The good news? No need to worry about being robbed when someone’s already taken all your money.
Ten
I might be in real trouble.
The thought had little weight. It was more like an intellectual puzzle, a mental Rubik’s Cube. He felt faint concern
(how am I going to figure this out?)
and sometimes his brain got stuck in a confused loop
(the money’s gone? the money’s gone? the money’s gone?)
and Lillith kept intruding
(what am I doing with this kid?)
but that was all. Like he was watching a movie. A great movie with a handsome yet cool star everybody rooted for, including him. Go, Team Rake! Was it because he was normally a cool customer, unmoved by the ups and downs of life? Someone who kept his head no matter what was going on, and thus could tackle any problem that came his way with collected, quick confidence?
Nope; that was Blake. Rake tended to roll with the punches (or drunken Lake Como shenanigans). Even now he kept thinking, I’ll just grab my credit card and— No I won’t. I can just use my phone to— No I can’t. I’ve got enough cash left to—No I don’t. His brain, used to using money to solve everything since he was a teenager, was having trouble keeping up with current events: There were no cards. There was no money. There was a kid, though. For some ungodly reason.
He explained this to Lillith, who was heroically unperturbed. “I told you,” she said. “I have money.”
“I’m not taking your babysitting money, hon.”
“I’m too young to babysit.”
“And I’m too old to take a loan from a kid.”
“Possible daughter,” she corrected politely.
He bit back a groan, found them a small bench in the Giardinetti Reali, and tried to think of his next move, tried to think past the drumbeat of your money’s gone your money’s gone your money’s gone, tried to squash the panic.
Okay. First. It probably wasn’t gone. His bank was half a planet away; it was likely an electronic snafu, or their system was down, or something that was completely explainable during business hours—what time was it in Las Vegas, anyway?
Whatever the problem was, he was worth about twenty million, and that much money doesn’t just disappear overnight, not for real. If nothing else, his mother and/or Blake would have warned him, since their names were on all the paperwork, too: When his father had died playing 9 1/2 Weeks foodie sex games with his cutie of the month,* their mother had overseen the trust until he and Blake came of age, and now they all shared the fortune. They weren’t all broke, ergo Rake wasn’t broke. Not for real. Not—y’know—permanently.
But what to do in the meantime? Borrow another phone (and oh God what fun that would be) and reach out to Blake for help?
Except Blake was one of the seven people in America who didn’t do Facebook. At all. Not even ironically. He barely did email; he sure as shit didn’t tweet. He preferred phone calls and—yeesh!—snail mail, and he’d only started texting two years ago, the goddamned Luddite. Thought social media “encapsulated all the ills of the world” and wanted nothing to do with it.
Okay, then: Mom.
Except his mother was stuck in Sweetheart, North Dakota. Yeah, he was stuck, too, but he wasn’t stuck somewhere that sounded like a place you were sent if you lost a bet, somewhere they’d outlawed dancing in the fifties, and where there was only one streetlight. She had problems of her own—boy, did she!—and he sure as shit wasn’t going to add to them. Was this selflessness? Or just the pure natural instinct of a grown man not wanting his mommy to know he was in such a weird dumb mess?
Hey, Mom, you know how I only call you when I need something, and maybe on your birthday? Listen, sorry you’re hip-deep in family problems, here’s another one: Someone stole all my money and I’m stuck in Venice. That’s Italy, not California. Come get me, Mommy? Bring cash and Snickers. Yeah, that was a whole world of no. Also, you’re maybe a grandma! Some stranger dumped a kid on me we don’t know is mine and then ran off. So there’s that. Which needed to be straightened out ASAP.
There was the nuclear option, but he’d have to be a lot more than broke and stranded in a foreign country with shit drying in his hair and saddled with a cute second-grader before he’d take that step. Maaaaaybe if he was in the ICU. Or had lost the use of his legs, brain, and dick. If he was hanging off the edge of a cliff by one hand and his fingers were slipping. Maybe.
The consulate? Nope; they were the reason he’d been appalled to wake up in Venice in the first place. Venice was beautiful, the food was incredible, the gondoliers had the best stories, and still he’d had no plans to come back after his last visit. The misunderstanding had been … extreme. The kind where grim men in uniforms held on to your passport and asked questions ad nauseum, then finally gave it back, only to immediately provide an “escort” to the airport.
The cops?
Maybe. But only if the consulate mess hadn’t spilled over to the local police, and he wouldn’t know that until he talked to them. Which would be a bad time to find out the knives were still out for him at the Consular Agency: when he was surrounded by cops. “You guys better treat me right! I was rich yesterday!” Pass.
He couldn’t linger in the park much longer, either; loitering was frowned upon when you smelled like he did, and there were laws against begging here. Maybe he could find another friendly homeless person. Thanks for the phone, I don’t suppose you can arrange lodging, too, right? Sorry about that whole homeless thing, by the way. Oh, a sandwich? For me? No, I couldn’t. Well, maybe just one bite. And one for the kid on my left. Ugh.
Rake plunged his hands in his pockets past the wrists and tried to think. There had to be something he—
“We could ask Delaney for help.”
He jumped. The kid had a near-uncanny ability to fade from his consciousness; she didn’t fidget or hum or kick her feet or any of the things kids did when they were bored (and which he still did on occasion). No one would ever feel the need to buy Lillith a fidget spinner. She just sort of faded into the background, blending like adorable chubby-cheeked camouflage until …
“That’s an idea.” He felt for the business card he’d absently tucked away after Delaney left, and now he pulled it out and looked at it. Plain white, neat black lettering, nothing embossed: I. C. Delaney. Exactly the kind he’d have if he ever had business cards. Well, maybe with everything in a kind of shrieking red font. And I. C.? What was that supposed to mean? Didn’t she say her name was—God, what was it?—something from one of the hotties in The Breakfast Club. No, not Judd Nelson. Definitely not the geek who grew up and turned psychic—Claire! That was it, Claire Delaney, who for some reason called herself Delaney, except when she was handing out business cards, when she called herself I. C. Delaney.
She’d even told him where she was staying, probably just trying to be nice—never in a hundred years did he think she was trying to pick him up, not after the horrors she’d endured in his company—but still: He had that info in his brain somewhere.
Somewhere he’d never stayed, somewhere cheap, relatively speaking. He even remembered feeling mild sympathy for anyone who had to stay somewhere less than luxurious in a city with the Ruzzini Palace and Palazzina G. Not that her hotel sounded terrible; it simply wasn’t the best—the best—best—Best Western Olimpia! Yessss! Finally things were going his way! His brain was actually engaging and being helpful! He’d actually figured something out without Delaney’s help! For the first time that day! Suck it, Blake!