“Work,” I say with an apologetic shrug.
“That was Tony Cowan?” She gets to her feet. “What’s he like?”
“Absolutely insane. I got to go though. I have a feeling I’m going to get a lot of calls like this one for the foreseeable future.” I give her a tight hug and she holds me a second longer than she needs to.
“I’m here for you,” she whispers and I nod back, unable to speak, because I’m pretty sure I’ll cry again.
This is not how I pictured becoming a mom.
I hurry downstairs, through the mess of contractors, and out to my car. I hop in and head to the address, head spinning.
My mother was a lovely woman growing up. She was the perfect contrast to my father: kind, caring, warm, loving. When my father screamed and raged, she bore the brunt and calmed us down when it was over. When my father belittled me, she tried to build me back up.
She cleaned up his messes for years.
And it wore her down.
As I got older, she withdrew further and further into her own life, until she finally disappeared.
Leaving poor Max to fend for himself.
I want to be understanding, especially now that I’m pregnant myself and looking forward at a future where I realistically might be taking care of a child alone and without any support. I want to feel bad for her because being with my father must’ve been hard.
Except she abandoned my brother when he needed it most. I can get over her disappearing on me—but not on him.
I finally reach the address Cowan sent and drive past twice before I’m sure it’s the right place. The building is deep in South Philly, the part of the city where I’m pretty sure everyone standing around outside is in the mob. The address belongs to a hole-in-the-wall bar, a real piece-of-trash dive with no sign and no indication that it’s anything but a doorway aside from a Coors advertisement plastered over the front.
I park, get out, and try the handle. It’s open and I step into a smoky, dimly lit room. It takes me a second to get over the assault of cigarette stench—smoking indoors should be illegal—but I keep my mouth shut and stare at my surroundings.
It’s a bar like I thought, and it’s a total dump. Taps on the left, bottles lined up behind them, and an old woman leaning against the wall watching aWheel of Fortunererun on TV. In the back, several big guys sit around puffing on cigars, and right between two ugly, nasty assholes sits Tony Cowan looking very unhappy.
At least until he spots me and waves me over.
All eyes turn as I head toward the group. Six men stare at me with expressions ranging from boredom to disgust. My heart leaps into my throat and I feel like my feet are going numb with fear. These aren’t the kind of men that let a woman walk through the door and out again without some trouble and I’m terrified it’ll be worse than I’m imagining. I try to smile but nobody smiles back, and the biggest of the group leans forward and taps his cigar against an ashtray.
The danger is palpable and I’m suddenly very fucking mad at Tony Cowan.
“You the money?” the big guy grunts.
“Uh,” I say and look at Cowan. “Am I?”
Cowan nods once. “These gentlemen and I entered into an agreement recently, one which I find I cannot quite hold up. I hoped that my new producer might take care of said agreement for me, if you’d please.”
“What the nice director here is trying to say, miss, is he owes me $2,530, and I’m gonna break his fucking ankles if he doesn’t give it to me right now.”
I gape at him and blink rapidly. How the heck did I go from crying in my friend’s beautiful Old City home to this total dump and these obvious gangsters? Cowan’s grin remains plastered on like he’s got a gun to the small of his back, and that’s probably not far from the truth.
“What’d he do?” I ask.
The big gangster grins at me like he didn’t expect me to do anything but pay. “Mr. Cowan here entered a few games of chance and bought more than his fair share of crack cocaine.”
“For research purposes,” Cowan quickly says.
“And I don’t give a fuck what he did with the crack. All I care about is getting paid. I like Mr. Cowan’s movies very much, which is why I let this go on for so long, but a man’s got to eat, miss.”
“Yes, a man’s got to eat, Pussyfingers here has a point.”
“Pussyfingers?” I tilt my head toward the big man. “That’s you?”