Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (12 page)

Rawlins said, “So whassup?”

Well, almost comprehensible. “I need to go into the city. You don't mind driving?”

“Nope. Except maybe on the way we could stop to pick up my tux for the Spring Fling.”

“Sure.”

“I'm driving Mom's minivan.” He rolled his eyes.

“So you and I are going to look like a couple of dorks?”

He teased me right back. “Unless you'll sell me a car from Mick's lot. I could really use a nice set of wheels this weekend.”

We went out onto the porch and stood looking across my driveway at Mick's Muscle Cars, the used-car lot Michael had built on the part of Blackbird Farm I had sold to him during the first wave of my financial crisis. The asphalt parking lot was still full of ridiculous cars with tail fins, racing stripes and high-performance tires, but lately I'd noticed his salesmen had stopped showing up for work. During the winter, someone had mysteriously plowed the snow from my driveway, but once the weather warmed up, nobody came around. A few neon flags fluttered forlornly in the breeze over the deserted sales lot. It appeared that whatever Michael was mixed up in elsewhere, it took all his resources.

But one of the cars had been hastily parked on the end of the line, with one wheel definitely resting on my property. It was a low blue coupe that I didn't remember seeing until this morning.

“She's a beauty,” Rawlins said on a sigh.

“She is?”

“Sure. The 1968 Mustang GT, the California Special. A two-twenty-horsepower engine with a two-barrel carb, see? One of the best ever built.”

“Rawlins, how much money do you have in your pocket?”

“Huh?”

“I'm serious. That car is parked on Blackbird Farm. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, right? So I can sell it. How much money do you have?”

“Maybe ten bucks after I pay for the tux rental. Aunt Nora, are you pissed at Mick or something?”

“Or something,” I said. “Mostly I could really use the ten bucks. Let's go have a look at your new car.”

Together, we walked across the crunchy grass of the still-frozen yard together. Rawlins knew where the secret key was hidden to the salesmen's shack, so within another few minutes he had the ignition key and was sitting behind the wheel of a Mustang with two barrels of carbohydrates, whatever that meant.

My nephew breathed deeply, as if to inhale a fine automotive fragrance. Which smelled like mildew to me.

“Sweet,” said Rawlins prayerfully.

“Seems like just another car.”

“You don't appreciate fine American craftsmanship.” He turned serious. “The Mustang is a classic, maybe the hottest car ever built. Unless you're a Corvette fan, which I'm not.”

“You sound like Michael. You really want this thing?”

My nephew's eyes got round. “What will Mick say? This baby's worth real money!”

I got out of the car and walked around it. I kicked the tires, wiggled the side mirror and bounced the rear bumper for no reason except I'd seen people do it in the movies. “This clunker is ancient.” I pointed. “There's rust inside the wheel thingies, and the motor probably needs an oil change. But it would make a very nice ride to the dance this weekend. Show me some money, kid. Let's make this official.”

“Sure thing!” He fished a grubby five-dollar bill out of his pocket along with four ones and some change.

I didn't bother counting the change. “So it's yours. We'll figure out the paperwork later.”

Once the decision was made by somebody who resembled a grown-up, Rawlins became enthusiastic about the plan. He helped me into the passenger side and spent some time fussing with the position of his own seat before pulling out and carefully steering us up to the road. Once on the highway, his confidence grew and we were soon sailing along with the wind whistling into the car through various gaps between the ill-fitting windows. Delighted, Rawlins let his foot rest a little heavier on the accelerator.

“Who are you taking to the Spring Fling?” I asked. “Anybody I know?”

“Shawna Greenawalt. Her dad's the director of some historical society around here.”

“Is she nice?”

Rawlins might have blushed. “Real nice, yeah. She plays first base on the girls' softball team. We're in the Future Farmers club together.”

I laughed. “Rawlins, you want to be a farmer?”

“Hell, no,” he said. “But the club gets to go on really cool field trips. In January we went to the state fair in Harrisburg. That's the sweet thing about going to public school now. We don't have to wear ties and go to boring old Washington all the time. How many times can one kid visit the Capitol?”

When the family resources did their about-face, Libby had pulled all her children from private institutions and sent them to the local public schools instead. The kids didn't seem to mind. In fact, I thought they were flourishing in their new, more diverse environment. Libby's income from the life insurance polices of various dead husbands was enough to keep them all in necessary clothes and gadgets, but so far they were still enjoying public school.

“Is Shawna going to be a farmer?”

He laughed. “No, she just dropped the H-bomb on her parents.”

“The H-bomb?”

“She got into Harvard. She starts in September. She wants to major in international studies.”

“Good for her.” I couldn't help thinking such a girl would have a positive effect on her boyfriend.

Which made me think of someone else.

“Rawlins, when you went to prep school, was there a girl named Clover in your class?”

“You mean Clover Barnstable?” He shuddered. “Don't remind me.”

“Oh?”

“That chick is scary.”

“Scary how?”

He focused on the road in front of us—glad, I think, not to have to look at me. “She's pretty and everything. But she's into weird stuff.”

“Drugs?”

“No. At least, not more than anybody else.” Rawlins shrugged, unaware that my heart had contracted. “For her, it's guys. Guys with money especially. And—you know. Sex.”

“She had sex with boys for money, you mean?”

“Not exactly. But she wanted presents, and she's not shy. She's got those fake—you know—and all the guys wanted a look, so they were all giving her junk, and pretty soon she was doing more than showing, know what I mean? I mean, okay, I get it, but those things of hers are totally bizarre. I stayed away from her as much as I could.”

I thought I heard a hint. “But not completely?”

His hands suddenly fidgeted on the steering wheel. “Are you going to tell my mom?”

“No breathing, remember? It goes both ways.”

“You mean it?”

“Rawlins, you do know all about safe sex, right?”

He laughed nervously. “I can't believe we're talking like this.”

“You have condoms, don't you?”

“Are you kidding? My mom started giving me those when I was thirteen. I have this huge collection—all colors, all shapes.”

“But do you use them?”

“I don't really have much opportunity. Shawna's not into it. But everybody has sex now. All the high school kids.”

I knew the statistics. I had heard the buzzwords. Friends with benefits. Hooking up. It all seemed so casual now for teenagers, while I was still wrestling with the emotional consequences of my hormonal urges. “But you? With Clover?”

I tried to imagine my awkward, inarticulate nephew with that sophisticated, sexy girl I'd seen dancing on the bar at Cupcakes.

Rawlins was chewing on his lower lip. “Look, it was only one time with Clover.”

“Once is enough,” I said. I should know.

“We didn't even take our clothes off. I just—you know, unzipped. And she—”

“You had oral sex.”

“Yeah, and I gave her a ticket to a concert. I didn't feel like going anyway.”

I tried to remain calm. Surely it wasn't good for kids to shrug off such an intimate act. Surely it dehumanized both of them. “You still need to protect yourself, Rawlins. Especially if your partner is promiscuous. I don't mean just physically. Emotionally, too. And waiting is still the—”

“Okay, okay, you can skip the abstinence lecture. Shawna and I are holding off. Can we stop talking about this now? I'm really weirded out.”

“Okay. We can stop for now, but this conversation isn't over.” My best hope was Shawna, I thought suddenly. I hoped a girl headed to Harvard had a good head on her shoulders and could talk to Rawlins about sex in an adult way.

I said, “Have you seen Clover lately?”

“I told you, it was just the one time, and—”

“I don't mean ‘Are you having sex with her?' Just have you seen her around?”

He shook his head. “No, I go to a different school now, and she dropped out anyway. I think she's being homeschooled.”

“By her mother?” I couldn't imagine Viper teaching algebra to her daughter.

“I don't know,” Rawlins said. “I guess so. Or maybe she just quit.”

“Do you know a girl maybe named Jane? A friend of Clover's?”

“Jane Plain? Her real name is Parker or Planker or something. Yeah, she used to hang with Clover. Probably still does.”

“Do you know anything about her?”

“Only that she's like Clover's fan club. Ever since elementary school, it's like she doesn't have a personality, so she leeches off Clover. Why do you want to know?”

“I saw her yesterday, that's all.”

“She goes everywhere Clover does. Hardly says anything. Some kid beat her up on the playground once in fourth grade, and she just let him do it. Didn't fight back, didn't even cry, just let him. Real passive.”

“Did Clover try to help?”

“No. I think a teacher broke it up.”

We arrived in New Hope soon after that and Rawlins parked in front of a shop that rented formal wear. He left me in the car to ponder what life as a teenager had become. A few minutes later, he came back carrying a long plastic garment bag and a shoe box.

He showed me the box. “Do I have to wear rented shoes?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Wear what's comfortable. Want some help putting that stuff in the trunk?”

“Yeah.”

Rawlins was juggling his various bags, so I got out and popped the trunk for him. Together, we looked inside. He said, “There's a bunch of stuff in here.”

I leaned closer and saw two large black nylon suitcases. “I'll move them over.”

But I couldn't budge the suitcases. They were deadweight.

“Let me try.” Rawlins handed his bags to me and grabbed one of the suitcases by its handles. “Whoa, really heavy.”

“You can't lift it, either? What if we lighten the load?” I reached in and opened one of the suitcases.

Which was how Rawlins and I found ourselves staring at a very large amount of money. Twenty-dollar bills wrapped in rubber bands. The bills looked well used, not like new currency. I couldn't begin to guess how much cash had been packed into the suitcases.

Rawlins murmured a curse in one long, slow breath.

I leaned shakily against the rear of the car and tried to absorb what we'd just discovered.

“Somebody left all this money in the trunk.” Rawlins sounded like a kid again.

“Not somebody,” I replied. “Michael.”

“Why? There's a ton of cash here.”

I put the garment bag on top of the suitcases. I closed the trunk, and we got into the car.

“What's going on?” Rawlins didn't start the car but sat staring out the windshield in shock. “What's Mick doing?”

“He's in business, Rawlins. A lot of cash businesses.”

“Why doesn't he put the money in the bank? Most businesses deposit—”

“I know what other people do, but Michael is—he's not exactly a chamber-of-commerce type.”

Abruptly, Rawlins said, “He's been running around with different guys lately.”

I turned to look at my nephew. “Have you met them? The people he's dealing with?”

“Not really. He kinda threw me out of the garage. He said I should get a life. I thought he was kidding around, but when I went back a couple of days later one of his guys wouldn't let me inside. Said some people were talking to Mick and I should get the hell out.”

“What people?”

Rawlins shrugged again. “I don't know. One of them was a kid a little older than me. That was weird. Why do I have to get a life while that kid gets to be with Mick?”

I heard the hurt in his voice finally. “I don't know, Rawlins.”

For the first time, I was confronted with the concrete evidence that Michael was up to something nefarious. I knew what kind of people carried large amounts of cash—and it wasn't upstanding citizens.

In a little while, Rawlins started the car and we drove into Philadelphia without much further conversation. He drove more slowly than before, as if concerned that the money he was transporting might be obvious to other drivers.

I tried to push aside my panicky thoughts about Michael. And although I'd planned to pay a visit to ChaCha at Cupcakes, it was clear after my condom conversation with Rawlins that taking him to Cupcakes was a bad idea. I decided a quick stop at Verbena's tea shop might be more informative. Maybe someone in her workplace had some insight into her relationship with her stepfather.

I helped find a parking space on the street and invited Rawlins to the bakery, but he felt he should stay with the car.