23

Buddy liked that the new girl was chubby.

“The roly-polies are my favorite,” he drawled. “Remember … what was her name?”

He’d managed, after several tries, to reach Buddy on his cell. His nephew needed a lot of lead time, and a lot of reminders, to get his head into the game. Right now, he could tell from the background noise that Buddy was trawling the mall—probably the one in Holyoke, which he called his Fishin’ Hole. He’d be playing his usual game of selling pot to the middle schoolers. When a girl—or a boy if he was young and pretty enough—didn’t have the cash, Buddy would sometimes swap half an ounce for a blow job in the back of his pickup.

He guessed Buddy was at his hangout spot near the entrance. A burst of engine noise in the background, some dickhead teenager showing off, drowned out the piped-in pop music and the gabble of voices. He couldn’t remember the porky girl’s name either. Something Jewish-sounding, just a few months ago. He was getting fuzzy in his middle age.

“We’re going to need you to book the room, Buddy, but not until that morning, okay? Buddy?” As usual, the kid was pissing him off. “Buddy, are you there?” He could hear some kind of conversation in the background and waited. After a little while, Buddy came back on.

“Sorry, man. The fish are biting.”

“Listen to me, okay?”

“I’m listening. I book the room, like last time.”

“But not until that morning, Buddy. And don’t forget your outfit. We don’t …”

“Hey, man, you know how I like dressing up. No way the girl at the desk will ever pick me out.” He spoke off to the side, fainter. “Hello, sweetheart. Can I help you with something?”

“Buddy, listen, are you there?”

“Right. What day was it again?”

“The Saturday before Columbus Day. Jesus Christ, we talked about this. At the Ho Jo’s.”

“What? Oh right. I got it on my phone.”

“And, Buddy, tell them—”

“I know. Tell them we need a quiet room, away from—”

“Because I have trouble sleeping. Something at the back.”

“Got it. And pay cash. But call me that morning, okay? I lose track sometimes.” More voices to the side. Business must be good. He couldn’t help being a little envious.

Buddy suddenly laughed. “Hey, listen to this. I’ll hold the phone up.” There was some pop song in the background. He couldn’t make out the lyrics.

“Come on, Buddy. Stay focused here.”

“Gotta run. Sorry.” And the line went dead.

Fucking idiot.