Page 45 of A Week Away

To Cass she said, “Baby, go get your mother a vodka on the rocks. Grey Goose.” Which explained the boys familiarity with the liquor cabinet. As soon as he was in the house, she crushed out her cigarette on the concrete patio, and asked, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Your son flew out to California and found me, threatened to blow up my life if I didn’t help him find whoever killed his father. I’m here under duress.”

“Huh. I guess he’s not the spineless little wimp I thought he was.”

“Yeah. Good parenting works,” I said dryly. “You’re making up this story about your husband getting beaten to death by accident, aren’t you?”

She took a good look at me, and said, “You’re a faggot aren’t you? I clocked you right away. You wanna know how?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t worry. You’re not the obvious sort. Most people wouldn’t suspect you. It’s just that men, real men, react to me in a particular way. You didn’t.”

Cass was back with his mother’s drink.

“I was just telling your mother how you and I met.”

The boy had the decency to blush.

“All we need is the name of the guy who accidentally killed your dad and then I can go home.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know it,” Joanne said.

“We could start with who told you?—”

“Wait a minute.” She looked at Cass and asked, “Who paid for you to fly to California? And who paid for you to fly back here?”

“I paid for the trip to Reno,” I said. “And the flight back here. But that’s not what’s most important.”

“Where are you staying? Is there a rental car out front? I didn’t see one.”

“He staying in the junk room,” Cass said. “And I’ve been driving him around,” Cass said.

“Well, you’re going to have to leave. You can’t stay here.”

“Mom—”

“Don’t Mom me. It’s my house. You don’t get to have overnight guests. Particularly middle-aged faggots.” She stood up and added, “I’m going to take a shower. When I come back he’s going to be gone.” Then she walked into the house.

It didn’t escape me that she’d avoided answering the question of who’d told her Dominick was ‘accidentally’ beaten to death. I could have tried again for an answer, but it was clear she didn’t have one.

Cass looked at me sheepishly, and said, “Sorry. I’ll go grab your stuff.”

There was no reason for me to be there anymore, so I didn’t see the point of worrying about a few pairs of underwear and some Tylenol.

“Why don’t you just drive me to the airport?”

“You’re not done! We don’t know who killed my dad.”

“Your mom said it was an accident.” Yeah, so I didn’t believe that, but I had to try to get out of there. “Why can’t you leave it at that?”

“It’s not okay to beat people to death by accident, is it?”

“No. It’s not. Am I supposed to sleep on the lawn?”

“There’s a Motel 6 out on 10 Mile Road. You can use my car.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys and gave them to me. Then he handed me a wad of paper. I took it and unfolded it.

Inside was a credit card in the name of Charles Henderson. A VISA.