JOHN-MICHAEL

John-Michael leaned against the side of the Benz, one hip knocked against the window. The match flared in his fingers, he lit the cigarette, put it to his lips. That’s when he caught first sight of her.

She was marching along the sidewalk toward him, pushing past the huddle of students who’d paused to smoke on the boundary of the school grounds. Some of them, John-Michael could tell, didn’t take too kindly to having a bony, middle-aged woman shoving them aside. In some parts of the city she’d be risking a knifing. But these kids were too occupied with looking cool to make a big deal of it, however they felt. They parted like a human Red Sea, with nothing more than a middle finger waved at her departing back.

John-Michael took another drag on his cigarette and waited. He was glad of the nicotine spiking in his blood right now. He’d never been good at handling Judy. It had been a happy day when she’d skipped out on his father’s life.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to see her. In fact, he wondered what had taken her this long.

“There y’are, you little piece of shit.” She was a little out of breath, her thin lips quivering. He could just see a sheen of moisture on her upper lip. Since they’d last seen each other, John-Michael had grown another two inches; tall enough to look down and notice the graying roots of her chestnut-colored hair.

“Hi, Judy.”

“Didn’t think you’d ever see my ass again, didja?”

“Jeez, Judy, could you not mention your ass? I’m a delicate homosexual, didn’t you hear?”

“Shut up, you lousy father killer.”

“The correct term is ‘patricide.’ And I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not.”

Judy laid one hand on the edge of the Benz, her fingers caressing the bodywork. She smiled at him, then watched his eyes follow her hand.

“So you took his car.”

“His pride and joy,” he agreed. Her fingernails were long and painted the color of a flamingo.

“Bet you enjoy riding along in this, sonny. Thinking about what a clever boy you were to get rid of him. Got him off your back and all his cash, too. Nice going, kid.”

“Watch your mouth,” John-Michael warned.

“You know, you might not enjoy the Benz so much if you knew what me and Chuck used to do in it.” Judy paused, enjoying the look of revulsion that flashed across his face. Then she smirked. He could see the row of sparkling veneers that his father had paid for. John-Michael had asked for a car that year, but, of course, Chuck had just laughed and told him to get a friggin’ job.

It was time to drop the pretense of amiability.

“Judy, what do you want?”

“I want what’s coming to me. Fifty percent of Chuck’s estate. That’s what he left me.”

John-Michael snorted in derision. But Judy just continued to stare at him with all the righteous verve of a protestor on a march.

“Not according to his will.”

“That’s because you used an old will,” she said, baring her teeth. “You thieving bastard.”

“The will was legal. Don’t blame me if my dad hadn’t updated it in ten years.”

“He made a new will when he was with me. I know, I saw it.”

“He did? Then where is this mysterious new will?”

“How the hell do I know? All I know is what I saw.”

“Who knows what he showed you? Did it ever cross your mind that he showed you something nice to keep you sweet? To keep you . . .”

But John-Michael couldn’t bring himself to complete the vulgarity. Even the thought of his father and this woman together was disturbing. She’d looked better then, but even so she’d been a daily drain on his father’s temper. The woman in front of him now looked about ten pounds lighter, which was okay for the way the clothes hung on her frame. But it had taken something from her face—the slight chubbiness, the surprisingly cherubic look that she’d sustained well into her late thirties. Now she looked angular and dilapidated, permanently sour.

“I saw a will, goddamnit. Fifty percent to you. More’n you deserve, lazy faggot. And fifty percent to me. To thank me for all the years I looked after him.”

His laughter was short and hollow. Even her insistence on using homophobic insults barely touched him now. “You didn’t look after nothing. You made him miserable. Apart from that first year when you were sinking your claws in him, all he wanted to do was to get rid of you.”

“Is that what Chuck told you, mama’s boy?”

He went quiet. A cold rage began to chill his bones. She caught the scent of his distress but mistook it for fear. Her sneering tone intensified. “Things looked pretty different from where I was looking up at your dad.”

John-Michael began to experience something he’d rarely felt: an itch at the base of his wrist, the impulse to ball his hand into a fist, to swing for the woman. The cigarette fell, forgotten, as he fumbled for his car keys. He had to get out of there before she said much more to enrage him.

Judy leaned against the driver’s-side door. She put her face close to his and whispered.

“I know you’ve got the original will. But I’ve got a draft. My lawyer says it’ll be enough to give you a motive. They’ve already placed you at the scene. You’ve got no alibi. He died with his veins turned white with heroin, and we all know what good buddies you are with the junkies. Face it, John-Michael. I take that draft of the will to the cops and you’re looking at juvie until you turn eighteen and then—well.” She pretended to wipe away a tear. “Gee, I just don’t know if you’re gonna get along with those prison types. Maybe you can find yourself a big ol’ sugar daddy to protect you?”

John-Michael put the keys in his jeans pocket. His back firmly against the door, he pressed both hands against her shoulders and lightly pushed. She sprung backward, obviously shocked. He followed through, gave her a second push.

“You believe I killed my own father?”

“Put your hands on me again,” she spat, “and I’ll lay a lawsuit all over your goddamn face.”

He crossed his arms, stifling a glorious urge to punch her. “You think you got a hope of persuading anyone that my dad left a skank like you a single dime? Good luck with that.”

“Goddamn evil little . . .”

He turned, opened the door, dropped into the driver seat, and inserted the key. She was at his side, leaning over the door, two seconds later.

“Give me my fifty percent, John-Michael. And I’ll pretend I didn’t just hear you call me a skank.”

Very deliberately, he said, “I met some lousy people when I was living rough. But you, you’re a real class act when it comes to lowlife. Never understood why Dad got mixed up with you. It’s no wonder he killed himself, probably to get away from you.”

He revved the engine, watching Judy struggle to contain her fury. Her eyes became as narrow as a snake’s before the kill. “Fifty percent. That’s my offer. In a week, it’s going up to sixty.” She stared pointedly at the car. “Enjoy yourself, twerp. It’s later than you think.”