Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Let’s have a conversation,” Gavino says, leaning forward to get in Mark’s face. “You know who Malcolm Strafford is.”
“He’s, ah, that famous real estate investor, right?” He doesn’t seem certain.
“I wouldn’t call him famous, no.” Gavino tilts his head. “How do you know him?”
“I must’ve read about him in the, uh, the papers.” He nods eagerly. “Probably there was a profile. That’s, uh, how I know his name.”
Gavino nods and grunts. I try not to break in and throttle the old man. He’s a pathetic creature and I’m torn between hating him and feeling sorry for him. Really, this isn’t about him in particular—anyone else could’ve taken that bribe—this is about Malcolm. I don’t know Mark, and I don’t know his reasons for accepting the cash. For all I know, they were good reasons.
I hate him anyway. This is the man that helped cause all my pain and suffering. This man, this pathetic man living in his little house with his cats. It’s a mess, almost a dump, but it’s comfortable at least and better than anything we lived in after Mom lost the condo.
Gavino clicks his tongue and leans forward. “You say you don’t really know him, and yet you looked terrified when I mentioned his name. No more bullshit, please. How do you really know Malcolm Strafford, Mark?”
Mark gathers himself and squints at me. “Who are you people? You’re not police, are you?” He’s doing his best to sound tough, but his voice trembles.
“No, we’re not police,” Gavino says, rapping his knuckles on the table. “We’re much worse than police. The cops are restrained by laws and morality, and neither of those things bother me all that much. Don’t look at her.” Gavino snaps his fingers at Mark, grabbing his attention. “Keep your eyes on me. I’m the one that’s going to start hurting you soon.”
Mark gags and pales and his knees start jostling. “This has to be some kind of mistake. I can’t help you. I’m sorry, I really can’t. Mr. Strafford was a very brief acquaintance, but it’s been years since I’ve spoken to him and I never plan on speaking to him again. Please, I can’t help.”
“I thought you didn’t know him,” Gavino says, feigning surprise. “How did a lowly little postal worker like yourself meet a man like Malcolm, huh?”
“Please,” Mark whispers, wiping his face, and I can’t take anymore. It’s this house, barely maintained and so lonely, and this man falling apart and sweating. I can’t stand to be here anymore. I come around and stand behind Gavino and glare at Mark.
“You knew my mother, you two worked together,” I say and he slowly looks at me with a dawning horrified expression. “You got her fired, didn’t you? Do you remember that?”
“You’re Cathy’s girl?” He barely whispers it.
I nod once. “She was my mother.”
“You must’ve been so young back then.”
“Five years old. I remember because that year, Mom lost her job and we got kicked out of our condo and ended up moving into a mobile home. She broke her ankle trying to carry a big TV down the steps and got hooked on oxycontin after that. She went downhill from there. I bet you can imagine the story, you’ve probably read about a dozen similar stories in the paper.”
Mark blinks at me rapidly. I didn’t tell Gavino those details, but he doesn’t look surprised. He keeps on glaring at Mark, the bad cop to my good, or at least the real threat of violence here.
“Cathy was a nice lady,” Mark says, looking down at his hands. “Real good lady. I’m sorry she got fired and all that happened to her. Is she doing okay now?”
“Dead,” I say. “Overdose.”
Gavino twitches. Mark groans and closes his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“What did Malcolm pay you to fire her?”
“I can’t.” Mark squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “I really can’t. He’ll kill me.”
“Malcolm’s not here,” Gavino says, “but I am.”
Mark groans once and opens his eyes. “Please, you don’t understand. I was younger then and stupid. I had gambling debts—”
“How much?” I press, starting to lose my temper.
“Thirty thousand,” Mark says and I release a strangled sound from deep in my throat.
Thirty thousand dollars. That’s how much my mother’s life cost. Thirty grand to get rid of her. Thirty grand to shove her into hell. If we hadn’t gotten kicked out of the condo, if she hadn’t broken her ankle and started on the pills, things would be different. My life wouldn’t be one long list of miseries.
Instead, this man got to clear his gambling debts, and here we are.
I step forward, leaning over Gavino’s shoulder to stare into Mark’s face. “You killed my mother, you son of a bitch.”
His face drains then and he shakes his head. “I only fired her. That’s all.”
“She lost her pension.”
“That decision was way over my head.”