Queen of the Trailer Park (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 1)

by Alice Quinn

  Anyway, I decided I’d go with the best trailer they had. If Gaston couldn’t pay for it all, I could always come back the next day with my stacks of cash.

  So I ended up with the best the world of trailers had to offer. An Ambassador. The sales guy had that particular model at the factory with an extra bedroom. It had been ordered by a traveling circus. The client still hadn’t paid for the order, and so the sales guy was free to do what he wanted with it. So it was a new and improved Ambassador. Exactly what I needed. All mine.

  When it came to writing out the check, I thought we had run into a problem. Gaston hesitated. He took me to one side and said, “How are you going to tow it, Rosie, my dear?”

  “Well, they’ll bring it to my site, won’t they?”

  Just as I said that, a shiver went right through me, thinking about Michel’s dead body waiting for me back home.

  “That’s fine for now, sure. But what about later? What if you have to change sites? You need a car, my sweet.”

  “A car?”

  “Yes, a car.”

  “You mean wheels?”

  “Yes, if that’s what you want to call it. Wheels!”

  “Oh no, Gaston. Don’t start again. As soon as I say yes to one thing, you go ahead and add on something else. Buying me a ride just wouldn’t be worth it, I’m telling you.”

  “And why not, my darling?”

  “Because I don’t have a license, my darling.”

  He cracked up. “Oh! Is that all? Well, that’s something we can arrange right away.”

  “Oh really, my darling? And how’s that?”

  “Well, you take the test, Rose. Take the test!”

  He went over to the sales desk to sign the check. As we weren’t leasing, the sales guy was extremely suspicious of us and wanted to phone the bank.

  I glanced at my watch. It was getting close to lunchtime, and I had a meeting at Sélect. I wondered how I was going to manage to get rid of Gaston for a couple of hours without looking impolite.

  I realized that after what he’d just done—bought me a huge new home—that I couldn’t not have lunch with him. So that was that. That’s how you buy someone’s freedom. That’s where being nice gets you. You end up stuck. You think you’re doing a good deed. You think you’re doing someone a favor and boom. You’re not free to do what you want any longer. It creeps up on you. Nobody forced anyone to do anything here, did they? It’s just how it goes. Being polite. Returning a favor. Being grateful.

  The showroom guy told us that there were a few modifications left to make, but that the Ambassador would be ready on Monday.

  “What time would you like to pick it up?”

  It was then that Gaston showed how much business sense he had. Without paying an extra cent—well, at least I think not—he managed to arrange for the sales guy to not only drop off the new trailer next to the station, but to take away the old one to the scrapyard.

  Good work, Gaston.

  We drove back down to the city center. I asked him, my heart racing, if he wanted to come have lunch with me at Sélect.

  After all, that Ismène Jourdain could say whatever it was she had to say in front of Gaston. What difference would it make whether there were two of us there or just me?

  To my great relief, Gaston said he couldn’t make it. He had a meeting in Sweden.

  Well, well, well, this Gaston fella sure was something else.

  He’d be away for a few days, unfortunately. He was so sorry he had to leave me in the lurch like that. He’d call me on Sunday evening or Monday morning—as soon as he was back in town. And on that note, he dropped me off just in front of the coffeehouse.

  It was strange, but as soon as he left, I felt really alone. Orphaned. Abandoned. Defenseless.

  We soon get used to being looked after. I had to pull myself together, fast.

  I took a deep breath and opened the door to Sélect.

  26

  When I walked in, everyone was gawking at me, each person’s mouth in a huge, round O.

  “What’s up? Do you want my autograph?”

  I immediately got what it was all about. They’d seen me step out of the Jag. It’s not every day we see rides like that in this neighborhood.

  “Who’s that guy?” asked Tony, a hint of jealousy in his voice.

  I still wanted to be able to come down here and sing on Saturdays, so I stuck with my story. “No one. It’s my uncle.”

  “An uncle?” asked Mimi. “Or a sugar daddy?”

  “Right.”

  “If you’re here to work, I don’t need anyone right now,” barked Tony.

  “Oh, come on! Stop sulking. It’s not my fault if my uncle’s loaded. Anyway, I don’t need to work today.”

  That really bugged him. He turned his head away, disgusted, and I added, “But if you need me, just let me know. I’m always here for you.”

  He gawked at me. Mimi did too.

  “Hey, what’s happened to you?” Tony asked. “We’ve never seen you be so . . . so . . .” He couldn’t find the right words.

  I whispered, “Laid back? Kind? Generous? Big-hearted? Easy to please? Pleasant? Come on, spit it out.”

  “Huh . . . Yeah . . . That’s it . . .”

  “I’m not usually in this kind of mood, so you’re surprised, right?”

  “Right,” they said in unison.

  “Well don’t worry, there’s an explanation.” At their blank stares, I continued. “Money. Oh, yes. Coin is king. I always thought I had an awful personality. But nope, see, it’s just that I never had enough cash to get by. It made me aggressive. Now I’ve got something to butter my bread. Thanks to my uncle, I’m feeling a whole lot better. Weird, huh? People always say money isn’t everything. But they got it wrong. Don’t believe a word of it. It’s not as simple as all that. It might not buy you love, but it lifts your spirits, that’s what it does.”

  I briskly walked past the bar, past all their open-mouthed faces, and made my way to the back of the room.

  I spotted Ismène Jourdain sitting at a table with a croque-monsieur and a cup of coffee. Even sitting down, wearing her dowdy, masculine threads, she couldn’t hide her superb body. I was hot, in my own way, but this one . . . she won hands down. She had a regal presence, a relaxed but elegant allure about her.

  She sensed my arrival and turned to face me with a questioning expression, which canceled out her haughty look. Clearly this chick was a real charmer, but she liked to give the impression of being cold.

  Then she smiled at me, her whole face lighting up.

  I sat across from her. After some preliminary small talk—how has your day been going and so on—she dove straight into the subject at hand.

  She lowered her voice. “So. You were right. People have been talking. And it’s not all aboveboard. The city council actually voted against it, so they’re doing it on the QT.”

  “What? The casino?”

  “Shhh . . . Don’t say it out loud. We need to speak in code. You never know. Walls have ears. The cops are everywhere. Listen, let’s say kaa . . .”

  “Like Kaa, the snake from The Jungle Book?”

  “No! God! Just be quiet a second, I’m thinking . . . Let’s say cotton candy.”

  “Instead of casin—”

  “Shhuuushhh.”

  “Right, OK. Cotton candy. Got it. No probs.”

  “And for the other word, the one that starts with L, we’ll say . . . Hmm . . .”

  “Liberty?”

  “No, it’s too similar sounding. We need it to be like an analogy, but not too much. We don’t want to be getting all mixed up here.”

  She was inflating her role, but it was funny all the same.

  “Libya?” I suggested.

  “No, no . . . That won’t do . . .”

  It was starting t
o piss me off how she was rejecting all my suggestions. “Fine, then, you think of something. You got a better idea?”

  “Um . . . Leveler?”

  “Leveler? What’s the connection?”

  “Well, they’re leveling off the ground, aren’t they?”

  “You said something with a similar sound . . .”

  “No, I didn’t. Oh my God. We’re really wasting our time with this secret language stuff,” she said, exasperated, as if it was my fault.

  “Cool down, OK? It wasn’t me who wanted to speak in code.”

  She threw me a warning look. I lifted my head and spotted Mimi. She was nosily hovering nearby, trying to find out what I was up to.

  “Do you want something to drink, Cricri?” Mimi offered. “I’m buying.”

  “Sure. Yeah, I’d like a lemonade.”

  She was lingering, so I felt obliged to introduce her to my new pal.

  “Oh! Hey, Mimi, let me introduce you to—”

  “Chantal Clairette. Pleased to meet you. I work for social security.”

  “But on your card, it says . . .”

  She flashed a look at me and continued. “That must be where I’ve seen you before. Your face seems familiar.”

  Mimi looked taken aback. She went pale. Then bright red. “Umm, sure, maybe. I’m Émilie. Pleased to meet you.”

  She moved away from the table, looking shaken.

  I faced Ismène, confused by the sudden change of name. “Why didn’t you give her your real n—”

  “Are you completely out of your tree, or are you doing this on purpose?” she snapped.

  27

  I took offense but pretended like nothing had happened.

  “Licorice.”

  “What?”

  “Instead of library. Licorice!”

  “Shhhh! Right, fine. Let’s go with licorice. So, at the beginning, the C-H . . .”

  “The C-H?”

  “We’re not going to start all this again. Try to use your imagination a bit here. C-H.” She mouthed the words “ci-ty h-all,” then groaned. “Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. Teaming up with you is a recipe for disaster. Why in God’s name did I decide to talk? And why to you?”

  “Because it’s where I live. Because you like me. Because you’re shocked by what’s going on. Because you need someone with balls to fuck up their plans. You’re involved in all of this now. And you don’t want to lose your job.”

  She looked at me, the corners of her mouth revealing a grin.

  “I didn’t make a mistake coming to you,” she said.

  “It seems not.”

  She leaned forward. “So. It’s the Mamma. Kingpins. Moscow. The whole shebang.”

  She cupped her hand to her mouth and whispered, “I’m saying Mamma for M-A-F-I-A. You follow me, don’t you?”

  “Sure . . .” I murmured.

  OK, Mommy, I get it now. Thanks.

  That’s what it was. She had a broken heart, she left, she thought it was a game, but through it all: mamma mia!

  Well played, Mom.

  Ismène went on talking as if we were engaged in some trivial chitchat. “Mamma wants to move in down here. She wants to build a cotton-candy factory.” She gave me a wink. “The C-H . . .” Another wink. “They’re dead set against it.”

  Mimi showed up with a glass of tomato juice. I’d ordered lemonade, but we were only allowed to drink tomato juice. There was a big pile of the stuff in the basement and it wasn’t shifting.

  She was slow at putting it down on the table. I could tell she wanted to know what we were talking about, but Ismène-Chantal was just chatting about what great weather we’d been having. Finally, Mimi left. She couldn’t stay there forever, pretending she was cleaning the table next to us.

  We resumed our conversation. Ismène-Chantal was doing the talking and I was doing the listening.

  “The C-H, they voted against it because they’d already voted for the licorice project last year. They were pretty furious because nothing was being done about it. So, somewhere higher up the chain, you were blamed for it all.”

  “I was blamed?”

  “Yes. You’re on the land, and it wouldn’t be easy to ask you to leave because we’d have the press on our backs. You’re a sensitive case, you see.”

  “Sensitive? I’ve been called all sorts of things, but never sensitive.”

  “Your case is sensitive.”

  “That’s not the same thing?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right. Let me continue. The C-H didn’t buy it and they put someone in charge of sorting it all out—”

  “Who? Miss Jourdain, did they put you in charge?”

  “Call me Ismène. I think it’ll be easier.”

  I looked at her suspiciously. “I’m not used to calling older people by their first names,” I answered as delicately as possible.

  “Come on. Drop the formalities,” she said. “Just because I’m a lesbian doesn’t mean I want to jump your bones. You’re not my type anyway. I prefer the more intellectual type.”

  “Oh, really?” I replied stupidly. I couldn’t see the connection.

  “Right. Should we carry on? So they officially put me on the case. They wanted me to deal with you as delicately as I could. And in the upper realms, they turned a blind eye. They made out that they’d agreed to the cotton-candy factory. Well, that’s what I think anyway, after hearing what they did to your trailer.”

  “Because only the Mamma would dare do something like that.”

  “And if that’s what Mamma did, it’s because she wasn’t through with the project. And if she wasn’t through with the project, it’s because someone high up at the C-H must have given an unofficial OK. They’re playing a double game. But I don’t think it can last much longer. The arguments are convincing. They’re going to end up giving the cotton candy the official go-ahead as soon as they’ve managed to evict you. But what’s their price? That’s what I want to know. I’ve heard talk about some envelopes being passed around . . . The last mayor, Chabaut, was caught with his hand in the till. What a prick.”

  “I heard it was a setup.”

  “Yes, that’s right. He didn’t know anything about it, of course, but he was there when it came to collecting the wampum, all right. And what did we end up with? A brothel.”

  “So you think they’re going about it more carefully this time.”

  “Yeah . . . I don’t think d’Escobar wants to end up in the same place.”

  “But why draw so much attention to it by destroying my home?”

  “Oh, I don’t think the Mamma has even considered you in any of this. You’re just getting in the way of the works, so they’re using force to try and get you out of there. It’s their default mode. They’ve no idea how hard it’ll hit them if the press gets wind of it. You’re a sensitive case.”

  “But they haven’t got me out of there. I’ve bought another trailer. It’s being delivered on Monday. And I’m going to put it in the same place.”

  “Are you out of your mind? These people are capable of anything. You’re in danger.”

  “Stop being so negative. Don’t forget that I don’t live alone. I’ve got four kiddos with me. With them, I am invincible. I’m afraid of nothing.”

  28

  It was too late to take back what I’d said. I’d just totally put my foot in it by mentioning exactly how many children I had to someone who worked at city hall. She reacted quicker that I thought possible.

  “Four kids?” She almost choked on her coffee. “At your age? It only mentions two in your file.”

  “It’s a long story, but I’ve got four at the moment. Just between you and me, OK?”

  “In any case, I wouldn’t advise you to go back there.”

  “I have to. It’s such a great place. I’
ve got grapes growing on my trellis, the fig tree still has tons of fruit, and I’ll have cherries in May. I get lemons all year round. I’m hooked up to the fire hydrant for my water, and we use the station’s sewage pipes. It’s a nice place to live.”

  I deliberately didn’t mention the electricity I’d been getting. People never like to know about that. Even the well-intentioned ones. It’s not the type of thing you should go around boasting about. Least said, soonest mended. One of my most successful family sayings, which came to us straight from my grandmother Ruth, was “when in doubt, shut your cakehole.”

  “They’ll never get me out of there in a million years.”

  “If you say so.”

  “But there is one thing I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “This Mamma. She can’t just go ahead and build a cotton-candy factory right under everyone’s noses. People will go crazy. No one will accept it. Not just like that.”

  “Don’t bother. Everything runs on little envelopes.”

  Envelopes . . . I clamped down a groan.

  “They’ll vote in favor of it at the next C-H meeting,” Ismène continued. “There are people who specialize in this kind of thing. They get the ball rolling. One day it’s a no vote, the next day it’s a yes. It depends on what envelopes have been delivered where. They’ll vote. No to licorice. Yes to cotton candy.”

  “What do people with no money want with cotton candy?”

  “It’d be a great place for bankers and the like.”

  “Sure . . .”

  We both let out a heavy sigh. Neither of us spoke. We were lost in thought.

  Eventually, Ismène said, “The ball’s in your court. I’m officially blocked. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “But me . . . I can . . .”

  My brain was going at the speed of light. At times like this, you need your wits about you.

  I didn’t want to mention the envelopes. But you didn’t need a college degree to know that 2 + 2 = 150,000 euros. I’d pocketed the jackpot, and they weren’t too happy about it.