Day one of the new life dragged on forever. The General constantly ordered him around. “Get me a drink of water!” “Put my valise behind the goll-durn sofa!” The cell phone in Socko’s pocket bumped against his leg with each step, reminding him, call Damien, call Damien. When the General dozed off in his chair, Socko snuck upstairs and hit redial. He counted five rings before someone picked up.
“Yeah?”
“Can I speak to Damien?”
“Dunno where heezat.” Damien’s mom sounded skunk drunk.
Maybe his friend was safe, hanging out one floor above in their old apartment. But what if he wasn’t? “Tell him to call me, okay?”
“Who’re you?”
“Socko.”
“Socko z’gone.”
“I’m calling from my new place. Tell him—” Socko heard the phone clatter against something hard—probably the floor. “Hello, hello?” Two of Delia’s precious emergency minutes passed while he listened to dead air.
“I eat lunch at twelve o’clock sharp. That was four hours ago,” the General complained. “My stomach sounds like John Philip Sousa and his whole dad-blamed marching band.”
Socko didn’t care about the General’s musical stomach—his stomach was making music too—he was worried about his mom. Delia had been off shift for an hour, but without a car, how was she supposed to get home?
Now when the cell phone bumped his leg, he willed it to ring and be his mom, even if she was just calling to say she was stranded at the Phat. He didn’t want to call her because of the “emergency minutes” thing, but in ten more minutes he would.
Nine.
Eight.
The General was grumbling about “breach of contract” when the bright blast of a car horn sounded in the front yard.
Socko ran outside. “You borrowed Manuel’s car?”
“Sort of.” Delia grabbed the overloaded Phat sack from the seat beside her. When she hugged him, Socko smelled fryer grease. It always got in her clothes, her hair, everything. “How’s himself?” she asked.
“Complaining.”
“So what else is new?”
They went into the kitchen where the General had already positioned his wheelchair beside the microwave.
“Lunch.” Delia put the bag on his knees. “And supper.”
The General lifted out burgers one by one, handing them to Socko, then glared into the bag. He popped the lid on a Styrofoam box. “What in the Sam Hill is this?”
“Crispy Fried Salad,” Delia said. “It’s a new Phat Burger special.”
Socko opened the microwave door. “You said you wanted vegetables.” He stuck in three burgers.
The General poked at the contents of the box. “These aren’t vegetables!” He slung the Crispy Fried Salad, bag and all, into the trash.
Socko reached into the can to rescue it. The chicken nuggety things on top of the salad had looked pretty good.
“Two questions, Delia Marie,” the General rumbled. “Number one: do you cook at all? Because our arrangement included room and board.”
Socko held the Styrofoam box in his hand. What part of “free food” did the General not get?
“I cook sometimes,” said Delia.
The General glared up at her through a forest of eyebrow hairs. “Define sometimes.”
“You know, now and then.” She could cook if she had to, although not too well. “What was the second question?”
“Where’d you get the jalopy?”
“It’s a loaner from Manuel,” said Socko. “He works at Phat Burger too.”
“It is Manuel’s,” said Delia, “but it’s not a loaner. Here’s the good news!” She clapped her hands. “For just five hundred dollars—that’s five hundred—it’s all yours, General!” She smiled, but Socko knew the smile covered the way she really felt—which was desperate.
“Five hundred’s a steal!” said Socko, hoping the General wouldn’t take a good look at what he was buying. Delia had to have that car to get to work, and Socko needed a ride back to the old neighborhood.
The General rolled to the window. “Great car. It would look right at home in a junkyard.” He crossed his arms over his stained sweater-vest. “What would I need with a car, Delia Marie? You said it yourself—being as old as dirt, I am no longer qualified to drive.”
“I can drive you around. Like a chauffeur. It’s a sweet ride. Please say yes.” She walked over to him, her palms pressed together. “Pretty please?”
The General stared at the sweet ride. “Orange and turquoise. I guess for five hundred it’s asking too much to have the paint on the doors match.”
“It’s festive … like a party on wheels!” said Delia.
“It runs good and it’s cheap,” Socko added. Who cared about the paint job? With wheels, Socko could check on Damien tomorrow. Even slaves must’ve had a day off now and then.
“The way you drive, you have no business taking a car out on the highway in the first place,” said the General.
Delia stood over the wheelchair. “There is no bus out here. I was told there was, but there isn’t. Without this car I can’t get to work.”
The General drummed his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. “I’ll lend you the money. With interest.”
“Interest? Come on, General. We’re family!”
“Really? You never even told Sacko here about Mary O’Malley.”
“What would I have told him? That I once had a grandmother who made great sugar cookies? That’s about all I remember. I was seven the last time I saw her. You two just disappeared from my life!”
The old man let his breath out slowly. “Maybe you should ask Nancy about that!” He winced as he slid a knobby, arthritic hand into his pants pocket and brought out a checkbook. He opened the checkbook’s plastic cover. “Five hundred at 12 percent is my best offer,” he declared. “Take it or leave it.”
Delia clenched her fists. “Forget it! I’ll get a loan from Insta-Cash.”
Socko put a hand on his mother’s arm. “Remember the time you got money for asthma medicine there?” Delia had taken an Insta-Cash payday loan just once, and only because Socko needed to breathe. “It cost you twenty to borrow a hundred for a week.” It didn’t take a math whiz to know that was more than 12 percent.
Delia sat down slowly on a kitchen chair. One by one she pulled out the bobby pins that held her hat in place. “You win, old man.” She looked as limp as the paper hat in her hands. “Make the check out to Manuel Garcia.”
The General clicked the pen point in and out. “On one condition. Tomorrow you get me something with roughage before my plumbing clogs up.”
Socko let out an exasperated sigh. In one day he had heard enough about his great-grandfather’s “plumbing” to last a lifetime, but he was sure the subject would come up again. And again.
He was gazing out the window at their new three-tone car when a familiar voice inside his head said, Genius idea! Jack the car and come home.