“My money jar!” I exclaim as I spy the jar. The lid’s next to it, the jar’s empty.
“Oscar stole your money?” Eight is outraged.
“This is Henri’s doing. Oscar’s an accomplice. But they didn’t steal the money. The jar was empty.”
“Fuck,” Eight says as he picks up the used knife and smears some peanut butter on a bread slice, then tops it off with another slice. “Want one?”
How the hell can he eat at a time like this? The kids are missing, they have no money. Henri doesn’t have her cell. “Yeah,” I say.
We leave the kitchen as we found it sans two peanut butter sandwiches and head to the door. “Where now?” Eight asks as we get into his truck.
I think about it. “Maybe Monty’s. Maybe they went to talk to mom.”
He nods. “Worth checking.”
We get to the bar in record time. “Weird,” I say as I walk through the door. “Usually, there’s a bouncer.”
Mom is flirting with some guy over the bar counter, her eyes sparkling. I can’t help but wonder if Tyler is soon-to-be-caput. She looks up and smiles widely. “My favorite couple!”
“Stop it,” I snap. Yes, we are a couple, but this is neither the time nor place to tell mom about it. She’ll spend the next hour in rapture. “You seen Henri and Oscar?”
The smile slides from her face. “Why?”
“They took off.”
“You lost your children?” she says like she’s never lost me before. When I was ten, she forgot me at a truck stop. Took a half-hour before she came back.
The guy mom was flirting with says, “Maybe they went into the forest. Look for a trail of breadcrumbs.”
Eight grabs him by the back of his shirt and hauls him off the stool. “You think this is fuckin’ funny?”
“It’s not funny,” mom says. “It’s neglectful.”
“Mom! They took off!”
“They’re not here!”
Eight raises his voice. “Anyone here see a couple of kids? Boy and girl.”
Some guys glare at us. One of them says, “The little fuckers bummed a smoke then stole my wallet.”
“Well, that can’t be them,” mom declares. “Henri doesn’t smoke.”
God help me and my genetic make-up. I’m surprised I’m functional at all. “It’s them, mom!”
Eight groans. “How much did they take?”
“$240 off me. The wallet was next to me, but fuckin’ empty.” He swipes a hand over his mouth, then stands. The rest of the guys at the table follow suit in solidarity. They’re all so drunk they’re swaying like a strong wind’s blowing.
“Sit the fuck down,” Eight roars as he reaches behind him.
They sit down like they rehearsed it.
“No,” mom cries. “Don’t shoot them! They’re my best tippers.”
I hold my breath as he produces a wallet and opens it. He counts out several bills and slaps them on the table. “Here’s your fuckin’ money and enough to buy a couple of rounds.”
“Hey man, you’re okay,” the mouthpiece slurs.
