“I said, ‘who’s out there!’” she demanded, pointing the gun about a foot to my left.
“Gah!” I said. I put my foot down where I expected a branch but found nothing but air. “Shit!”
I fel about a foot down the tree until I managed to grab hold with my right hand.
“Is there someone in that tree?” Dottie demanded.
No, I thought, it’s a squirrel that says “shit.”
“If you’re that Ferrara kid, I’m cal ing your parents right now,” Dottie yel ed. “I don’t care how late it is.”
She had that right-the Ferrara kids were brats.
I got halfway down the tree when the branch I was standing on cracked off.
“Shit!” I said again, as I fel, this time al the way to the ground. I landed on my ass, cracking the cheap camera my mother gave me and sending shards of plastic into my butt. “Ow!”
My impact or the noise must have set off an alarm, because al of a sudden the lights in Dottie’s yard came on and a loud siren blared.
“Murderer!” Dottie screamed. “Rapist! Someone cal the police!”
Lights in al the neighboring houses switched on, including ours, which pretty much ruled out the possibility that my father was at Dottie’s.
My mother reached over from the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. “Would you get in here!” she yel ed at me.
The thought had occurred to me.
I scampered as quickly as I could across Dottie’s lawn and jumped into the car. My mother took off before my feet were al the way in.
“Gah!” I cried again. “Are you trying to kil me?”
“Kil you?” she said. “Can you imagine how embarrassed I would have been to be discovered snooping in that bitch Dottie Kubacki’s yard?”
“I think your camera went into my tush,” I told her, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
“Wel, that would be a new one,” she observed dryly. “What made you cry out like that?”
I told her about seeing Dottie Kubacki naked.
“You poor thing,” she admitted. “Wel, at least you can’t say she’s turned you off to women.”
“No, but it confirms my theory that daddy isn’t sleeping with her,” I said.
“How’s that?” my mother asked.
“He couldn’t,” I explained. “It wouldn’t reach.”
CHAPTER 14
The next morning I woke up with a long scratch along my right side and a sore ass. My mother was stil asleep, snoring loudly. She was probably exhausted after a long night of almost-getting-her-son kil ed. I looked at the clock: 6:30.
I made a protein drink and sat down with my iPhone. My new to-do list looked like this.
1. Talk to Marc about gay suicides
2. Try to find out more about Paul Harrington 3. Fuck Tony
I debated deleting the third item, but I decided to let it stay. For now.
My plan for finding out more about the supposed
“rash” of gay suicides that Tony had mentioned was to ask my client Marc Wilgus to see what he could turn up. Marc was probably one of the world’s greatest Masters of the Web, and I doubted there was any information he couldn’t get.
I sat at my computer and wrote him an e-mail asking if I could come by today and discuss something with him. I sent it and started surfing the Web. A few minutes later, my instant messenger beeped. Marc was online.
“Hey,” he wrote, “what’s up?”
“Something I need 2 talk 2 you about in person.”
“U quitting the biz?”
“No, not that.”
“U need 2 tel me that you have herpes or something?”
“No, nothing bad. Just need ur help.”
“Come now if you want.”
Of course, since Marc never left his apartment, any time was as good as any other. I had to be at The Stuff of Life at 11:00 to volunteer for the lunch shift, and then had a client at 3:00.
“Let me grab a shower,” I wrote back. “C u in 30.”
“Cool.”
I showered, shaved al the relevant body parts, threw on frayed dungaree shorts, an Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt, and sneakers, and headed out the door. Just as I was leaving, my mother emerged from the bedroom.
“Good boy,” she said, “you’re almost dressed today.”
“Morning,” I said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“You recovered from last night?”
She put her hand on my cheek. “You’re the one who almost broke his neck. Not to mention seeing that bitch Dottie Kubacki in such detail that not even her doctor should have to. I’m sorry you have such a crazy mother.”
My mother never real y admitted to being wrong, but this was close.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “At least now you know that daddy wasn’t there.”
“Wel, he wasn’t there when we got there. Who knows where he was before that.”
I sighed.
“I’m tel ing you,” she said. “There is something going on between your father and that woman. And I’m going to find out what it is.”
“OK, wel, good luck with that. I have to run and meet a friend.” I turned towards the door.
“Oh, I don’t need luck.” She patted me right on the sorest part of my butt. “I have you.”
The doorman at Marc’s building gave me a look that seemed to say “Isn’t it a bit early for the likes of you?” before buzzing me in. When I got to Marc’s door, Marc was standing there in sweatpants and a T-shirt that said “When the robot overlords take over, I can translate.” He looked cute and a little disheveled, and smel ed of freshly-applied deodorant.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
We stood there a bit awkwardly. Usual y, when he was paying for my visits, he just grabbed me and we started making out. Today, he didn’t know what to do.
Was I there as a friend? A hustler? What?
I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“No problem,” he said, “you want some coffee or tea?”
“That’d be great.”
He walked me into his very modern kitchen, where about fifteen tal cups from Starbucks were lined up on his blindingly clean marble countertop, along with a plate of baked goods.
“I, uh, didn’t know what you wanted,” he said, “so I just told them to send up one of everything.”
“We could have just made a pot,” I said smiling.
“Um, I don’t actual y have a pot,” Marc answered.
“Or any coffee beans or real cups. Or milk. I pretty much order in whatever I need.”
Like I said, Marc is the Master of the Web. But how he survives in the real world is a mystery to me.
“The only problem is,” Marc continued, “I don’t exactly know what is what. But feel free to take a sip of
