sighed, letting me go. “But these barrels in your ears are just—”

“Plugs, Mom,” I teased her. “Rico has barrels—they’re hollow—but I have plugs.”

She made a face. “Why you have to put those in your ears? You and your cousin? Why?”

“’Cause I like it,” I teased her. “Just like I like the huge-ass tattoo on my back and shoulders and arms that you hate.”

She had never wanted me to have the tattoo, but it had been for my father, to honor him and his belief in the afterlife, the wings around the cross to represent heaven, my testament on my flesh for him. It was enormous, covering my back, shoulders, biceps, and triceps, the lines tribal but intricate, done lovingly by my cousin Manuel, scrolling and delicate and thick and heavy, all of it flowing beautifully, seamlessly. It had taken a year for him to finish it all the way he wanted, his masterpiece. He appreciated me letting him take pictures of it to put in his book at his shop. When he had had to add onto it for Landry, finally putting color to my skin as well, he had been thrilled. I had never told him how necessary it was.

Outside on the street, I was surprised to see Conrad parked at the corner. When I reached the black SUV, the tinted black passenger-side window rolled down slowly.

“Why are you still here?”

“Because I want to drive you to Landry’s gallery, and then I won’t worry.”

I sighed heavily. “So can I go out? Can I go to a club, see a movie—I mean, seriously, how fucked am I?”

“You’re not. You don’t go near any casinos, any of your regulars, and if you see anyone out and they ask you anything, you say you ain’t working. But you do need to get out of town for maybe a week. Can Landry do that?”

I suddenly thought of his brother Chris. “Maybe. You wanna hear something funny?”

“Yeah, funny would be good. Get in the car.”

As he drove me to Landry’s gallery, Asil, I explained about Landry’s brother showing up out of the blue.

“That’s fucked up.”

And I agreed that it was.

“You’re doing it again.”

I was snapped from my explanation. “Doing what?”

He smiled at me. “Whenever you’re worried, you either rub the top of your head or over your heart with your right hand.”

“I knew about rubbing my head, but I rub my chest?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh, I wonder why.”