Anyway, Helen was as “sick” as a “dog.” I offered to ring in sick for her, but she went mad and said that when you work for a crime lord, you can’t ring in sick. She said I’d have to “cover” for her. Oh, when she’s stuck, she comes to me all right. I had her “over” a “barrel,” and I said I’d surveil Detta Big if she promised to take photos of the old woman and her dog when she was better. Mind you, she is not above going back on her word, that one.
I had thought Detta Big would be a brassy “moll” and her house would be a “kip.” But her home was very tasteful and her clothes cost a fortune, you could tell just by looking at them. I don’t like admitting it, but the “green-eyed monster” was at me. Then I took the photographs of Racey O’Grady with the wrong side of the phone camera and Helen went mad again, saying that Mr. Big would crucify her and that she’d have to “skip” the country. Then she calmed down and said that eff it (and she didn’t say “eff,” she said the full word), she’d take her medicine. Her father said she was very brave and he was proud of her. I said I thought she should be locked up in the mental hospital, that crucifixion is no joke, our Lord himself dreaded it, and I rang Claire to see if she could provide a “safe house” in London. But Claire said no, that Helen would keep trying to “get off” with Adam.
Anyway, Helen went to see Mr. Big and he didn’t crucify her and I suppose all is well that ends well. But between that fiasco and the old woman and the Knock holy water, I am not myself. Even though I made a hames of the photos, Helen gave me some “blood money” and I am trying some “retail therapy” to see if I could get a bit of a lift.
Your loving mother,
Mum
P.S. Any more on Joey and Jacqui? I would not have thought they’d make a likely couple, but the strangest people “hook up” together.
60
Mitch and I stood patiently in line while I eyed the girl on the gate taking the money. She was wearing a ballerina outfit, motorcycle boots, and pointy fifties-style glasses with diamante on the wings. I shuddered at her getup; it made me think of work.
Mitch and I seemed to be taking turns to suggest some kind of an outing every Sunday. This week was my go and I’d come up with something a little special: a quiz in Washington Square, my local park. It was for charity, to raise money for a ventilator or a wheelchair or something (I found it so hard to focus on specifics) for some poor guy whose insurance wouldn’t pay for any more.
Today’s session had been particularly low-key. Mitch hadn’t heard from Trish, I hadn’t heard from anyone, not even Granny Maguire, and Mackenzie hadn’t shown up at all. Maybe she’d decided to call it a day and gone out to the Hamptons where she belonged, to find that rich husband whom her great-uncle Frazer had recommended she get herself.
“Next!” Diamante Glasses Girl said.
Mitch and I stepped forward.
“Okay.” She slapped stickers on our fronts and handed me a form. “You’re team eighteen. Where are your partners?”
Our partners? Mitch and I turned to each other. What should we say?
“The other two?” she pressed. “The two who should be with you?”
“I…um—” I tilted my head at Mitch and he looked openmouthed at me.
The girl, confused by our reaction, said impatiently, “Four in a team. I’m only seeing two of you.”
“Oh. Oh! Christ! Right, of course! It’s just us two.”
“It’s still twenty dollars. It’s for charity.”
“Sure.” I gave her the note.
“You have a better chance of winning if there’s four of you.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Mitch said.
We picked our way through the happy, chatting groups of people sitting on the grass in the sunshine until we found a place to sit. Then I looked at Mitch. “I nearly said they were dead.”
“Me, too.”
“Could you imagine? ‘Where are your partners?’ ‘They’re dead!’”
“They’re dead!” I repeated, and a great ball of mirth rolled up from my stomach. “‘Where are your partners?’ ‘They’re dead!’”
I laughed so much I had to lie down. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed until I heard some concerned stranger say, “Is she, like, okay?”
Then I tried very hard to get ahold of myself. “Mitch, I’m so sorry,” I said, finally righting myself and mopping tears of laughter off my temples. “I’m really sorry. I know it’s not a bit funny, it’s just…”
“It’s okay.” He patted my back and my face settled into its usual expression, but periodically I’d think, They’re dead, and my shoulders would start shaking again.
Mitch looked at his watch. “Should be starting soon.” Just like me, I noticed: he couldn’t handle any stretch of time that wasn’t structured and filled with stuff.
Right on cue, a man appeared, wearing a sparkly lounge suit and carrying a microphone and a sheet of what looked like questions; everyone perked up.
“Looks like we’re ready to get going,” Mitch said.
I was just about to say “good” when a yell was carried to me on the warm air. “Hey, it’s Anna!”
Jesus H. Christ! I looked around. It was Ornesto, with two other Jolly Boys whom I recognized from going up and down the stairs to his apartment, and nice Eugene who had moved my air conditioner.
Eugene, in a massive, unironed shirt, looked meaningfully at Mitch, and gave me a thumbs-up and several encouraging nods. Oh no! He thought Mitch and I…
Ornesto had clambered to his feet. He was on his way over. Aghast, I watched him. How stupid was I? I should have considered that I might know some of the people here. Not that there was anything to hide. There was nothing between Mitch and me, but people might not understand…
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sparkly Suit’s voice boomed through a microphone. “Are you ready to raaaaah-ck?” He twirled his microphone stand.
“Ornesto, come back,” the Jolly Boys called. “We’re starting. You can talk to her later.”
Go back, I thought. Go back.
Momentarily, he froze, suspended by invisible strings of indecision, then to my enormous relief, he returned to his pals.