Page 93 of Kiss of Wrath

“Sure. Why not? I’m the father. With Miranda no longer around, why wouldn’t they?”

Clarence shrugged, not so certain, but then Clarence was skeptical about the fairness of the court system. Roger was, too.

“What are you getting at, Clarence?”

“Be honest, bro. What you’d really like is Miranda out of the way, the kids in foster care, and you with the cash to do whatever you want, probably far from Vegas. Seriously, some men are made to be fathers. I don’t see you caring that much about your kids.”

Clarence was probably right, but Roger didn’t like his pointing out his shortcomings.

“It’s no crime not to be wanting snot-nosed kids hanging on you for the rest of yer life. And they cost a shitload of money to raise. Clothes, food, all that crap.”

“It’s just that my wife turned the kids against me. All I had to do was holler and they jumped to her defense. Hard to love children who don’t love you back.”

Clarence nodded. “Here’s the deal. I can take care of Miranda for you. They’d never find her body or be able to trace her disappearance to you. Child protective services would be on your family like flies on a manure pile, taking your kids away, unless you decide to fight for them. You’d get the house and car and money to go off for a new start somewheres else. Maybe the Bahamas. Yeah, that would be cool. Sun, beach, hot women, no kids.”

That sounded incredibly good to Roger, who wanted desperately to escape from this shithole of an apartment and shithole of a life. A new beginning, that’s what he wanted. But he also knew that Clarence wouldn’t do this for nothing.

He looked up at Clarence, who’d stopped crunching and cracking. The icy expression on his face chilled Roger, who should have been accustomed to Clarence’s mood swings by now. He was a schizo just waiting to happen.

“What would it cost for you to do this ‘favor’ for me?”

“A ‘date.’ I want you to set me up on a ‘date.’ ”

“With Miranda?” Roger asked incredulously.

“Hell no. With yer daughter.”

“What?” Roger was shocked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Maggie’s only ten years old.”

“Not that one,” Clarence said with absolutely no shame. “The other one.” He walked over and tapped a fingertip on the photograph, dead center on his five-year-old daughter, Linda.

“You are one sick bastard,” Roger said before he had a chance to curb his tongue.

“Yeah, but I’m the sick bastard who can save yer lily-white ass a whole lot of trouble. Besides, you’re a wife beater who wants to murder someone. Who’s the sick bastard here?” He flicked a fingertip against Roger’s ear as he passed by on his way to the doorway, where he picked up one of Lamar’s old Panama hats from the coatrack. “And, by the way, you have until tomorrow to decide, or get the fuck out of here. Find another place to freeload. George and Ginette are looking fer a place.”

George and Ginette were a weird couple that Clarence had become chummy with. Sometimes they were practically movie-star gorgeous with great clothes and pleasing personalities. Other times they appeared to have fangs and a rotten egg smell about them. The creepy thing was, they wanted Clarence to let them suck his blood, just a little. In fact, Roger had awakened one night to find Ginette in bed with him, naked, trying to fang his neck. She’d even gotten a little bite in before he’d managed to shove her out of the bed.

The door slammed behind Clarence.

Roger just stared at the closed door. He needed to get out of this place.

But how could he “sell” his own child?

Roger thought it over and realized he had no particular fondness or bond with the little girl, even if she was his own blood. It was the idea of a grown man having sexual activity with a child that grossed him out, and there was no doubt that was what Clarence had in mind when he mentioned a “date.”

But what could it hurt if it was only for one night? Would that be so bad? Over and done with in a matter of hours. Maybe they could slip the kid a roofie or something, and she wouldn’t suffer too much.

No, he couldn’t do it. There had to be another way.

Rubbing the mosquito bite on his neck that was still itchy, Roger pondered the situation. Maybe he could pretend to Clarence that he was willing. Wait for him to kill that damn Miranda, then renege on the deal. Of course, the only way that would work would be if Roger then killed Clarence, too. Now, there was an idea that held some appeal.

Roger had a lot to think about.

But, first, he had a sudden yearning for a glass of lemonade.