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Myfather. What a joke. He wasn’t that in any meaningful way. Yet he liked to boast about it. The consolation prize for not making the NBA himself was being the father of someone who had. He’d made sure of that.
“Send him up.”
Minutes later there’s a knock on my door. I unlock the clench of my back teeth and answer with calm intent. “Malcolm.”
“Hello,son.” He drags out the taunt with a drawl, and removes his baseball cap marked Sheriff across the front.
At fifty-two, he’s still commanding with his large brawny frame. A few sprinkles of gray are threaded through his straight brown hair and faint spidery lines fan out the callous slate of his eyes.
Other than our comparable heights, there’s not much physical resemblance between us. I got my bronze complexion and black wavy hair from my Brazilian mother, who came from a mix of European and African ancestries. She was proud of her rich heritage, but he would tear her down by calling her a mongrel. Hatred heats my insides. I can’t stand that he’s here. Can’t stand that I have to spend one second in his presence.
Upon entering the penthouse, he sweeps the area with hard, piercing eyes, trained to scope out an unfamiliar situation. Then another slower study as if taking in the details of the soaring ceilings, the bamboo flooring, the vast expanse of space.
“Must be hard to hate me when you’ve got all this.”
“Not hard at all.”
“Humph.” He walks into the living room where the view of the city spreads out in front of him. The paper bag in his hand makes me leery. “How much did this place set you back?”
“What do you want, Malcolm?”
“What’s the rush?” He turns to me with a conniving grin.
“You’ve got five minutes.”
“Relax,son. Let’s have a drink.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Kept that up, did you?” He waltzes into the kitchen as if he owns the place, drops his cap on the counter, and brandishes a bottle of Irish whiskey from the paper bag. Then removing his jacket, he drapes it around the back of a stool—revealing his gun strapped into a waist holster—and starts pulling open my cupboards in search of glasses.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my inner rage.
He selects two tumblers, screws off the bottle cap, and generously fills each one. “A toast.” He hands me a glass.
The urge is there, but I breathe the liquor in and cross my arms over my chest.
Amused by my refusal, he smirks and lifts the tumbler into the air. “To new deals.”
“You want more money, is that it?”
“The money’s been okay.” He shrugs as if a two million-dollar house and the monthly installments that my lawyer funnels into his bank account are chump change. “Got me a new Cadillac. Not as fancy as your cars, but it’ll do. What a waste that you pissed all your opportunity away to help street trash. But you always were too sensitive. Too much of a pussy. That was your mother’s fault.”
“Don’t say another fucking word about her.”
He leans his face into mine. “Or what, son?”
“Try me and you’ll find out.”
“Still a protective son of bitch.” He laughs, but backs away and takes a seat on one of the stools.
I remain standing.
“Heard the Chase girl was back in Springvale.”
When I don’t react, he provokes some more. “Dropped you and the Torreses like a sack of rotten potatoes and here you are welcoming her back. Pitiful. The whole town’s talking about her return like she’s the second coming.”
“What do you care that she’s back?”
