“The range?” I say, tilting my head quizzically.
“The shooting range.”
“You…you shoot guns?”
He smirks. “I’m a competitive marksman. Among other things. And I have a competition to train for, so I really need to get over to the range to meet with my shooting partner.”
“Oh.” I feel suddenly silly, useless. “Do you…do you still want me to stay?”
He chuckles. “Yes, Haisley. I want you to stay, make yourself comfortable in my home. I’ll be back in a couple of hours and then we can go to dinner. Maybe by then you will be less upset about things that were said earlier.”
I feel my cheeks flame with embarrassment. “And maybe later you’ll apologize for having said those things.”
“Not a chance,” he replies. “See you in a bit.”
And then he leaves me standing there, slack jawed but somehow elated all at once. At least he wants me to stay. I haven’t been kicked out.
Not yet, anyway.
After Dermot leaves, I wander aimlessly for a bit, just examining the enormous architectural feat that is Dermot’s home. Every fixture, every object in view, is dripping with signs of wealth and clearly cost both time and money to design and acquire.
I think of my own living situation and it feels like utter squalor in comparison.
Sure, dad and I have a roof over our heads, we have a flat screen TV, beds, a couch. But there is no décor, no sense of warmth, culture or taste. We are not refined or wealthy by any means. This place makes me feel like a peasant, and somehow unworthy.
I don’t want to be ungrateful.
I don’t want to feel bitter.
I just hate that money is everything in this world, and that my father’s sheer incompetence in managing his money has left the both of us destitute.
I feel like a failure, but I’ve been sabotaged since the very beginning of my life. I never even had a chance to succeed on my own merits, I was too busy picking up the pieces of things my father destroyed along his merry way…
I check my banking app again.
The money is just sitting there. Waiting.
I call my father. He answers after a few rings. “Kiddo. How goes it in the big city?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Oh. This doesn’t sound like a friendly kind of call. Should I be worried?”
“I need to get in touch with your friends. The ones who came calling and broke our door down.”
He sighs. “You don’t need to do this.”
“Actually, I do. Because I vouched for you and now they have my name on their list, too. I owe them the money you gambled away.”
“Honey, I know you can’t come up with six figures, and whatever you can come up with isn’t going to be enough to save me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“So, you have money? How much?”
I can hear the greed and excitement in his voice. I can only imagine what he would do if he thought I had access right now to fifty thousand. He’d do anything to get his filthy paws on the cash and rush off to blow it all and probably get in debt another hundred thousand on top of it.
“Dad, I’m not discussing this with you. I just need a number to call.”
“I don’t have a direct line. I can give you my bookie, though. He would be able to put you in touch with…whoever you want to talk to. But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Lucky for you, I’m not taking suggestions at the moment. Just text me the number.”
I hang up without telling him I love him, because right now, I can’t say I feel that I do. Of course, I know deep down I love him, but I’m just furious at the position he’s put me in.
My life is at risk because of his illness—an illness he refuses to get treated.
He may be sick, he may have an addiction, but he has the opportunity to get help and change his ways. If he cared enough about anyone besides himself, he’d have done that by now.
I call the number he texts me. Supposedly this man is a bookie who takes sport bets from my father. Just another member of this shady criminal underworld my dad inhabits.
A gruff voice answers and I explain the situation in general terms. I drop my father’s name and the gruff voice laughs. “Oh, yeah. I know him well. You’re caught up in the mix with that guy?”
“I’m his daughter.”
“Poor girl. I can have someone contact you.”
“I want a number. I don’t want them to have mine.”
The voice pauses. “They don’t like me giving out their info. I’m sure you can imagine why.”
“They would want to hear from me. I have an awful lot of money to give them.”
That changes things, and soon I have the number I’m seeking. My hands shake. I’ve blocked my own number to make sure they can’t harass me after I make this call.
My heart is pounding.
I tell myself I can do this. I can do this. I hit send and the phone rings. Goes to a mailbox and beeps. I call back. Nobody answers until my fourth call.
“Yeah?” comes the voice, and instantly I recognize him. It’s Vincent Rossi, I will never forget his distinctive voice or his dead eyes.
I tell him who I am.
“Huh. I didn’t expect to hear from you again. What do you want?”
“I have the first payment.”
There’s a long, long pause. “Bullshit. You have fifty?”
“I do.”
“What, did your papa hit another big score?”
“None of your business,” I reply, before considering my words.
I can practically feel his rage through my phone. “Watch your tone, little Miss Perfect. I could tell you to take your money and shove it up your ass, and I’ll pay your daddy a visit tonight just because.”
“Except you won’t. Because I really do have the money.”
“You have half my money. Where’s the rest?” he demands.
“I have what I promised. How can I get it to you?”
Vincent explains that I can wire it to an account. He will provide me the account number and other information. I can do the transfer using my phone and it will be completely secure, as well as leaving an electronic receipt that will prove I sent it, should any question arise after the fact.
It frightens me, however, knowing I will have no recourse once the money has been sent. He could just tell me to go screw myself, keep the money, and then still go and hurt my father and demand more and more.
I have no leverage once he has my money in his account.
But I really have no choice. These people have their own little society, their own rules. I could have refused to play the game and let my father suffer the consequences. But I’ve already chosen my path.
“I’ll wire the money today,” I tell him.
“The next payment is due in another week.”
Shit. I didn’t expect that. “I can have it at the end of the month.“
“That will add another twenty thousand in interest to the principal.”
“Twenty thousand more?” I feel my heart racing overtime again. “I can’t afford that…”
“Cry me a fucking river. Next payment in a week. Every week you’re late, we tack on ten thousand.” And then the line goes dead.