The Ups and Downs of Being Dead (9 page)

“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.

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?”