The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [7]
“Nuh-uh,” Alberto says. “You didn’t get that from your momma or daddy?”
I click my front teeth together, staring out at the closed tourist T-shirt shops that line the beach. The only thing I got from my parents was a light blue government form with the charges against my father.
The prosecutor was smart: He went for manslaughter instead of murder . . . painted a picture of this six-foot-two monster purposely shoving a small, defenseless young mom . . . then for the final spit-shine added in my father yelling, “That’s it—you’re done!” (Testimony courtesy of every neighbor with an adjoining wall.)
My dad got eight years at Glades Correction Institution. The state of Florida gave me six minutes to say good-bye. I remember the room smelled like spearmint gum and hairspray. Life is filled with trapdoors. I happened to swan dive through mine when I was nine years old. That was the last time I ever saw Dad. I don’t blame him anymore, even though when he got out, he could’ve— I don’t blame him anymore.
“Gaaah,” Roosevelt shouts, his ruddy features burning bright. “You shoulda taken that restaurant money.”
“Roosevelt, the only reason he was offering that cash was so when he goes home tonight, he doesn’t feel nearly as guilty for sweeping away the homeless guy that he thought was bad for his fake French bistro business. Go pray . . . or send an e-mail to heaven . . . or do whatever you do to let your God weigh in, but I’m telling you: We’re here to help those who need it—not to give fudging penance.”
His lips purse at my use of the G-word. Roosevelt’ll joke about anything—his long hair, his obsession with early chubby Janet Jackson (so much better than the later thinner model), even his love of “Yo Momma’s So Fat” jokes as a tool for changing the subject during an awkward social situation—but he’ll never joke about God.
Staring out the side window, Roosevelt’s now the one clicking his teeth. “Making it a crusade doesn’t make it right,” he says, speaking slowly so I feel every word.
“It’s not a crusade.”
“Really? Then I suppose when you leave this job every night, your life is filled with a slew of outside interests: like that kindergarten teacher I tried to set you up with. Oh, wait—that’s right—you never called her.”
“I called her. She had to run,” I say, gripping the steering wheel and searching the passing side streets for possible clients.
“That’s why you set up a date! To make time so you can talk, or eat, or do something besides riding past mile after mile of gorgeous beach and spending all that time checking every alley for a homeless person!”
I look straight ahead as Roosevelt cracks another pistachio and tosses the shell in the bag. I never had an older brother, but if I did, I bet he’d torture me with the exact same silence.
“I know you can’t turn it off, Cal—and I love you for that—but it’s unhealthy. You need something . . . a hobby—”
“I have lots of hobbies.”
“Name one.”
“Don’t start.” I think a moment. “Watching cop shows on TV.”
“That’s just so you can point out inconsistencies. Name a real form of entertainment. What was the last movie you saw? Or better yet—” He grabs the notebook-size steel case that’s wedged between my seat and the center console. My laptop.
“Here we go,” he says, flipping open the computer and clicking the History button in my browser. “Seeing the Web sites someone goes to, it’s like looking at the furniture arrangement of their mind.”
On-screen, the list isn’t long.
“SmartSunGuide.com?” he asks.
“That’s a good site.”
“No, that’s where you get Florida traffic reports and the public CCTV cameras—to spot homeless clients who’re sleeping under an overpass.”
“So?”
“And this one: ConstructionJournal.com. Lemme guess: up-to-the-minute building permits, so you can find all the new construction sites.”
“That’s where our clients tend to sleep.”
“Cal, you not seeing the picture here? No interests, no news, no sports, hell, not even any porn. You’re a damn walrus,” Roosevelt insists, cracking another pistachio. “When