When I get home, it’s like I’m in Iraq. Lanie has gone ballistic.
“You fucking whore!” she screams at Carlene. “How could you do this to me? I’m your fucking daughter!”
Then to Matt, “You fucking cocksucker! How could you do this to me? I’m your fucking wife?” With eyes bulging, she holds up her left hand and flips it around like Beyoncé does in that video of her where she wears her swimsuit with heels and tells a guy that if he likes it, he’s got to ring it.
The way she curses, I’m glad Angel is not here to hear all these words and see her rage.
Carlene’s blue eyes stay fixed to the ground and she mumbles incoherently about a misunderstanding.
Then Matt, the smooth operator steps in and goes into damage control. “Baby, honey, can’t you see these photos have been Photoshopped? Look at that? That’s not me, baby. I have more hair than that. See?” He touches his scalp.
Lanie looks at him, then at the photo. Maybe he’s right. He has more hair than that.
“I…eh…” She peers at the photo.
“And I’m bigger than that. That guy in the pic – he ain’t got my muscles, baby.” He smiles and flexes his arm to show his bicep.
Matt is so smooth – he’d make a great politician.
He takes her in his arms and strokes her hair and soothes her like a parent would soothe their kid who’s lost a precious toy.
“Baby, you have to understand that people, they are so jealous because of what we have, that they will do anything to break us up. We have to be strong and our love has to stand the test of time, baby girl.”
Okay, that’s it – Matt has to get involved in politics – he’s a fucking brilliant cocksucker!
“You get it, baby?”
She nods, her anger disappearing like smoke.
He smiles and looks into her blue eyes. “Whose girl are you?”
“Y …yours.”
He smiles and plants three kisses on her lips. They hug.
Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? After all I went through to cause shit between them. I turn around and glare at Carlene.
Whew! Matt’s tongue is as smooth as his ass. Wonder if she’s working tomorrow? I need to buy more lube. And wax.
Eeeewww!
Disgusted that Matt could so easily ruin my moment, I storm into my room, dress in all black, not just because I’m mourning the loss of not having Carlene’s ass kicked, but because I’m getting ready for my stakeout tonight.
With ten thousand bucks up for grabs, I’ll be damned if I will leave all of this in Fartface and Conan’s hands.
At nine that night, I stand outside Mrs. Douglas’s house and concentrate.
Itugger, the son of a bitch! You’re gonna pay tonight.
Ohmigod! Itugger, the wankers gonna die tonight? I know him. He’s a dope dealer and a mean SOB. Frankly, I wouldn’t be too unhappy to see him in a box.
Not too far away I spy a Grey Nissan parked behind some tall trees. In it I spot Fartface and Conan.
I creep up to them and bang the window. Both of them jump like girls.
“Let me in!” I say.
They quickly open the door for me. “What the hell are you …?”
“Hey listen, I can help. She’s going after Itugger. I know him.”
“I know him too,” Conan says and calls for backup. “You can’t be here …”
“There she is!” I cry and duck into the backseat of the Nissan.
We watch Mrs. Douglas smoking on her patio.
A short while later, dressed in all black, like a rapist would, or at least how I imagine a rapist would, she steps out of her house and into her Jeep.
“Is that her?”
“Yes!” Man, Conan needs glasses for sure.
“Okay, get out of the car!” Fartface says.
I just buckle up. I’m going nowhere. “Drive!” I say.
After both of them glare at me for a moment, they drive after her.
“Hey listen, Itugger’s a real piece of work. You sure you guys wanna save him? I mean all this trouble to save someone who probably wasted a couple of his peers himself?”
They look at each other, thoughtful expressions on their faces.
“Think about it – she’s cleaning up the streets man. She’s never killed anyone who didn’t deserve to die.”
It takes a while before they answer. “Yeah, but we have to. People don’t have the right to become vigilantes.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the law,” Fartmoor says.
“The same law that allows him to sell drugs to twelve-year-olds and get away with it?”
He frowns at me. “Shut your trap, will you?”
After I roll my eyes, I sit back.
While I’m waiting for the bust – to run after Mrs. Douglas, catch her red-handed with a smoking gun in her hand and a shocked look on her face, these guys simply pull up nearby and wait.
“What?” I ask. “Aren’t we going after her?”
Fartmoor shakes his head. “Chief’s orders – we wait in the car.”
“Whaaaaat?”
Half an hour later, we get updated. Turns out that Mrs. Douglas did get in and shot Itugger several times while he was sleeping.
But, and this is a sad “but”, it wasn’t Itugger in the bed; it was pillows rigged up to look like Itugger was there. So, the wanker didn’t die after all and Mrs. Douglas is arrested for attempted murder.
We drive closer to the crime scene and watch Mrs. Douglas wrestling with a police officer. “You pussies can’t prove nothing!” she spits. Unless Diego talks. He’d better not open his trap.
“Talk to Diego,” I whisper to Conan. “He’ll probably rat on her ’cause he knows stuff.”
“How do you know all this?” Conan asks as he strokes a pimple.
“’Cause I’m mental,” I say in a matter-of-fact voice, my eyes huge.
“Ah.” He thinks I didn’t notice him inch away from me. At least she admits it.
“Well, once again, we got our man,” Fartface says and high-fives Conan.
No “Thanks, Burn. Even though you’re a druggie and a screw-up, you helped get a killer off the street.” I resist the urge to ahem! them.
“Yeah,” I say. “Now Itugger is free to continue selling drugs to twelve-year-olds. Ain’t that just dandy. ” I link my hands behind my head and wriggle my lips.
Both of them glare at me.
I don’t care; I’m too busy thinking about my ten grand. Spending it will be so much fun. Man, money can be so energising.
Then Hawk appears with two words that drains the blood from my face. “Forget it.”
“What?! F… forget it?” I must be mistaken. I shake my head to clear my mind, then ask, “Did you say, “Forget it?”
He nods.
I sit up really straight. “That is my money. I will not forget …”
“You cannot get paid for using your gift to …”
“… it. I worked for it. I dressed in black even though it doesn’t suit me, and I stood in the cold reading that bitch’s thoughts, and I saved Itugger’s life even though he’s a jerk off, and now after all that, you tell me I’m not getting PAID?”
“Oh, you’re getting paid but …you have to ask them to make out the check to a charity of your choice.”
“Charity? Charity! I’m a charity. I’m a deserving case.” I slap my chest. “Look at me – I sleep in a bedroom the size of a bathroom! With my sister in the same room! I shoplift clothes and stuff just to get by. I go to school and I work and that’s how I put food on the table. I’m like a single mom at the age of seventeen. At the age of thirteen, actually. I had to grow up fast. And a check? I want it in cash. Five dollar bills for easy handling. So you can take your gift and shove it up your …”
“Choose a charity, Burn,” he says with an air of finality.
“No! I want my ten grand and I want it now or heads are gonna roll. I deserve and I will …”
“If there’s nothing else …?”
I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. Go fuck yourself, you robber!
“Okay then. Goodnight.”
He disappears leaving me steaming.
Furious, I slap the seat next to me several times.
“Hey, take it easy!” Conan says. “What’s gotten into you?”
Fartmoor smiles. She’s mental, don’t you know that?
****
I’m secretly ashamed that I am so relieved about Angel’s new home. It’s like I’m happy to be
burden-free and it bothers me that I am laughing and actually carefree these days. But the fact of the matter is – I’m so happy that Angel is happy and safe that for the first time in years, I really am a carefree, selfish, self-centred teenager. A normal teenager. It’s wonderful that everything is about me.
Anyway, since I didn’t get my ten grand (because of FUCKING HAWK!) I plan to take on another part time job so I can save up money to buy a car.
In the meantime, Mi Mi Mi Lok works me to the bone. Mi Mi Mi Lok as I said, is Carlos’s (also known as Tong) wife. She’s a wiry little lady, hardworking at that, and like Carlos, she too has chosen an Italian name for herself – Madonna.
I kid you not. But think about it – what name could be more Italian than Madonna, huh?
Madonna (Chinese Madonna, not Ciccone) is an absolute tight-wad.
She parts with zilch. We dare not take a soft drink, not even bottled water without paying for it. If she sees us drinking water, she puts her face in ours and asks, “Tap or bottle?”
You’d better say tap or your pay will be docked.
Of course she allows us pizza at the end of the shift – ones that she would have to dispose of. But other than that, she takes the untouched garnishes of plates we bring back from customers and recycles them.
“Wasong?” she says when we gawk at her. “Is still good. Is still good. Why you lookamee like that?”
Madonna also serves watered-down spirits when the customer orders a second drink. She has no shame and she gives a fuck what we think. According to her, we’re all lazy. If you’re not working sixteen hour days and you don’t have more than two properties – not only are you a loser, but you’re also good-for-nothing-lazy to her.
She likes me, though. Says I have good manners and a maturity about me.
But whenever black people enter the pizzeria, she and Carlos watch me like a hawk. Like I’m going to give them free ribs and Coke or help them rob the tills.