The Divorcee Murder Club

Cincuenta Y Siete ~ 57

“Give her a chance. She’s not as bad as you think, and she’s learning—growing. It’s not like I’m perfect.” 

“But you’re my son. I don’t know anything about this woman who you’ve allowed into your home and clearly into your bed.”

“I can hear you…” Angie says from the kitchen as she washes the dishes, but my mom speaks louder, her face craned in her direction.

“If she hurts you, I will rip her to shreds like a violent mama bear.”

The faucet shuts off, and the dishes clang in the sink. Shit. Angie strolls up to the table, a towel in hand as she dries herself, and her gaze zeroed in on my mom. Fuck. I begin to stand because, however I feel about Angie, I love my mom more, and I will body slam her if she tries something.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Señora. I’m not Celia. Unlike her, I love fiercely, and I’m loyal, which means I’ll destroy anyone who tries to hurt Miguel. So how about we use that as common ground?” Angie tosses the towel over her shoulder and marches past us.

“Where are you going?” I ask like a fool.

“To change my bandages,” she barks over her shoulder. “I got shot not too long ago, remember?”

My mom grunts beside me, so I lower my gaze at the woman. Her arms are folded, a scowl is wrinkling her forehead, and she looks like a fifty-something-year-old toddler having a tantrum. 

“Ma… I gotta help Angie clean her wound and put on new dressings.”

She shrugs. “I don’t care.” 

“Please be nice.”

“I am nice.”

“I promise this is different. She’s not Celia.”

My mom wipes a tear from the corner of her eye and sniffs. “I just want you to be happy and find a nice girl. That’s all a mother wants—to see her child happy, but don’t be like me, Miguelito. Find someone good.” 

“Don’t blame yourself for Chuck. He was a piece of shit stepfather and an even worse husband. That’s on him.” 

“Whatever, I have to go.” She stands. “I need to call Detective Rooney.”

“What! Why?”

“You need his help. Maybe he can sniff around.”

“Ma, no.” I slide in front of her and block the door. “He stuck his neck out for us when I bashed Chuck’s skull, but that was years ago. He’s old and retired now. Don’t drag him into this shit.” 

Narrowing her eyes with a smirk, my mom curls her fingers around my forearms and shoves me out of the way with superhuman strength. I nearly fall on my ass. She dusts off her hands proudly, swings the door open, and strolls out.

“I’ll be in touch!”

∆∆∆

The view from Angie’s apartment is an expensive one, with the Giant’s AT&T ballpark on display and the sun shining across the marina like a blanket of crystals as kayakers paddle around. Yet, as lovely as it is, I can’t stop to marvel at it. Instead, I toss the placed upside down, searching for hidden cameras while Angie packs a suitcase and toiletries. She can’t live in my T-shirts forever.

“I got ahold of Franky,” she huffs, dragging two gigantic pieces of luggage behind her.

“Jesus. You’re not moving in.”

“Duh, but I have a lot of shit. Ok? What if midday I want to put on shorts or we go out dancing?” 

“Dancing? With all the shit going on, that’s the last thing we’re doing.”