Nenna puts her hand on his so swiftly that he jumps. ‘You need more ice.’
‘Not really. I should go.’
‘It’ll only take a minute, and I’ll get more cookies too . . .’
‘No thanks. Really,’ he says, too late. Rounding the island that separates the territories of Florida room and kitchen area, she strikes for the interior, rattling utensils, foiling any attempt to shout goodbye and go.
Dan is alone, surprised by an unexpected message from his body. Hi there. Nenna’s too old, but the presentation is very nicely done.
Stop that. There’s only one safe way to do this. Get the fuck out. He can’t, quite. He needs to go but now that the possibility is obvious, messages keep coming. Available. Coming on to you.
I have to get out of here.
As if she has powers and can hear him thinking, Steffy McCall slaps into the room on rubber flip-flops. Dead on target, she says, ‘You don’t have to stay just because Mommy says you do.’
24
Bobby
‘How drunk was I?’
‘You were pretty disgusting.’
‘The shit I was, I don’t remember that.’
‘Do you remember anything?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ That grin.
Bobby sighs. ‘Right.’
Trailing Al Chaplin’s old sweats, which Bobby threw on him after the shower, Brad surges up from the sofa like Jabba the Hutt, all phlegm and bad odor. ‘Where am I?’
Bobby grimaces. ‘My house.’
With Brad, there is always the possibility that he will rise up and pound the shit out of you. Instead he blinks, belching, ‘What am I doing at your house?’
‘Beats the crap out of me.’
Some lame idea Chape had, that smug, privileged bastard, gearing up to remove his glossy nuclear family from the fiasco at the Fort Jude Club. Efficient, too. Chape couldn’t herd his nuclear support group into his Escalade and return them to the safety of their showy house with its gold bathroom fixtures and terrazzo floors until he processed certain particles. Hugging busty little Sallie like a kid with his squeeze at the senior houseparties, he turned and handed Brad off to Bobby with the condescending smile of a man who was born knowing how life works.
‘Best you take him. You people are supposed to be good at interventions.’
‘There’s a difference between intervention and garbage disposal,’ Bobby said, too late.
‘Carter will help you shovel him into the car,’ Chape said, propping Brad up against a surly teenager who looked too much like Chape.
‘But my car is . . .’
‘No problem. I had Marco bring your car in from the shack.’
Astounding, the man’s level of organization. He dumped Brad and that was that. Smart kid, Chape’s son came armed with one of the club shower curtains, ripped off a rod in the locker room, to keep the damage contained, and there was damage. It will be days before Bobby gets the smell out of the car.
Thank God his siblings left last night to go birdwatching in Homosassa Springs. With her life in tatters, Maggie loves to study anything smaller than she is, solemnly checking off creatures sighted against her guide book. It gives her the illusion that she’s getting a grip, which she isn’t. And Al? Al has nothing better to do. There’s a bar he likes in Homosassa, so he indulges her.
When he made it to his feet after several tries, Brad went padding out through the dining room without breaking anything, although it was close. If the gods are kind, Bobby will get shut of him and expunge all traces before they get back tonight.
The fat fuck is in the kitchen now, sticking his head under the faucet, Bobby knows the sound well enough. Then he hears the fridge door slam. He’s out there drinking Bobby’s seltzer straight from the bottle or orange juice out of the carton, smearing the opening with disgusting Brad-drool. Worse. Brad’s always been a backwash kind of guy, you didn’t want to drink after him, so he’ll have to throw everything out. Bobby waits a minute because he doesn’t really want to see it going down. He goes into the kitchen reluctantly. Brad doesn’t see him at first.
Then he does, with a resentful, ‘Oh, it’s you.’
Bobby shrugs. ‘My house.’ He shouldn’t have to explain these things.
‘And I’m here . . . why?’
‘Chape sent you.’
‘It figures. Fucking Chape.’
‘Chape is overorganized.’
‘That’s one way of putting it. And you brought me here after . . .’
Brad Kalen, thinking, is alarming, but Bobby isn’t about to help him out.
He stands there scratching his armpits like a monkey. Oook. Oook. After a long time he asks,