Debbie rolled her eyes playfully. “I tried to eat it. You sipped a diet soda and complained about your figure!”
Nicholas and Debbie both laughed.
Matt’s job here was done. Nicholas and Debbie could make their peace without him.
He hugged Debbie goodbye, thanked Nicholas for all his help in the last few days, and gave Cleopatra one last stroke. And then he was out the door and headed to Johnnie’s—not because he was hungry—but, rather, because he hoped to secure one more nail in what would be Colton Langley’s coffin—metaphorically speaking.
Matt was aware of the seeming incongruity here, of having helped Nicholas make amends for his misdeeds while plotting Colton’s demise for his. Matt wasn’t bothered, wasn’t drinking that cheap forgiveness Kool-Aid, which is what it was because there was no comparison between Nicholas and Colton.
Nicholas was an inherently decent person who had made a singular, horrible choice—the getting married to Debbie one—and then hurt her and been remorseful and tried to make amends.
Colton Langley, on the other hand, was the kind of person who kicked stray dogs for the hell of it, who had orchestrated Debbie’s firing, who had caused a sweet, freckled boy to attempt suicide. So, yeah, God might choose to forgive Colton, even at this late date; Matt would not.
Johnnie’s was nearly empty, its being 3:00 p.m. There were more employees than customers. Matt went through the line, ordered a large fry, a Coke, a Diet Dr. Pepper, and water for himself. Found a booth in the back and waited.
It wasn’t long before Molly and Ava joined him.
“Hey Screech!” Molly greeted him in her brassy voice. “What’s so important that we had to meet here? Now?”
Ava slid into the booth gracefully.
Molly not so much. Her camera bag jostled one of the drinks, nearly spilling it. She dropped into the seat noisily. Grabbed her Coke and stabbed it with a straw. Took a pull.
“I have a plan to deal with Colton Langley,” Matt said. “But I need your help.”
Molly unleashed a blizzard of salt on the fries. “I’m not missing the Bulls game if that’s where this is going,” she said.
“How’s Adam?” Ava asked Matt in what sounded like an “I’m-sick-of-sports” tone.
Matt’s heart swelled at mention of Adam’s name and the memory of their magical first date. He’d already told Ava about that night, worn her slick with his lovesickness. She was asking for updates, as in had they talked lately? Matt would call Adam that evening. He couldn’t wait to hear his voice.
“Can your camera take newspaper quality photos?” Matt asked Molly. “Vince—Remember I told you about him? His drag name is ‘Bella Bottoms?’ Anyway, Vince is helping, but we need a photographer. A good one. I told him you’re the best.”
“Pass the ketchup,” Molly grunted.
Matt handed her the ketchup, waited while she burped the bottle, then dredged a handful of fries through the red glop as though wetting a paintbrush.
“The camera’s no problem.” Molly talked around a mouthful of fries. “You can tell your ‘Bella’ friend we’re good on that score.” She patted her camera case. “This baby’s professional quality, with great shutter speed.”
“What’s the plan?” Ava asked. She hadn’t touched the fries. Sipped her Diet Dr. Pepper absently.
Molly held up a hand, fixed Matt with a stern look. “I have a feeling this is going to take a while. If so, you’re gonna need more than these fries to keep my attention. Plus, no matter how intriguing your plan is, I’m bugging out promptly at 5:00. Bulls come first.”
“They always do,” Ava sniped.
Matt laughed. Molly really could “hoover up” food, as William had said. You’d never know it by looking at her, though.
A few minutes later, after Matt had secured two burgers and some onion rings, he explained his plan—and Vince’s conditions, at least the two that affected Molly.
“You said the date is March 22nd,” Molly said. “What time?”
Matt shrugged. “9:00 p.m.? 10?”
Molly slurped her Coke. Shook her head. “Not good enough. You want this story in the next day’sDaily Oklahoman, right? They have a print deadline. You need to find out what that is. Then subtract a couple of hours. I’ll have to take the photos, develop them, polish the article, and submit it. That’ll take at least a couple of hours. Three is probably a safer number.”
“You’re not seriously considering doing this, are you?” Ava asked Molly. “No offense, Matt, but what you’re planning is a crime. And I’m fairly certain that anyone who helps you is guilty of—what’s it called?—conspiracy.”
Matt shrugged. He had asked Garland this very question, posing it, of course, as a “hypothetical” during a break in one of their marathon Gay Team meetings atNicholas’s house.
