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“So, tell me about the hotel,” she chirps. “Is it right in the center of the city? You know, scammers are making a killing out there. You stand to lose more money on the street than in any of the casinos.”
“It’s a little ways out of the city. Nothing special,” I reply, trying to keep things as vague as possible. I haven’t even booked a hotel yet. My luggage is in the back of the rental car.
“Just make sure you’re not too far away from anything. The heat out there will roast a girl as pale as you are. You won’t get far before blisters form on the back of your neck. Remember that time you went to the beach without sunscreen?”
“I brought sunscreen this time,” I assure her, which is just another lie. I figure I’ll just keep this going for as long as I can, so long as it keeps her happy. What’s one more lie when I’ve already lied about so much already?
“Okay, well, just make sure you’re checking in regularly. And I’ll want to hear about the interview. When is that?”
“In a couple of days,” I say, making things up on the spot as I realize it’s going to take me more time than I thought to break down what I’m doing with this bar. It won’t be as easy as selling it and flying back home with the money. I need to know more about my father, and I seriously doubt my mom is going to divulge that information in an honest way.
The only solution is to meet lies with lies.
“A couple of days? Why did they fly you out there so early?” my mom says, her voice pitching up into her usual characteristic whine. “I hope they’re paying for your hotel.”
“Yes, all expenses paid,” I say with a laugh. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Sounds fishy. Are you sure this isn’t some kind of scam?”
“A scam in which they pay hundreds of dollars for a flight to Nevada, a hotel, and all you can eat shrimp and lobster?” I ask, playing up the extravagance of it all. I’m starting to have fun with this, now that I’ve accepted that I’m a horrible person for weaving such a ridiculous story.
There’s a long silence on her end, not unusual for her when she doesn’t get her way. I’m sure she wants something to go wrong for me so that she can be proven right about my career choice.
And maybe sheisright, but I won’t let her know that.
“Okay, so I’ll let you know how it goes. I need to take a shower. It’s so hot here in Nevada,” I say, finally allowing a ray of truth to peak through the cloud of lies I’ve created.
“Okay, just be safe. You know, you’re always welcome to come back home if things don’t work out,” she says, sounding defeated. “And wear your sunscreen.”
“Got it. Thanks, mom,” I reply, hanging up the phone immediately and tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans.
I continue my sweep of Angus’s office, pulling open drawers and flipping through books until I find something that piques my interest. Some people keep their business records on their computer, but according to the book in the top drawer of his desk, my father kept his on paper.
Old-fashioned, just like my mom.
I lay the book down on the desk, pushing aside a few blue wrinkled bags that probably had ice in them before they melted and soaked into the carpet. It’s a big soggy in here, and the mold is gross, but I think if I ran a dehumidifier and replaced the carpet it would be fine again.
I sit down in the leather chair at the desk, feeling myself sink deep into the pocket Angus’s large body made from years of brooding over his finances. He was obviously a large man, and I think I remember him being tall. I have some faint recollections of being held very high up as a baby.
I settle in and begin flipping through the book, forgetting entirely about the sour smell in the room and becoming engrossed in the finances of Smoke, Steel, & Whiskey. The neatly written numbers in blue ink tell me that this place gets plenty of traffic through the week but is absolutely packed on the weekend. I’m shocked by how money it brings in.
I flip to the last page that has writing in it and trace my finger down to the last line of the page. It was written the day before my father died, probably the last time he wrote anything down before the accident. It was a Thursday night, and the total cash received was $738.09.
I have to read the number a few times before I’m really able to process it. If he made that much on a Thursday, how much was he pulling in on a Saturday night?
My finger moves up the page and finds the previous week’s earnings.
Saturday - $1,589.84.
My jaw drops as I do the math in my head. If my estimates are correct, Smoke, Steel, & Whiskey was doing close to $300,000 annually before it closed down!
Okay, well, how much of that is profit? The books don’t say much other than revenue, but I’m inclined to believe it had to be significant for Angus to own the building. He wasn’t renting it from someone. It was passed down fully to me, and now I own every glass, chair, and table inside.
I lean back in my chair, pulling my fingers through sweaty strands of hair and digging my nails into my scalp.
$300,000.
And how much does a psychologist make?
