The Ups and Downs of Being Dead Page 7

  * * *

  The slut from Robbie’s bed padded down the hallway, but before she plopped down on that nasty toilet seat, Robert followed his son to the living room.

  First, Robbie pawed through the debris on the coffee table. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he patted down the boy sleeping on the sofa. Still nothing. He went back down the hallway and stopped at the open bathroom door, his hands braced on each side of the jam.

  “I need a fucking cigarette.”

  The girl stood, and as she pulled her jeans back up, Robert realized that the snake tattoo went all the way down to her waxed mons. It looked like the snake had slithered out from between her legs.

  Robert staggered back at the same time the girl pushed Robbie out of the doorway and stumbled to the bedroom. She threw a crumpled pack at him before collapsing on the bed. Once he had a cigarette lit, he flopped down beside her.

  “Jesus, Morgan, where did we go last night?”

  Grabbing his wrist, Morgan pulled the cigarette close enough to take a drag.

  “I don’t know, but my jaws are killing me. That goddamn Damien sold you some shit.” She flexed her jaw, massaging the hinges with her fingers. “I’m surprised I didn’t grind my teeth down to the gums.”

  Robbie ran his tongue across the front of his teeth, then took another long drag on his cigarette.

  “I need a drink.”

  Evidently, that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “You need to tell him you want your money back. Or he needs to comp you four more tabs. And not that shit. Who does he think he’s dealing with here?”

  What a pathetic excuse for a man. Twenty-six years old, addicted to drugs and booze, a total mooch. Robert wished he was still alive so he could slap his son.

  When he was twenty-six, Robert had just opened his fifth Audrey’s. He had contracts with fourteen different vendors supplying fashions and accessories. Forbes magazine had placed him in the top twenty-five of up-and-coming entrepreneurs. How could this wasted excuse of a son be cut from the same cloth?

  The cigarette butt sizzled when Robbie dropped it into a beer can on the side table.

  “So, what do you want to do today?”

  The girl didn’t seem to remember what she’d been ranting about two seconds ago.

  “Let’s get something a little more mellow. Maybe some Oxycontin.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good. We can see what’s on pay-per-view.” Robbie reached his arms over his head to stretch, then kind of stopped right in the middle. “Hey, you want to get some X and watch porn?”

  She blurted out a laugh. “That sounds like a total waste of time.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes rolled down to his crotch.

  “No, really,” Robbie said. “I’m feeling good.”

  She pressed her palm against his zipper and frowned.

  “I’m telling you,” Robbie insisted. “I just felt something.”

  Unbuttoning his pants, she slipped her hand in and massaged. “I’m not feeling anything but dough.”

  “I’m telling you, it was working just a second ago. With a little X and some porn…”

  “Robbie, you could watch suck and fuck for hours and it wouldn’t help this poor little nub.”

  Why didn’t she just castrate him and get it over with?

  The kid who’d been sleeping on the sofa came shuffling into the bedroom and flopped onto a pile of clothes in a chair.

  “Fuck! What did we do last night? My head’s killing me.”

  Smack in the middle of his forehead was a swollen blue knot with red streaks that looked like they might have bled. His eyes were black and puffy.

  The girl laughed. “You look like you took a face dive.”

  He pressed gently on the knot. “No shit.”

  Robbie rolled away and Morgan’s hand dragged out of his pants.

  “I need a drink,” he said.

  The other two followed him into the living room, and after he took a hit off the vodka he passed it to the kid.

  “No thanks, man.” He wiggled his fingers at Robbie. “I need cab fare.”

  Without hesitating, Robbie reached into his pocket. “How much?”

  “Give me fifty. I want to stop at Starbucks.”

  Robbie counted out three twenties. What an idiot. How many so-called friends did he have hanging on, bumming off him? How much was Amanda sending him each month?

  The kid snatched the bills and left without so much as a thank you.

  Morgan picked through the debris of pills on the coffee table, examining and rejecting them one at a time.

  “Check your account again,” she said. “We’ve got to find something better than this crap.”

  With a grunt, Robbie pulled his phone out of his pocket and slumped onto the sofa. His fingers typed for an instant before he shouted, “What the fuck?!”

  Morgan leaned over his shoulder to look at the screen. “That’s it?’

  “She only sent me half.”

  “Christ, Robbie. You owe Damien more than that.”

  Robbie waved her away like a buzzing fly. “I know that!”

  “Well, send her a text and tell her to cough up the rest.”

  Peering over his shoulder, Robert watched as Robbie scrolled through the rest of his e-mails. Among all the spam from J. Crew and Amazon was a message from Martin. Robbie’s lips curled into a snarl as he read out loud.

  “In accordance with the Trust Fund of Robert Alden Malone, a revised allowance has been issued to Robert Alden Malone Junior in the amount of…

  “That bitch!” Robbie screamed. “She doesn’t even have the nerve to call me. She has her lackey send me a fucking bullshit letter.”

  Morgan sucked in a breath. “Jesus. You’re fucked.”

  “No shit.” Robbie punched in Amanda’s number. He waited a couple seconds but she didn’t answer. He left a message.

  “Call me now.”

  He flipped his phone shut and sat with it in his palm, as though he expected an immediate response. Morgan even sat waiting, so fast callbacks must have been the norm. She was the first to get restless. Pinching at little nubs on the stems scattered around, she managed to fill a glass pipe with pot. She lit the bowl and smoked it all. Then wiping the sticky remote on her jeans, she turned on the TV.

  Robbie waited maybe fifteen minutes before he called Amanda back, his message more terse this time. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Once it became obvious she wasn’t calling back, Robbie chugged the rest of the vodka. Then he and Morgan slouched on the sofa and watched a variety of educational television programs. First it was some guy showing videos of stupid stunts. Evidently, kids had gotten way past riding in a grocery cart down a hill. Then it was a bunch of tattooed bikers modifying motorcycles.

  Robert did his best to hover quietly and just observe. After all, like Sam and Maggie had pointed out, he had no pressing engagements, no appointments to keep. But after two hours, he couldn’t stand the boredom.

  He left Robbie’s apartment in Battery Park and made his way over to Wall Street just to check his stocks. Then he wandered up to Fenton’s to check out this year’s jewelry styles, strolled over to Vera Wang’s to see what they were up to there, and when he finally got back to Robbie’s, they were still vegetating like slugs on the sofa.

  The television program was about people making their way through some water maze of punching arms and sweeping blocks that knocked participants into the drink. During a commercial, Robbie called Amanda again. Was he doing that every ten minutes?

  She must have gotten tired of his pestering and finally answered, because Robbie jerked upright.

  “Why didn’t you call me back?” he demanded.

  Robert moved closer to listen.

  “Your father’s memorial service was lovely,” she answered.

  “How many assholes showed up for your fucking extravaganza?”

  There was a pause before Amanda answered. “I take it you got the message from
Martin.”

  “Hell, yes, I got that prick’s e-mail. What the fuck’s going on?”

  “He’s handling your estate now. I suggest you call him at his office—”

  “I don’t want to talk to that jerk-off,” Robbie leaped to his feet. “I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’m sorry, Robbie. It’s out of my hands.”

  “Bullshit!” He hesitated for a moment, then hurled the telephone across the room. It shattered against the wall. “She hung up on me!”

  He picked up the vodka bottle and smashed it against the same wall, leaving a dent in the plaster. Then he kicked the side panel of the sofa until his foot went right through the leather. Tumbling backwards, his arms windmilled and he hit the floor with a thud. He rolled, twisting his foot out of the guts of the sofa, then dove onto the coffee table, sending cans and bottles flying. He mopped up ashes and seeds with his shirt as he slid along the glass.

  The first time Robert had witness his son throw a tantrum like this was way back when he was only five or six years old. It was Christmas morning, and Robbie was up before dawn, wanting to open his presents. He ripped the paper off each one as fast as he could grab them, barely noticing the item before moving on to the next.

  Rachel was probably only four at the time. She sat on the floor playing with the ribbons, stringing Robbie’s discarded bows onto her arm like bracelets. When she opened her first present and pulled out a little pink sweater with matching socks, she immediately kicked off her slippers and put on the socks. The static electricity she created when she pulled the sweater over her head made her fine, blond hair float around her face like spun sugar.

  Robbie finished opening his presents before Rachel was halfway through hers. That’s when he went digging through the pile of wrapping paper, kicking toys aside, looking for something. He put his hands on his hips and pursed his lips at Amanda.

  “Where’s the Muskrat GI Joe?”

  The smile on her face drooped.

  “The store was sold out,” she groveled.

  He kicked an empty box and Amanda had to bat it away before it hit her in the face.

  Leaping off the sofa, Robert grabbed Robbie’s arm.

  “That’s enough, young man,” he scolded. “You apologize to your mother right now.”

  But Robbie just screamed at her.

  “That’s all I really wanted for Christmas!”

  Oh, sure, the one thing she didn’t get. Robert told him to go to his room until he was ready to apologize for his behavior. The little brat punched Robert in the gut, then grabbed a fistful of branches and pulled the whole Christmas tree over. If Robert hadn’t taken the brunt of the tumbling tree, Rachel would have been crushed underneath. And all Amanda could do was apologize to Robbie, promising to take him to Toys R Us the next morning to see if any GI Joes had arrived.

  * * *

  “That goddamn bitch!” Robbie pounded his fists on the coffee table. “I ought to go down there and rip her fucking face off.”

  He rolled off the coffee table into the space between it and the sofa. With a knee and a hand, he pushed the table onto its side. The glass top wavered before falling onto the carpet. “Burn that goddamn house to the ground.”

  Bracing his back against the sofa, he shoved the black iron table across the fallen glass, scraping ear-piercing cuts in the surface. “I’d like to take her fucking credit cards and shove them right up her ass.”

  Morgan sat so quietly that Robert wasn’t sure if she was scared or just bored by Robbie’s tantrum. Pulling a knee up to her chest, she hugged her arms around it tightly.

  “Maybe you should go down there.” She rested her chin on her knee and squinted her eyes. “I gotta think mommy dearest has lots of jewelry.”

  “Oh, hell, she’s got a fucking safe in her bedroom full of shit. I know there’s stuff in there she’s never even worn.”

  “A safe, huh?” Morgan rocked slowly. “You know the combination?”

  Robbie looked up from where he sat on the floor. “Why would I need a combination? Half the time the fucking thing is sitting wide open.”

  Sliding her leg down, Morgan straddled his head with her thighs. She massaged the tension from his neck with her fingers. “So, if you were to go pay mommy a visit you could just waltz right into her bedroom and fill your pockets with diamonds and rubies?”

  That was rich. Martin’s big plan to set Robbie on the path to success was about to blow. Robert knew it was sadistic, but he just had to be there to see it all happen.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The look on Amanda’s face when she opened the front door was worth every miserable second of the past two days Robert had spent with Robbie and Morgan. At first, Amanda’s eyes brightened, thrilled to see the son she had adored for twenty-six years. But then fear crept in as she realized she might have to deal with this unexpected problem alone.

  She never could stand up to Robbie. He was nearly ten years old when one of his teachers suggested he be tested for ADD. Amanda was actually relieved. She would put him on Ritalin and calm him down, end of issue. But his pediatrician said Robbie didn’t need medication, he needed boundaries. When he overstepped those boundaries, he should have his privileges taken away.

  “Like his toys, or the television.” The shrillness in Amanda’s voice rose as she related the visit to the doctor. “Can you imagine the fit Robbie would pitch if I took away his computer games?”

  Instead, she searched until she found a doctor who would basically sedate Robbie. It made their lives much easier, but that was probably the beginning of Robbie’s addictions.

  Bet Amanda would like to pop a Ritalin in Robbie’s mouth before she let him into the house.

  Breaking her gaze from Robbie, she turned to Morgan. As Amanda’s eyes scanned up and down, her lips sank into a frown. Her nostrils flared. Not that Robert could blame her. The girl looked like a hooker in her spandex Capris and droopy tank top under a ratty fake-fur jacket. Robert hoped Amanda would get a peek at the snake tattoo.

  In all the time he’d been at Robbie’s apartment, he hadn’t seen either of them shower or brush their teeth or even run a comb through their hair. Did they smell?

  Amanda finally managed a breathy, “What are you doing here?”

  “I decided to come down and see if we can’t straighten some things out.”

  Her hand shook as she held the door for them to come in. A meltdown was imminent.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Amanda asked, then frown. She’d just offered her derelict son and his whore booze.

  She quickly changed course. “Why don’t you have a seat in the living room?” But then she immediately scowled. She didn’t want their nasty body residue on her furniture.

  “Or maybe you and your friend would like to sit out on the lanai. It’s such a lovely day. And I’ll…” She rubbed the makeup right off her forehead. “I’ll go get us some Cokes. Or Sprite? Dr. Pepper?”

  Without even waiting for a response, she bolted for the kitchen. Robert followed.

  She snapped open her cell, her hand shaking as she punched keys.

  “Martin,” she hissed in a half whisper. “Robbie’s here. Yes, at the house. With some slutty friend.”

  They jabbered back and forth like magpies. Martin suggested she get them out of the house by taking them to dinner someplace. He would join them. Amanda thought the idea was insane. Robbie had never had a predilection for restraint in public places. She wanted Martin to leave his office immediately and come home. He’d started this whole mess, and he damn well better help her see it through.

  He agreed to be there within the hour. The color drained from her face. An hour alone with her dear, sweet Robbie?

  “I guess we could drive over to China Garden and pick up some take-out.”

  Robbie and Morgan had worked out their plan on the flight to Atlanta. He would start an argument at dinner, then stomp out. Morgan would make sure Amanda didn’t follow. He would grab all the jewelry from the
open safe, shove it into his duffle bag, then come back downstairs with both their bags and tell Morgan they were leaving.

  She was supposed to ham it up a little, urging him to calm down, but he would insist and she would sigh and follow him. They would walk right out the front door, climb into the rental car and be gone.

  He didn’t think Amanda would do anything about the stolen jewels. How could she have her own son arrested? Morgan had badgered him about Martin. His mother might not take action but an attorney might. Robbie had insisted everything would be cool.

  Robert hated to side with Morgan, but she was right. Martin would never let Robbie get away with all that jewelry. There was a million and a half in diamonds alone. Martin would know. He’d had the whole lot appraised as part of the initial trust/settlement of Robert’s estate.

  Martin had barely finished his hot and sour soup when Robbie asked, “Would you mind telling me how you came up with that bullshit figure you deposited in my account for this month?”

  “Certainly.” Martin calmly reached across the table for an egg roll and a small packet of hot mustard. As he squeezed the condiment onto his plate, he told Robbie what his total inheritance equaled.

  “We’ve spread that amount over twenty years, with four lump-sum provisos for major life events: marriage, buying your first home, children.”

  “You’re full of shit,” Robbie said. “I want the full amount now.”

  “Not possible,” Martin said, then dabbed his egg roll into the mustard and took a bite. “The front end of the agreement has a stipulation. The money allowance runs only for six months. If, during those six months, you have not successfully completed a drug rehabilitation program, any subsequent—”

  “Rehab!?” Robbie shot out of his chair, sending it flying back into the wall. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Amanda whined, “Rob-bie.”

  Robert had to laugh. Both Robbie and Martin held out their hands to cut her off.

  And when Robbie stormed out of the room, Morgan was on it. “Just let him go. He’ll calm down faster if he has some time alone.” She turned to Amanda, then Martin, flashing the top of the snakehead on her breast. “So, have you looked into facilities in New York? I mean, for Robbie’s rehab.”