I’d heard that too.
“I’d like for you to track them down,” Bradley said. “Explain to them that opening our IGT machines will cost them millions.”
“Bradley, I don’t think they care. They cleared more than a billion when they won the lottery.”
“It doesn’t matter if they cleared ten billion, I have a responsibility to make sure they know what they’re doing.”
The Smuckers most definitely did not know what they were doing when it came to money.
“I’ll talk to them, but I don’t think it will do any good. You know those people who won’t stop until they lose? The people who don’t think they deserve their money and are determined to get rid of it? The winner’s guilt people?”
“I do,” he said.
“Well, meet the Smuckers.”
“Will you try to talk some sense into them anyway?”
“I will.”
“I don’t know how you’ll find them,” he said. “I’m sure word is out and the casino is packed.”
I knew how to find them.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Davis.”
“I love you, Bradley.”
We talked through the lobby, up the VIP elevator, and through my door, where No Hair was waiting. No Hair and three men in power suits carrying briefcases. “Welcome home, Davis.” His face registered no emotion. Which was far past rage for No Hair. “How was Houston?”
The jig was up.
The secrets I’d been keeping were about to be revealed. My most fervent wish was that I not be arrested for embezzling GameCorp convenience fees in front of my daughters.
* * *
No Hair led me and the three suits into Bradley’s home office, then slammed the door. He took the desk seat. He put me in the corner.
(No, he didn’t.)
He introduced me to Robert Miller and Richard Martin of Garland Law Group, Atlanta, Georgia, and Neil Spenser, the firm’s private investigator. The men were there on behalf of Hiriddhi Al Abbasov. Not GameCorp. I tried to contain my relief. I doubt if I did, because I was dish-rag limp with it. It took me forever to find my voice. “How is His Excellency?”
One of the attorneys said, “He’s young, he’s strong, he’ll be okay.”
The other said, “He wants his dog.”
The private investigator said, “He wants to speak to Rod J. Sebastian. Where is he?”
“Just one of many subjects we’d like to discuss with you, Davis,” No Hair said. “Start at the beginning.”
I couldn’t do that. The beginning was Saturday morning, when Meredith didn’t show. I couldn’t talk about that, because talking about Meredith would mean talking about Greene Gully. And talking about Greene Gully would mean talking about GameCorp. Talking about GameCorp would mean handcuffs. On my hands.
The four men waited. Expectantly.
“Let’s hear it, Davis,” No Hair said.
What if I ripped a page from the Book of Vree? What if I started talking and didn’t stop? What if I threw so much so fast at the men in front of me, they couldn’t get a word in edgewise, much less ask leading, or compromising, or incriminating questions? If I controlled the entire conversation, I could avoid the subjects I didn’t want to discuss. With that in mind, I took a deep breath.
“Well.”
I reminded myself to keep my hands going the whole time.
Lots of inflection.
Lots of heart.
Tangents. Side roads. No detail too small.
Channeling my Vree, I gave them everything I had.
Soundbites from my lengthy confession, in no particular order, included, “And Candy Smucker isn’t a monster. She’s not a bad person. In fact, she’s a very good person. I believe the borderline obsessive Facebook business is about wanting to connect. She’d help anyone with anything. Her only problem is she’s been thrown into a life she couldn’t possibly have prepared for. And where society accepted her for exactly who and what she was before, it doesn’t now, which isn’t fair. Cleave and Candy lived in a world where problems were solved by bar fights. Everything escalated for them, including the size of the bars, and thus, the size of the fights. The only thing they’re guilty of is not adjusting to society’s demands and expectations fast enough. And packing sledgehammers. Packing a sledgehammer was a bad idea, I’ll give you that.”
And, “I did not put the fake housekeepers in the trunk of that car. I absolutely did not. I didn’t use a tranquilizer gun on them, I didn’t zip tie their hands, I didn’t duct tape their mouths, and I didn’t see it happen so I can’t say who did. And while I’m sorry that man’s nose is infected, it’s his own fault. In my opinion, when you sign a waiver agreeing to having your nose pierced, you’re asking for an infection. The nose pierce people should pass out antibiotics at the nose pierce store. We need better surveillance in the parking garage.”
And, “The hardest thing about Harley has been how much space he takes up. If it weren’t for how big he is and how much he eats, I wouldn’t have known he was here. Not that I don’t have a big home, I do. Really big in terms of vacuuming, but with two dogs in it, and one of those dogs being Princess, it got small fast. Please, don’t get me started on Princess. That dog lives on a steady diet of manicotti. I’ll never eat manicotti again. I don’t even want to hear the word manicotti again, much less eat it. And I don’t know what to do about the garlic smell. I feel like it’s in my fabrics, you know? Like it’s permeated my window treatments, fabrics, and upholstery. I can’t see replacing everything. I’m thinking I’ll have to wait it out. I have no idea how long it takes to wait out garlic.”
And, “I’ve never believed in witches. I’ve heard it all my life, you can’t grow up in Pine Apple and not hear, ‘Bootsy Howard is a witch! She will make your innards twitch!’ I ignored it. Not completely, but I always thought she was just mean, as opposed to otherworldly. As it turns out, she’s neither. She wants what everyone else wants. Someone to love who loves her back. That’s it. It is spooky, how much happens when Bootsy’s around, I’ll give you that, but even Fantasy’s lips weren’t Bootsy. Fantasy accidentally used her husband’s prescription toothpaste, and Fantasy’s allergic to everything under the sun, although it turns out she’s not allergic to dogs, and have you even heard of prescription toothpaste?”
And, “I had to be cut out of Bianca’s dress. Vree cut it off me, not that I’m blaming Vree. I asked her to cut it off me. Vree is my sister Meredith’s best friend. And the poor thing has been trying to get pregnant since she was twenty-seven years old. I couldn’t have made it through this week without Vree. For one thing, I’d still be wearing the rubber dress. At the time, I had no idea Bianca paid twelve thousand dollars for it. I’d have never let Vree at it with scissors had I known. If she hadn’t, though, I’d be waiting for it to melt off. I barely got it on; I would have never gotten it off. It took fifteen minutes to even find scissors, because my house is completely baby proofed. You know how you hide things from the children, then it’s the adults who can’t find them?”
And, “I should have known he was an imposter. I can’t believe I didn’t know. In my defense, there are no pictures of His Excellency on the internet, so it’s not like I knew what he was supposed to look like. I’ll tell you how Rod J. fooled me: Harley. Harley was so glad to see him. I’ve never had a dog. My grandmother was bitten by a dog when she was a little girl, and I didn’t grow up in a dog family. I’ve never really been around dogs. I have a cat, Anderson Cooper, but she moved in with my parents. She sleeps on my father’s head. Cats, I know. Dogs? Not so much. Not that I have a thing against dogs, I don’t. I’ve always been under the impression that dogs adored their owners. Well, Harley adored his imposter owner. What I didn’t know then that I know now is Harley adores everyone. Harley wouldn’t know the difference in a serial killer and a flower-delivery girl. He’d greet them both like th
ey were his very best friend. I could bring him in here right now, and having never met any of you, he’d still try to lick you to death. He doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. If he did, he’d have ripped Rod J. the secretary to pieces. My best guess is we’ll never see Rod J. again. He’s long gone. I know if it were me, I would be too. I’d hightail it out of town before my boss, who I left bobbing in a swimming pool for three days, caught up with me. I’d have as much space between myself and the waterlogged sheik as geographically possible.”
And, “I’ve thought all along it was a head cold. In five years, my husband hasn’t been sick a single day. Not one. Not the flu, or strep, not anything. I mean, honestly, he’s as healthy as a horse. The sneezing alone was a shock. A big part of me feels guilty for not rushing to his bedside with chicken soup from Chops, which is just another example of how bad this week has been. Any other time, I’d have been spoon feeding him the soup and dabbing his chin with a napkin. All I’ve done all week is say, ‘Oh, everything’s okay, Bradley. Stay where you are, Bradley. Get better, Bradley. Don’t drink hot Jack Daniels, Bradley.’ When I slowed down enough to even think about my husband, it was along the lines of I hoped I could make it through this week married, not I hoped he lived through the week. I feel so guilty, but kept telling myself it was just a cold. The common cold! No big deal! He’ll be fine!”
And, “If Urleen tells you your left arm is broken, rest assured it’s your right ankle that’s sprained. He is Chief of Staff at Idiot Hospital. President of the Crazy Doctor Club. Head Quack of Quackville General. Calling Dr. Ridiculous! Calling Dr. Ridiculous! I didn’t believe him for one minute when he said Doris Harrington died of a broken heart, then the ME ruled the cause of death heart failure. The poor woman, who had nothing to do with anything, actually did die of a broken heart. You know what I think? I think the brothers double crossed the cousin. They have that collar. They marched into my house with their lawn mower and took Princess’s collar, then hid it somewhere. I believe they lied to their cousin Rod J. and told him they couldn’t find it. Not wanting his criminal vacation to be a total bust, he said, ‘Plan B, we dognap Harley. Take the old woman with you. I’ll dispose of Sheiky and offer a million-dollar reward with his money, you two show up with the old woman and the dog, then we’ll split the reward.’ And that poor woman died of a broken heart. Not that I’m giving Urleen any credit. I’m not. Now, his nurse, Jenna Ray—”
“STOP.”
No Hair’s boom echoed off the walls.
I scanned the faces of my numb audience. One attorney’s head jerked in a nervous tic way, and the other’s head was tilted with an open palm to his ear, pressing it, like he had water trapped in there. The private investigator was mumbling under his breath. It sounded like, “Tata tata tata.”
Thirty empty seconds passed.
No Hair said, “Would you like a glass of water?”
I nodded.
“Would you mind if one of these gentlemen spoke?”
I shook my head.
They declined. Six hands waved off any additional communication. Those men wanted out. They stood. They picked up their briefcases. They took two steps in my direction and sat the briefcases down in front of me.
“What’s this?”
“Your reward, Mrs. Cole,” one of the suits said.
“I don’t want it.” I opened my mouth to explain I didn’t want reward money for finding Harley, because I wasn’t even looking for him. And I certainly didn’t want reward money for finding Doris Harrington, because for sure, I didn’t find her in time. May she rest in peace.
The suit didn’t give me the chance. “The reward is for saving His Excellency’s life. To not accept it would be a great insult.”
Well.
In that case.
I could sure use a million dollars.
I walked them to the elevator with Harley in tow. The guards stepped aside.
I said, “Harley. Blow me a kiss.”
Harley blew me a kiss.
“Good dog.”
* * *
“Vree! Get in here! I’m going to show you what a million dollars looks like!”
Bex and Quinn led the pack. “Penny, penny, penny!”
So many pennies.
Meredith stood over the money and asked, “Do I want to know?”
Fantasy arrived while I’d been behind closed doors going on. And on. And on. She said, “No, Meredith. You don’t want to know.”
“Take a good hard look at it, Vree,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m getting ready to stuff it in an ATM.”
TWENTY-FOUR
It was nine o’clock Thursday night. Bex and Quinn had been in bed for an hour, Bubblegum was stretched out on my sofa like it was her sofa watching Princess in her upside-down playpen, who was busy with Madeleine Albright. Fantasy, Vree, and Meredith were around the kitchen table, and my sister was telling Vree that she had no interest in the Smucker IGT party in the casino. I was at my desk, doing cyber chores and eavesdropping.
“You don’t want to see them?” Vree asked. “I mean, Meredith, when will you ever have the chance to be in the same room with billionaires again? I guess, though, you’re in the same room with a millionaire now—”
“Not for long, Vree,” I yelled through my office door. “And Meredith had her blood sucked out this morning. If she doesn’t want to go, she doesn’t want to go. Let her rest.”
“You go, Vree. I’ll stay,” Meredith said. “Someone needs to stay with Bexley and Quinn anyway, not to mention these dogs. Pass me a bottle of wine and the remote control. You kids have fun.”
I shut down the computer and turned off the office light, having stopped the flow of GameCorp’s convenience fees to Greene Gully’s MD Anderson patient account at one million and eleven dollars, then deleted the deposit account, so if auditors ever showed up at the hospital there’d be no money trail to follow. I sat down beside my sister at the kitchen table. “We’re not going to have fun tonight anyway, Meredith. You’re not missing a thing.”
“Can’t we take care of the ATM business later?” Fantasy asked. “I get that you want to pay the money back, so you won’t feel like a big fat thief, but does it have to be tonight? Let’s do it tomorrow. Or next year. I’m on call until midnight. Twiddling my thumbs. I’d like to twiddle them at the Smucker Show.”
“Where am I going to hide a million dollars for a year, Fantasy? Tomorrow won’t work because Bradley will be home tomorrow morning. I have to do the ATM thing tonight. If for no other reason, I’d like to get a good night’s sleep without this hanging over my head.”
“Okay,” Fantasy said. “We’ll throw the money in an ATM, then go see the Smucker Show.”
“We can’t just throw the money in,” I said.
“Why not?”
“I hacked four hundred ATMs.”
“Bragger,” my sister said.
“Okay,” Fantasy said. “So?”
“We need to put the million dollars into a hacked ATM. We can’t just toss it in the first ATM we see.”
“Why not?” Vree asked.
Fantasy said, “Because Davis says so, Vree.” Then to me, “Why not?”
“So Rod J. Sebastian pays for what he’s done,” I said. “We don’t really have anything on him. Even if we knew where he was, which we don’t, the only thing he did to us was impersonate an oil sheik. Doris Harrington died of natural causes. He won’t be charged, even though she died during the commission of a crime he masterminded, because the medical examiner’s report showed she had a long history of heart disease. Even a bad lawyer could get it dismissed. He won’t pay for what he did to Bootsy either, because he wasn’t the one who hit her over the head and left her in a truck bed for three days. He’ll throw his cousins under the truck and walk away from those charges too, because the cousins act
ually were the ones who hit Bootsy over the head and left her in a truck bed for three days. And while he’s at it, chances are he’ll blame embezzling from the blind people and the dog fighting on the cousins too, then pay his back child support and disappear. Linking Rod J. Sebastian to the ambushed convenience fees is the only path to justice. GameCorp will ask why there’s an extra million dollars sitting in one of their ATMs. They’ll run diagnostics on the machine, and if they don’t find the glitch, he’ll never be caught. If we put the money into an ATM I hacked, GameCorp will run the same diagnostics, find the glitch, and it will lead straight to Rod J. Sebastian. GameCorp has the resources to track him down. And when they do, they’ll throw the book at him for breaching their system.”
Confusion played all over Vree’s face. She started and stopped several times.
“What, Vree?” I asked. “What?”
“Wouldn’t that be him paying for what you did, Davis? I mean, aren’t you the one who breached their system?”
An immediate hush fell over the kitchen.
From the living room, we heard Madeline Albright say, “I think ‘guilt’ is every woman’s middle name.”
* * *
“No, Fantasy.” She grabbed my arm as I rose from the table. I shook her off. “I need a minute.” I wandered out the kitchen door to the terrace, where my guilty conscience and I were met by a starless night and a cool ocean breeze.
Meredith spoke softly, but I still heard her through the open door. “Vree, Davis bent the rules. She does that when she has to. If she hadn’t, Greene would be dead. And she’s trying to make it right. Clearly, this man Rod broke the rules. She’s trying to make that right too.”
True, I said to my criminal self.
“Everything Davis did was to help someone else, Vree,” Fantasy said. “Everything he did was to help himself.”
True again.
Which didn’t make what Vree said untrue. No two ways about it, I’d stolen a million dollars from GameCorp and was willing to let Rod J. go down for my crime so he wouldn’t get away with his own.
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