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He rolls his eyes. “Because the two of you were so friendly.”
“I guess she mistook me for someone else.” I sound so much like Philip that it scares me. I can hear the menace in my tone.
“Who?” Sam asks, not flinching.
I force my voice back to normal. “Uh, the person who killed him.”
“Cassel.” He groans, shaking his head. “No, don’t worry, I’m not going to ask why she would think that. I don’t want to know. Just tell me your plan.”
I sit down on my bed, relieved. I’m not sure I can endure another of my confessions, despite the fact that I have so much yet to confess.
* * *
I used to stake out joints for robberies with my dad sometimes, back when I was a kid. See what people’s patterns were. When they left for work. When they returned. If they ate at the same place each night. If they went to bed at the same time. The more tight a schedule, the more tidy a robbery.
What I remember most, though, are the long stretches of sitting in the car with the radio on. The air would get stuffy, but I wasn’t allowed to roll down the windows far enough to get a good breeze. The soda would get stale, and eventually I’d have to piss into a bottle because I wasn’t supposed to get out of the car. There were only two good things about stakeouts. The first thing was that Dad let me pick out anything at the gas station mart that I wanted snack-wise. The second was that Dad taught me how to play cards. Poker. Three-card monte. Slap. Crazy eights.
Sam’s pretty good at games. We spend Friday night watching Bethenny’s apartment building and gambling for cheese curls. We learn that the doorman takes a couple of smoking breaks when no one’s around. He’s a beefy dude who tells off a homeless guy harassing residents for change out front. Bethenny takes her dogs for a run in the evening and walks them twice more before she goes out for the night. At dawn the doormen change shifts. The guy who comes in is skinny. He eats two doughnuts and reads the newspaper before residents start coming downstairs. It’s late Saturday morning by then, and Bethenny’s still not back, so we bag it and go home.
* * *
I drop Sam off at his place around eleven and crash for a few hours at the garbage house. I wake up when the cordless phone rings next to my head. I’d forgotten that I brought it into the room days ago. It’s tangled in the sheets.
“Yeah?” I grunt.
“May I speak with Cassel Sharpe?” my mother asks in her chirpiest voice.
“Mom, it’s me.”
“Oh, sweetheart, your voice sounded so funny.” She seems happier than I’ve heard her in a long time. I shove myself into a sitting position.
“I was sleeping. Is everything okay?” My automatic fear is that she’s in trouble. That the Feds have gotten tired of waiting and have picked her up. “Where are you?”
“Everything’s perfect. I missed you, baby.” She laughs. “I’ve just been swept up in so many new things. I met so many nice people.”
“Oh.” I cradle the phone against my shoulder. I should probably feel bad that I suspected her of murder. Instead I feel guilty for not feeling guilty. “Have you seen Barron recently?” I ask. I hope not. I hope she has no idea he’s blackmailing me.
I hear the familiar hiss of a cigarette being lit. She inhales. “Not in a week or two. He said he had a big job coming up. But I want to talk about you. Come see me and meet the governor. There’s a brunch on Sunday that I think you’d just love. You should see the rocks some of the women wear, plus the silverware’s reeeal.” She draws the last part out long, like she’s tempting a dog to a bone.
“Governor Patton? No, thanks. I’d rather eat glass than eat with him.” I carry the phone downstairs and pour out the old coffee in the pot. I dump in new water and fresh grounds. The clock says its three in the afternoon. I have to get moving.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” says Mom.
“How can you sit there while he goes on and on about Proposition 2? Okay, fine. He’s a really tempting mark. I’d love to see him get conned, but it’s not worth it. Mom, things could get really bad. One mistake and—”
“Your mother doesn’t make mistakes.” I hear her blow out the smoke. “Baby, I know what I’m doing.”
The coffee is dripping, steam rising from the pot. I sit down at the kitchen table. I try not to think about her the way she was when I was a kid, sitting right where I am now, laughing at something Philip said or ruffling my hair. I can almost see my dad, sitting at the table, showing Barron how to flip a quarter over his knuckles while she makes breakfast. I can smell my dad’s cigarillos and the blackening bacon. The back of my eyes hurt.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” I say. You might think I’m crazy, telling her that. But she’s still my mother.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” The concern in her voice is real enough to break my heart.
I can’t tell her. I really can’t. Not about Barron or the Feds or how I thought she was a murderer. Certainly not about Lila. “School,” I say, resting my head in my hands. “I guess I’m getting a little overwhelmed.”
“Baby,” she says in a harsh whisper, “in this world, lots of people will try to grind you down. They need you to be small so they can be big. You let them think whatever they want, but you make sure you get yours. You get yours.”
I hear a man’s voice in the background. I wonder if she’s talking about me at all. “Is someone there?”
