“What do you think you’re doing.” His voice is muffled because he’s talking into the Persian rug, leaving great big blood smears all over the wool.
“I think I’m doing what someone should’ve done a long time ago.”
He raises his head, which is almost unrecognizable. It’s a good look for you, Dad, I think. “You think I’ll end up going to prison?” One of his front teeth has been knocked out. “You think they put people like me in prison?”
“I think they love putting people like you in prison.”
“And on what charges?”
“Oh, I don’t know Dad, I didn’t go to law school, remember? But let’s see . . . attempted murder, maybe? Or if that doesn’t suit you, I’m sure they could look into some of your offshore accounts. Or they could—”
“You had my father killed.”
Jill has stepped back into the room. The marks on her neck are already turning hideous shades of violet and midnight blue; I can see the impressions his thumbs made. Her voice is raspy, like she’s got a severe case of bronchitis. She coughs and winces, but looks right at him.
My father stares at her for a minute and then looks at me. “Is this worth it?” he says. “Is some stupid whore worth it to you? You’ll lose your inheritance. You’ll get nothing. We will cast you out from this family, you can count on that.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I don’t actually want to be a part of this family. This family kind of sucks.”
“You’re an ungrateful piece of shit.”
“No, Dad, you’re wrong. I used to be. I’m not anymore.”
I can hear the approach of sirens.
“You destroyed my family,” Jill says, taking another step toward him. I put my hand on her shoulder and she stops but doesn’t move back. “All for what? For money? Is that all that matters to you?”
My father looks down for a moment, as though he’s actually considering this.
“Yes,” he says. “When it comes down to it, that’s all that really matters to anyone.”
The blare of the sirens sounds like it’s right outside the window. “Not to me,” I say. I hear footsteps on the stairs. “Goodbye, Dad.”
*
We spend the day at the hospital. I sit in the corner on a hard plastic chair while Jill gets evaluated. They take photos of her neck, and two detectives come in and take her statement.
At one point, I get up and go out to get a soda. One of the detectives, a middle-aged guy who actually has a rather spectacular handlebar moustache, follows me.
“So this was your father?” he asks. “Your father did this?”
I slide quarters into the slot and look at my choices. When being interrogated by the law, nothing beats a Coke. I make my selection.
“That is correct,” I say. “Like we already told you.”
“Why do you think your father would do something like this?”
“For all the reasons Jill told you.”
“So in your mind, it’s within the realm of possibility that your father would have another man murdered.”
I retrieve the cold can and pop the tab. “Well, sure,” I say. “I mean, he just tried to kill my girlfriend, with his bare hands. I’d say ordering a hit on someone probably wouldn’t give him much pause.”
“Your mother seems to disagree.”
“You’ve talked to her?”
“Yes. We’re also trying to get in contact with your brother, Cameron. He’s not answering his phone, though. Do you know his whereabouts?”
“No.”
“While we know your brother was not officially affiliated with your father’s business, they did work closely together, correct?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you think your brother knew anything about this?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I take a sip of the drink, the fizzy sugariness coating my throat. “That’s a really great moustache,” I say.
He ignores the comment. “Does it surprise you to hear that your mother does not think your father is capable of doing something like this?”
“Look, I’m happy to help in whatever way is necessary, I really am. My parents have grown apart over the years, and honestly, my mom most likely had no clue what my father was up to in regards to anything. So if you’re asking me if she’s lying—she’s probably not. Hook her up to one of those polygraph machines, if you want.”
“That probably won’t be necessary.” He strokes that glorious moustache and then turns to walk off. “We’ll be in touch if we’ve got any more questions.”
“Great,” I say, wondering how exactly he plans on doing that since the only phone I’ve got is one I don’t even know the number to.
*
Finally, we leave the hospital. I want to go to my apartment, but Jill insists we go see her uncle, who is sending a car for us.
“I really need to talk to him,” she says. “I need to tell him he was right. That he was right all along.”
The car picks us up and takes us to the Upper East Side. The doorman lets us in and we take the elevator up to the penthouse, where her uncle is waiting when the doors open.
“Uncle Nate,” Jill says, and she runs to him and hugs him. “You were right about everything. I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to you.”
“Jill—what on earth is going on?” He lets go of her and scrutinizes her face, gripping her by the shoulders. Then he sees me and does a double take.
“Who . . . what are you doing here?” he says finally.
“Uncle Nate, this is Griffin. This is my uncle Nate,” Jill says.
I hold my hand out. Her uncle has the oddest look on his face, as though he recognizes me, though I’m fairly certain I’ve never seen the guy before in my life.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
He’s still giving me a look like I just told him I eat shit for breakfast or something.
He stutters. “Hello,” he finally says, coughing. We shake hands, his palm slick with sweat. I wipe my hand on my jeans.
“Are you okay, Uncle Nate?” Jill asks.
He coughs again and shoots me a look, then turns his gaze to her. “Yes, Jill. Everything’s fine.” He looks at her more closely. “What happened to your neck?”
We go and sit in the parlor. They start talking, and from what I get from the conversation, it sounds like Jill’s uncle knew about this all along. After a little while, though, I zone out, and try to make sense of the fact that not only is my father a giant ass**le, he’s responsible for the death of one person and nearly killing someone else. So he’s even more of a giant ass**le than I thought he was. More ruthless, more sociopathic, just completely f**ked up. What will happen now? It’s hard to picture good old Dad in Sing Sing, but if I’m honest, that’s exactly what I hope will happen.