"A worm. A wiggly, squiggly, slimy, filthy little—oh, okay, I'm done now. For the moment. Because I'm not finished, not by a long shot. Tate's going to pay for thinking he can dump Mom and Dad after promising them they had that condo for life. That limo? He hired that for show. Maybe it took his last money, but he did it to impress his pals, make them think he's loaded and doesn't need the profit from the condo. God, I hope so. I hope he's down to his last penny. The bastard. I don't know how, but he's going to pay."
"He will cower in a corner beneath the force of your righteous wrath, tremble in his boots, yes. I look forward to the sight."
"You bet! And when I say pay, I mean with money. Real money."
"But if he's already embarrassed for funds ... ?"
"Then I'll pick his last pocket, for his last dime. Money, Alex. It's the one thing Tate loves. He used to keep his money shoved up in the bottom of the lamp in his bedroom. Pulled off the felt thingie on the bottom, and shoved his weekly allowance up into the base, put the felt back on, all nice and neat."
"Clever."
"As you'd say, too clever by half! Then he'd fib and say he didn't have any money, or he'd pull out a ten for a gumball and whine that he couldn't bear to break it, and Maureen or Erin or I would end up buying him his damn gumball. He did it all the time. But Mom? Mostly it was Mom who paid, let him off the hook, just warning him that he'd have to learn to be better with his money. But I knew better, because I'd see his smile when Mom turned her back, handed over the money for whatever it was Tate wanted. It took me a while, but I finally found his stash, and took it, hid it under his mattress, where I was sure Mom would find it when she changed his sheets."
"Pardon my interruption, but just how old were you when you formed this Machiavellian plan?"
"I don't know. Six? Seven? I was precocious, okay? He never even suspected it was me who'd done it. Although I'd love to tell him someday. Maybe soon, huh?"
"Amazing. And what happened?" Saint Just asked, intrigued.
"And she took the money. Put it in the bank for him—over one hundred bucks! Wouldn't let him touch it. God, was he mad!" She smiled at Tate. "It's one of my happiest childhood memories. Yeah, that's it—money. I have to call Bernie in the morning, pick her brain. She's sneaky enough, and knows enough about finances. She'll come up with something."
"Maggie and Bernie on a Tate hunt. I almost find it in my heart to pity the fellow. But not quite."
"Good, because I'd have to hurt you. Okay, now, who's left on the Kelly hit parade? Oh, right, Maureen. Boy, there's a mess, huh?"
"We have to speak to her again, I'm afraid."
"But not me, Sherlock. It wouldn't get us anywhere. I don't want to look at her, and I doubt she wants to look at me. Not until we both get used to the idea that I know she was bopping Mom's ex-lover. Oh, God, there goes my stomach, turning over again."
"Very well, I'll speak to her tomorrow, while you and Sterling are in the city to see your surgeon."
"Doctor, Alex. Don't say surgeon. If this stupid bone moved, I'll be in surgery on Tuesday. Think miraculous healing, think nifty walking cast. God knows I am. Are you sure you don't want to go back with me?"
"Someone has to remain close to your father, my dear. And, if I'm delicate enough—which I have no doubt I will be—and with his daughter gone for the day, he may just confide in me. We must know where he was from the time he says he left Bodkin in the parking lot of the bowling establishment and the time the police arrived to arrest him. Clearly Cynthia Spade-Whitaker isn't rushing to establish an ironclad alibi for the poor man, put an end to this nonsense. J.P. can't return from her vacation soon enough to please me."
"Agreed. You'll have to tell him that you know about Mom and Maureen and Bodkin. That won't be fun."
"I will have spent more pleasurable hours, I'm sure, yes, but I will persevere." He put his arm around her shoulders. "You're beginning to shiver. Let me carry you upstairs."
"Not yet. I want a cigarette," Maggie said, regarding nothing. "I'd kill for a cigarette, Alex. I've been good, I've been brave, but I don't think I can hold it together much longer, not without outside help. Give me the walker, will you? I'll bet that convenience store down on Ninth is open. I'll get dizzy, the first couple of drags, because I did before, that time I quit for a whole week last year, but I can fight through it."
"Maggie ..."
"Mag-gie," she repeated, dripping sarcasm. "I need the real thing, Alex. It helps me think. It has been medically proven that, only seven seconds after taking a hit, the brain sort of, sort of perks up. If we're going to get Dad out of this mess, I need to be able to think, and on all cylinders. Please?"
"You've been so strong, for so long," he pointed out to her, part of him feeling sympathy for her, the other part knowing that she'd broken her addiction and she would hate herself if she slipped back into it now.
"Yeah, big deal. I made the world happy, I quit smoking. And now New York is after my trans fats. What's next for them, Alex, hmm? What are they going to stand up on their sanctimonious pedestals and condemn next? Because they're not done, not now that they've tasted success. Give the do-gooders a hand, and they take the whole freaking arm."
"Maggie, you're digressing."
"No, I'm not. I'm speaking the truth, Alex. They won't be happy until the rest of the world is miserable, and all marching in lockstep for what they want, what they see as best for everyone else. I see regimented, mandatory exercise in our futures, Alex, no lie. And book burning. And an official national religion. They'll just take, and take, and take. We never should have let them get away with the No Smoking crap. That was the first mistake. They're heady with power now. You'll see, everyone will be sorry when their own personal ox gets gored. They came for my neighbor's Marlboros, and I said nothing. They came for my other neighbor's french fries in saturated fat, and I said nothing. And then they came for me ..."
"Maggie, now you're obsessing."
"Damn straight, I'm obsessing. I have a right to obsess, to go a little nuts. My mother and sister were banging the same guy, and my dad's going to be on trial for killing the bastard. My brother's a worm. Erin bailed out years ago and won't be any help. Maureen? Get real. She's less than worthless right now. It's on me, Alex. It's all on me. And I can't even have a crummy cigarette."
"You've got me. And Sterling. You know you've got us standing at your back. You're not alone in this, Maggie."
"I can help, too, you know."
Saint Just grabbed onto Maggie's shoulders as she visibly jumped, and they both looked up to see Henry Novack standing on the sidewalk, holding onto the street lamp.
"Well, I can. Nobody knows me here. I can scoot around, asking questions, keeping one ear to the ground. Maybe find out things you two can't. For a price, of course."
"I don't believe this," Maggie said, pulling the walker open and bracing herself against it as she stood. "What are you doing here, Novack? And where are your wheels?"
"Back at the van, around the corner. Gets heavy, lifting it in and out, you know."
Saint Just looked down the street, then at Novack. "You don't need the cart, Mr. Novack? You're not infirm?"
"Hey, watch it. Obesity is an infirmity. You're not blind, sport, you can see what I look like. I'm morbidly obese. Four hundred twenty-seven and a half pounds at my last weigh-in. They weigh me on a fucking meat scale, pardon my French. I got good reason to have that cart. Is it my fault my mother overfed me, pushed food on me twenty-four/seven, huh? Set me up for a miserable life like this?"