My phone buzzed.
I paused the stream. Two notifications. One from my father:Heard the shoot went well. Don't forget the dinner with Meridian Sports. These relationships matter.The other from Mom. She'd called three times in two minutes.
Which meant she'd done something stupid and needed me to fix it.
I answered on the fourth ring. "What's wrong?"
"Joe Lee." Her voice was thick and slurred. "Baby, I need your help."
I closed my eyes. There was a time when I would have corrected her, reminded her that I'd changed my name years ago. Now it was just: "Where are you?"
"Vegas. I'm in Vegas, and I just... I made a mistake, baby, I made a bad mistake..."
"How much?"
She was silent. Then: "Fifteen thousand."
"Fifteen thousand dollars."
Last year it had been eight thousand in Reno. The year before that, twelve thousand to a boyfriend who'd cleaned out her bank account. She was fifty-three years old, and she still believed the next bet would fix everything.
"Who do you owe it to?"
She didn't answer, and that was worse than the number.
"Mom. Who do you owe fifteen thousand dollars to?"
"His name is Vic. He's... Joey, he's not a nice man. He's really not a nice man, and I told him I could get it. I told him my son..."
"You told him about me?"
"I didn't say your name. I just said my son could help, and he said..." Her voice cracked. "He said I have until Sunday."
The frozen image on my laptop showed Red on the bench with his head bowed and Armijo's hand on his shoulder. I'd been sitting here watching another man touch him while she gambled away money she didn't have to men who would hurt her to collect.
I reached for something, and she called. She always called. I always answered.
"Where are you staying?"
"The Sandstone. Room 212. Joey, are you coming? Are you going to help me?"
I should say no. I should tell her to figure it out herself.
But I wouldn't. We both knew it.
"I'll be there tomorrow. Don't leave the room. Don't talk to anyone. Don't answer the door."
I booked a flight and started packing.
The Sandstone was the kind of motel that advertised hourly rates on a sign missing half its bulbs. The parking lot was cracked asphalt and cigarette butts, and the ice machine by the stairs had an OUT OF ORDER sign that looked older than I was.
Room 212 was on the second floor. The stairs smelled like mildew and piss.
She opened on the third knock, just a crack, the chain still on.
"Joe Lee." Her voice was a whisper. "Baby, you came."
"Let me in."
