Larose points a finger at me and says, “Bingo.”
We spend a few more minutes discussing the accident before Pat tells us that she needs to leave if she’s going to be on time to collect Brittany. I gather their empty soda cans and dump them in the recycling bin after they depart, making a mental note to chat with Penelope about using Larose as an expert witness when this eventually goes to trial. Then I go to the living room to visit with Papa and Ed. I’m bidding them good night when my phone rings. To my dismay, the name of my ex-wife, Michelle Rice, pops up on the caller ID. I briefly consider ignoring the call, then reluctantly give in. She’ll just keep calling until she wears me down, anyway. I walk into the kitchen to take the call.
“Another shooting at that damned house!” she exclaims in lieu of a greeting. “You may as well be living in one of those Black neighborhoods, for Christ’s sake.”
Despite being fully aware that attempting to reason with her when she’s worked herself into this state is a waste of breath, I try, anyway. “We’ve got secur—”
“This is not acceptable, Tony!”
“Calm down.”
“I will not calm down!” she shouts. “I won’t have my daughter living in a fucking shooting gallery!”
I’m trying to work out a non-incendiary response when I realize that she’s said everything she intended to and has ended the call. Our next contact will most likely be through the Rice family’s formidable army of lawyers. A shaft of fear worms its way into my heart when I realize that another contest for custody of my daughter is probably brewing. It’s hardly a stretch to imagine a family court accepting the argument that Brittany isn’t safe in the Valenti family home. Yes, she’s parked at Pat’s house for the moment, but this isn’t a battle about temporary arrangements. It will determine what country Brittany is going to live in… and with which parent.
Chapter Nine
“Where is she?” Brittany asks in exasperation while we stare out the living-room window on a dreary Monday afternoon three days later. We’re waiting for Pat to pick up Brittany and drop her off at a friend’s house.
I smile inwardly as I watch my daughter bouncing impatiently from foot to foot. Her hand shoots up to the short, spiky bottled-blond hair that has replaced the lustrous auburn hair she was born with. The hairdo seems to be a little touch of rebellion. If so, it’s the only touch of teenage revolution I’ve seen from her. I can live with that.
“Gawd, this is so lame,” she gripes twenty seconds later. Gawd is pronounced with a hint of Georgia drawl that she picked up while living in Atlanta for the first fourteen years of her life. She’s never sounded like a native Southerner—not with parents who hail from Chicago and Connecticut—but it’s there, particularly when she’s agitated. When you’re fifteen years old, I guess losing a couple of minutes with your friends is a big deal.
As for me, I’ve enjoyed the morning and am in no hurry for it to end. It’s the first time we’ve spent at home together since I moved her in with Pat a week ago. Pat dropped her off a couple of hours ago while she went to the office to tie up some loose ends on a story. She was due back at noon. It’s now seven minutes after.
“Relax!” I say with a laugh. “She’ll be along shortly.”
My daughter gives me an exasperated look, the type reserved for old people who can’t possibly understand the travails of youth. She announced earlier that she was going to walk to her friend’s house. Before Ed’s shooting, I would have been fine with that. Not now.
Pat’s Sonata squeals to a stop at the curb two minutes later. I walk onto the front porch and lean against the wood railing while Brittany rushes down the steps and races to the street. Pat’s barely out of the car before Brittany is on her as if she hasn’t seen her for, well, a lot longer than two hours.
“Sorry,” Pat says as they stroll up the sidewalk to the porch. “I was doing an interview for a story. It took a little longer than expected.”
“That’s okay!” Brittany says brightly.
Really?
Pat drops her keys into a colorful handbag the size of a small suitcase and meets my gaze while she climbs the porch steps. “You’re driving, Valenti. Mind eating on the run? We’re going to be late as it is.”
“Are we going somewhere?” I ask while my daughter scoops up a backpack from the floor just inside the door.
Pat nods at me, then asks Brittany, “You all set?”
“Yup!”
I collect my car keys from the entry-hall table. Brittany is already through the door.
Pat’s now the one bouncing from foot to foot while she holds the screen door open. “Get a move on, Chubby. Chop, chop.”
“Where are we going in such a hurry?” I ask while I secure the dead bolt on the front door.
“I’ll tell you about it on the way,” she calls over her shoulder as she bounds down the steps to the Porsche and yanks the passenger door open. Brittany is already clambering into the back seat on the other side.
“So, where are you guys going?” Brittany asks after I back out of the driveway and put the car in gear for the five-minute drive.
“Lunch first,” Pat replies. “Subway or something?”
Brittany shakes her head. “Not me. I’m eating at Jocelyn’s.”
“There’s a Quiznos on Cicero,” I say as we near the end of the block. “Does that work?”
“Quiznos. Subway. There’s a difference?” Brittany cracks.
I chuckle before responding, “Millions of advertising dollars swear there is.”
Pat groans. “Don’t get me started on advertising.”
“So? Where are you guys going this afternoon?” Brittany asks again.
“I help rehab houses in Lawndale on Monday afternoons,” Pat replies.
I recall her mentioning
