The Curse of Tenth Grave

Her brows formed one continuous hard line. I fought the urge to cough and say “unibrow” from behind my fist. It was so juvenile. The real trick was to do that during a sneeze. Sneezes were harder to fake.

“I’ll think about it,” she said. She was lying.

“So, what do you think he’s doing?” I asked.

Uncle Bob looked at his watch. “Damn it.” He took out a five and put it on the table.

Cookie snatched it up and displayed it between her fingers, making it dance and do flips like she’d won the lottery.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You beat your record by five minutes,” he said.

“I told you.” Cookie squirmed with excitement in her chair.

“What the hell?” I asked, pretending to be offended.

“Last time you didn’t start asking about him, wondering what he was doing, begging for us to go borrow a cup of sugar to check on him, for a whole thirty-five minutes,” he explained.

“You broke your record,” Cookie said, tearing up. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Oh yeah, you guys are a riot. A laugh a minute.” I stabbed my relleno and shoved a huge piece into my mouth right before I said, “No, really, what do you think he’s doing?”

No matter how much I begged, neither of them would go across the hall—it was like ten feet—to check on my beloved. And I refused to sink to stalking, which I could very well have done incorporeally, but I felt like that would be cheating. Also, I was pretty sure he’d know if I were floating around the apartment, following him. Because that’s not creepy at all.

So, I got ready for bed and landed in the arms of Fabio.

He wasn’t nearly as cooperative as I remembered. Last time I slept with him, he curled around me, pushed his folds into my hips, let me ease a hand between his cushions. This time he was cold and hard, and there was a metal rod between the cushions I was trying to anchor myself to. I tossed this way and that, wishing I’d taken Ubie up on more hospitable accommodations. Not that I could’ve slept, anyway.

As I lay there contemplating the case and Emery Adams and the gods of Uzan and Beep and my cantankerous husband, I realized I’d forgotten to tell him I was being followed by three men in a minivan.

Oh, well. They were in a minivan. How dangerous could they be?

12

I love asking kids what they want to be when they grow up.

Mostly ’cause I’m still looking for ideas.

—MEME

I woke up to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling, but nature was calling. I wandered into the little girls’ room to answer it and brush my teeth. When I walked into the kitchen, Cookie was still in her robe, checking e-mail on her phone.

I smacked my lips and then headed for the Keurig. “I don’t know how this happened, but I think I just ate lotion.”

“My ex is such a douche.”

“How is it I’ve never met him?” I grabbed a coffee cup from the coffee cup cabinet. It was like a magic box full of devices specifically made to hold the blood of my enemy. Or coffee. They were equally capable of both.

“He said no.”

“How dare he,” I said, currently in the role of support personnel.

“I mean, I’m pretty hesitant myself, but he just flat out said no.”

“We could sue,” I offered, stepping into the role of legal advisor. I rested against the counter and took the biggest drink I could manage—of coffee, not the blood of my enemy—without requiring medical attention for third-degree burns in my piehole.

“It’s going to break Amber’s heart.”

I straightened and slipped into the role of BFF for life. “Oh, hell, no. Where’s your baseball bat? He has kneecaps, right?”

“It might come to that. It’s like he says no to things just to punish me. He uses his privilege of shared custody as a weapon against me, completely uninterested in what it does to Amber.”

I stepped over to her. “I’m sorry, hon. What’s going on?”

“I told him about NMSD and how Amber wants to go. He said no. Period. He will not allow her to be exposed.”

“Exposed?” I asked, completely offended, and I wasn’t even Deaf. “Exposed to what? A culture rich in history and traditions? A proud and powerful group of people who have to put up with more shit in one day than we have to all year? I mean, have you even tried to order a pizza through relay? Nightmare.”

“Exactly. She could learn so much.”

I put on my best mafioso and asked, “You want I should talk to him?”

She laughed softly. “No. I’ll do it. I can do it. Besides, the last time you helped, Fredo, there were dead fish showing up all over town, only these were gift wrapped and delivered by Pappadeaux. Cost us a fortune.”

“Hey, at least I got the message out. You do not want to mess with us. And we got some lovely thank-you cards in return.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Wait, why Fredo?”

“I’ll talk to him myself.”

“Isn’t he shot in the head on orders from his own brother?”

“I’ll probably have to cave on something else he wants. God only knows what that might be.”

“What?” I asked, suddenly very interested. “So he manipulates situations like this to get his way with other things?”

She looked up at me and blinked. “That’s what marriages are based on.”

“Okay, but didn’t you divorce him?”

“Not the point.”

“’Cause, if not, we should mention that to Uncle Bob.”

“Are you kidding me? I have plans for that boy. He will never be the same after I’m done with him.”

I laughed. “I don’t doubt that for a microsecond.”

“He left early, by the way.”

“Uncle Bob? Yeah, I heard him.”

“No. Mr. Farrow.”

“Ah yes. Mr. Smexy. The bane and bliss—mostly bliss—of my existence.”

“You know, you could do something crazy and talk to him. Open up a bit. Tell him about the you-know-who and the you-know-what.”

No idea what she was talking about. “I tried that. Last night. He is the stubbornest, most unwavering, bullheaded—”