King's Folly (Book 2) (57 page)

STOWAWAY

Book One of the Iiliaevi

By R.H. Montgomery

TATTOOED
MINXES
COME
and go for a Vegas lawyer. This one, plaid-skirted caboose parked in his antique client’s chair, would be no different. She would come, she would go, and the world would be no different.

Markous Crittenden had seen a procession of lowlifes and screw-ups sitting across from him. Back in the rough-and-tumble days before anyone had cooked up the grand idea of turning Vegas into a mecca of family-friendliness, the girl’s uncle had been one of them. Dayne Fay, whose colorful legal scrapes had inspired Mark to trade bail bonding for legal studies, had been more rascal than criminal—and well worth a friendship. The weeks following his death had demonstrated that
worth
wasn’t a familial trait. Dayne’s distrust of banks and “electric money” had brought his heirs into Marks’s elegant domain, an honor he could have done without.

Denied the whole of her brother’s estate, Allison Fay-Anwyll had blasted in and raised the roof. It was a shame to see her. Little was left of the tasteful, raven-haired beauty she had been, and when she opened her mouth, that little blew away like a trailer park in a twister.
 

The oldest nephew had bristled at first sight of his uncle's executor. Markous had been around too many blocks to be anything but amused.
You'd love to bust out the slurs, wouldn't you, you skinhead punk? Gets you where you live, don't it, seeing a coon in a nice suit handling your inheritance? I earned three degrees and drive a Benz, you narrow-minded creep. How much do I want to bet you rode in here on a Greyhound and can’t even spell GED?

Nephew number two, the spitting image of Dayne, had slunk in for his check and slithered out with a string of mutters that might have been words. The twins outdid their mother when told they’d have to attain majority before they’d see a penny from their trusts. Mark called security to see them out and washed his hands of them. At the rate they were going, they'd be more than capable of supporting themselves as working girls soon enough if they weren't getting three hots and a cot courtesy of some unfortunate state.

This middle child wasn't old enough to inherit by a year to his way of thinking, but legally his opinion mattered for nothing.
Emancipated minor, my left ass cheek.
She'd be lucky if she didn't end up stripping before she reached drinking age. At least her tattoos, unlike the elder Anwyll boy's, were simply art rather than a statement of some thoroughly vile ideals. More fabric had gone into the manufacture of his boxers than into that of her skirt. She wore the Anwyll abundance of disobedient russet hair in dozens of skinny braids, the thick bangs blazoned neon pink. The Cupid's-bow mouth and wide, histrionic eyes were more suited to a silent-film actress than a girl clad in leather and body art.

“I wish I'd have made it to his funeral, but by the time I found out ...” The southern end of coal country touched the unripened voice. From the looks of her, this sapling had done her utmost to cut those roots away clean.

“It's all right, Miss Anwyll. He didn't want a funeral. Too much hassle, he said. He left me his ashes.”

She batted blue eyes made piercing by their raccoon-mask of kohl. “What did you do with them, Mister Crittenden?”

The lawyer chuckled. “Let them loose on the way down from Boise. He said he didn't care where he was scattered as long as he ended up in the wind. Right now, he's spread out all up and down the ninety-three.”

That earned him a wan Mona Lisa. “That sure sounds like him.” The tackiest pair of thrift-store disco boots he’d ever seen scuffed against the floor. “Did my mom come?”

Markous tapped his pen on the surface of his rosewood desk. He didn't owe this belle anything more than her check and the paperwork for the real estate in Lemhi County, but he felt the need to dispense a smidgen of free advice. He could tell by the unguarded hope on the teenager's heart-shaped face that this was a train wreck in the making.

“She did.”

“Do you have an address for her? A phone number? Anything? I'd really like to see her. I mean, just to say hi. Is she still in Reno?”

Mark’s single and child-free status hadn’t deprived him of paternal instincts. This lambkin was in dire need of a shepherd’s crook. He wondered what her father would say if he could see her now, traipsing around Las Vegas with her breasts making a balcony above a black leather bustier. William Anwyll wasn't a bad man; he just wasn't a whiz at the practical management aspects of fatherhood and Allison, well, she wrote the book on maternal failure.

“She is. Mairwen, listen to me. Your mother will only try to take everything you have. You're a smart young lady. I think you know that already.”

The girl looked down at the cashier's check in her hand. “It's only money.”

“Money’s not what I’m talking about, Miss Anwyll.” He had given her all the guidance he could. Child she might be, but she'd made the decision to live on her own in the big, bad, wide world and she was free to do as she pleased.

She shook his hand, thanked him with genuine sincerity, and took her gorgeous, seventeen-year-old ass out his door.

“Damn,” said Markous A. Crittenden, fifty-seven, attorney-at-law. “Man, I am just too old.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Every one of my seventeen years had been punctuated by my mother’s shifts of self—sometimes with exclamation points, often with question marks. The Reno persona was one big period: terminal, full stop
done
.

She had become a white trash caricature. Three inches of black root formed a pedestal for the peroxide blond, and too much time at the tanning salon had blighted her pearly Celtic complexion. She wore a spandex catsuit, for pity’s sake. Where could you even get those anymore except at the stripper store? But the old jealousy was still chewing away. I had always envied my mother and sisters their sinuous torsos, athletic thighs, sleek blackbird locks, and classic oval faces. While salesladies laid compliments on my petite hourglass curves, the three of them slid their long, lean bodies without effort into long, lean fashions. Mom still had her figure, but the rest—not so good. I couldn't fathom how she'd come to this. Even at her worst, she’d always had class.

Her one-bedroom unit, tucked in a Melrose-style building, smelled of exhaust from the freeway, old-school smoke cigarettes, and citrus cleanser. Reno’s dust had been powerless against her ever-busy dustcloth and the knick-knacks were organized in her regulation eight-inch spacing. A huge aviary in the kitchen held an assortment of boisterous parakeets, and I heard finches and a canary from the living room. At least Mom wasn't alone.

“Winnie, baby, it’s so good to see you! I was hoping to see you at the funeral.”

We were co-conspirators in the “Uncle Dayne’s funeral” fable. Her nervousness manifested in a clattering palpitation of fingernails against tabletop. “I found out too late. You dyed your hair.”

She touched my fuchsia bangs. “So did you. Where did you get all these tattoos from? You look like Baddy.”
 

My mother. She gives us esoteric Welsh names, then torments us with moronic monikers. Maddock and Baeddan got off easy, but to turn Eiluned and Briallen into Loonie and LaLa was sacrilege. And Winnie-May? Spew.

“Not really. None of these are of Hitler. How have you been?”

“Jeez, I miss Dayne already. And your dad—and you kids. How is everybody?”
 

I gave her the abridged version while she made attentive noises that let her pretend she cared.

“I really do miss you all. Me and your dad … we just don't always get along. We still love each other, though, you know.” I never could figure out why they didn't divorce. I think she liked having a place to land when she grew tired of flying around life. I think Dad had started paying no more mind to her roosting habits than he did a pigeon's about the time I started middle school. How they’d ended up together in the first place was beyond me. She was the hillbilly debutante who held a generally low opinion of coal people. He was the blue-collar, second-generation descendant of men who had mined the Big Pit back in Wales. “So you're
emancipated
now.”

“Yeah. When I turned sixteen. I earned early graduation.”

“Was that in Bluefield?”

“No. Down In North Carolina.” She never could remember where we lived and when; she just knew how to find her way home when she needed to. “Actually, I did my sophomore year there and finished up online after I moved to Florida.”

“Maddy dropped out of school, too. At least he has a job now.”

She was too much a stranger for me to take it personally, too familiar to let it slide off. “I didn't drop out. I busted my hump to graduate early. I kept up a three-point-eight average and I wasn't taking basket weaving, either. I took honors classes.
I
have a job, too.”

“Okay, right, early graduation. I never thought online stuff was real school. Sorry. Your dad always thought you’d make it to college.”

“He still does. I’m still on track. Tons of kids my age haven’t even applied yet.”

“Ah. Well, don’t beat yourself up about it. No one else in the family went, so you won’t be the first to miss out.” She took a clean glass out of the cabinet, re-washed it, and stirred up a gin and tonic. “Do you want one? I mean, can you? I don't know what the rules are if you're emancipated.”

“I still can't legally drink. Thanks, though.” I didn't
want
to drink. Age had never been a barrier to Maddock. Everywhere we lived, he had stunk up the house with stale beer, beer puke, beer sweat, beer farts. The very smell of alcohol set my stomach on edge. I consented to a ginger ale, which she poured into a juice glass from a short can that looked lifted from an airline. The ice was stale.

“So you live in Florida now! Do you go to the beach much?”

“All the time.” From the living room, a large bird of some sort wheedled,
What ya doin' there, baaay-bee?

“I’m so jealous! I haven't been to the beach since I lived in San Diego. Oh, my gosh, San Diego. You know what? Us Anwyll girls ought to take your uncle's money and go live it up! Party hearty, you and me, down in Florida. In South Beach! Now that's where you want to be in Florida. What do you think, cookie-pie?”

I played along with the “yes-yes” act. South Beach? Exactly how much did she think I'd inherited? My siblings and I could be comfortable if we were thrifty, but we weren't going to live in mansions and drink Cristal every day.

“I have to go back to Pensacola so I can give my two week notice and square up with the rental office. I’ll text you when I’m ready.” I gave her my cellphone number. We hugged. She positively oozed parasitic love.

“You go on, then, baby. Maybe head on down to Miami and score us a nice place—something on the water. We'll have us so much fun! You drop you a couple pounds and it'll be Ally and Winnie showin' off our stuff.”

I hugged her again. She would probably fritter away her inheritance on lottery tickets, cigarettes, and parrots. I still loved her.

I went back to Florida and quit my job. I stayed in Pensacola long enough to throw on some new tattoos and binge on bananas Foster and red snapper. I walked on the beach every night. Then I bought a Harley Davidson Softail Slim and whatever I couldn't fit in the saddlebags, I left behind. I changed my number and struck out for Idaho.

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