by A.W. Hartoin
Aaron booked a couple of rooms for us at the motel that Gavin used. It wasn’t far off the highway in a commercial district. We checked in, and I called my cell provider for another number change. A scant two minutes after I hung up, Aaron banged on my door.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
I’m going to Fike you, bub.
“No plan. I’m going to wing it.”
Emphasis on “I”.
“Wings sound good,” he said.
“You can’t be hungry.”
“Or ribs. Wings or ribs, what’ll it be?”
“All you did for the last eight hours was eat. You are not hungry,” I said.
“I have to check out the competition.” Aaron plopped down on one of my beds and began flipping channels. It was late. All I wanted was a boiling hot shower and a bed in a room absent of Aaron.
“Are you completely gone? We’re in Lincoln. They’re not your competition. What do you think, a couple guys are going to say, ‘Hey, you want to go to the rib joint on the corner or drive seven hours to St. Louis for Kronos?’”
“Got to keep current,” said Aaron.
“Current on what? Rib joints in Lincoln?”
“So it’s definitely ribs. You ready?”
I threw up my hands. “Fine. Fine. Yes, I am ready. I am absolutely ready.” I grabbed my purse, avoided my reflection in the mirror over the desk and stomped out to the car. Aaron followed me, thumbing through a restaurant guide and giving me choices that I didn’t give a shit about. With minimal help, he picked a rib place with a chuck wagon theme. He forced me to admit the food was superior and, instead of shower and sleep, I came up with a plan as my cell phone rang. The caller moaned and hung up. My second new number was out in record time. I had to figure out how to block everyone but friends and family. Uncle Morty didn’t fit neatly into any category, but I called him anyway.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said in my best most cheerful voice.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“You weren’t asleep.”
“I could’ve been,” Uncle Morty said.
“No, you couldn’t. You’re like a bat or a wolverine.” It was true. Morty’s sleeping habits were the subject of speculation, because he rarely slept and, if he did, it was during the day. When I was a kid, I convinced myself, and most of my school, that Morty was a vampire. That was before I read Anne Rice and realized that vampires are supposed to be sexy.
“What do you want and who’s paying?” he asked.
“Did you find out who’s following me?”
“Bernard Rey, known as Nardo. Has-been paparazzi,” Morty said.
“How can paparazzi be has-beens?” I asked.
“He used to get the big shots of Jennifer Aniston sunbathing topless. That kind of shit. Now he can’t. You’re his comeback.”
“How do I get rid of him?”
“You don’t.”
A headache bloomed in the back of my skull. “That’s bullshit. He can’t stalk me and take pictures of me all the time.”
Morty snorted. “Sure can. You signed that release, like a freaking moron, and now you’re a personality like an actress or something.”
“Aw, crap.”
Morty laughed a booming, throaty guffaw.
“Wait,” I said. “If I’m boring he’ll go away, won’t he? I mean there’ll be nothing to take pictures of.”
“You be boring? That’ll happen,” said Morty. “What else you got?”
“It’s about The Girls.”
“I don’t give a shit. Who’s paying?”
“Me or Dad. Somebody’ll pay, alright?”
“I’m listening.”
“I want you to look at The Girls’ financials,” I said.
“Why? Hoping the old bags bought you a tiara for your birthday?”
“No, smartass. I’m just worried. They’re acting kind of weird.”
“News flash, they’re rich old bags. That’s what they do,” he said.
“They won’t let me or Mrs. Haase in. The lights are all off. The gardens are a wreck and nobody’s seen Lester for weeks.”
“Maybe they killed him. I’m telling you it’s Arsenic and Old Lace over there. Those women weird me out.”
“So does Aunt Miriam. Do you think she’s been out killing, too?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her. Would you?”
“Well, that’s more likely than The Girls killing Lester,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take a look. You in Lincoln?”
“Yes.” Was there anyone who didn’t know where I was?
“What’d you find out?” Uncle Morty asked.
“Not a thing. We’re still eating,” I said.
“Wings or ribs?”
I cut short a discussion on the merits of Lincoln’s restaurants and paid the bill. Aaron wanted to go for ice cream, but I was bloated and we called it a night.