Free Dead Money by Grant McCrea Page A

privileged. Do you know what that means?
    Sure.
    His indifference was not reassuring.
    It means it’s not legally private, I said. The DA can ask either of us, or her, what was said.
    I said she can’t hear us, man.
    He didn’t say it unpleasantly. Just reciting the facts.
    All right, I said. I’ll take your word for it. Listen, I’d like to ask you a bit about your family.
    The hell my family’s got to do with it?
    To tell you the truth, I’m not sure your family has anything to do with it. I’m just going to ask you some questions. I don’t know if they’ll turn out to be relevant or not. But they might. Depending. So it’s important for me to ask you. It’s kind of my job.
    Whatever, he shrugged.
    All right. Let’s start with your father.
    My father? What about him?
    I didn’t respond. I wanted to see what he’d volunteer. It’s often a good technique. And not only for shrinks.
    He looked at me from his reclining position. I gazed back at him, in my most professionally passive manner. Suddenly, he sat up. His eyes widened.
    What? he said. You think
he
killed the prick?
    Do you think your father could do such a thing?
    He considered the question.
    Wouldn’t put it past him, he said evenly.
    Why? Did he even know the guy?
    He’d do it for fun. Or just to bug me. Or frame me for it.
    You mean that?
    Sure I mean it. Why wouldn’t I mean it?
    Sometimes people say things they don’t really mean.
    Not me, he shrugged.
    Well, all right. But do you mean to say that you actually have any reason to think your father might be involved in this?
    You’re the one who brought it up, he said defensively, giving me a Look.
    The Look said: You sure are stupid.
    What are you so angry at each other about? I asked.
    Ask him.
    I will, but I’d like to hear your side of the story too.
    He sat for a while in thought.
    It’s about my mom, really, he said at last, with a reflective air.
    Really?
    Yeah.
    How so?
    When he threw her out, he wanted me to hate her. Like he did. He was pissed when I didn’t.
    Wait a minute, I said. I’m not sure I understand. When I talked to your dad, he went all misty-eyed over your mother.
    Who?
    Your mom.
    He gave me a withering look.
    Shit, he said, you really don’t know dick, do you?
    Maybe not. But I’d like to learn.
    You talking about fucking Veronica?
    Ah, I said, starting to get the picture. She’s not your natural mother?
    No fucking way, lawyer guy. Nothing natural about that bitch.
    I think I’m beginning to understand.
    You don’t understand dick, he repeated, shaking his head.
    Well, I said, looking to regain some lost ground, I’m trying to get all the facts. Then I can start trying to understand a bit better.
    Shit, he said. Who the fuck doesn’t know that slut’s not my mother?
    Me, it seems.
    Thinking that maybe humility worked best with the kid.
    He seemed somewhat mollified.
    So who
is
your mom, Jules? I asked.
    My mom’s my mom, he replied, helpfully.
    What’s her name?
    Lily.
    Lily. I like that. Kind of old-fashioned.
    Right, he said, unimpressed.
    I decided to make him do some work for a change.
    Well? I asked.
    He thought for a while.
    When he threw her out, it was really bad, he said.
    How so?
    There was so much screaming, and stuff.
    Did he hit her?
    I don’t know. I was upstairs. But it sounded like something awful going on.
    And then?
    And then, after she was gone, he wanted me to hate her. He wanted me to hate her like he did. But I didn’t. Why would I want to hate her? She was my mom.
    Was?
    She’s dead. She died. He killed her.
    He killed her?
    Yeah, I mean, she had nothing to live for, right?
    I hear you. She fell apart.
    He turned away. He was trembling. Crying, it seemed. Though hewas doing his best to hide it. I went over to the kitchen area, looked in the fridge for a soda or something. There was nothing but beer. Shelf after shelf of beer. Foster’s. Heineken. Molson. Beck’s. You name it.
    Mind if I have a beer? I asked. You want one?
    Sure,