Hooked

vain, Dad,” Ethan said.
    “Jesus is not my Lord. He’s your mother’s Lord. You’re Jewish.”
    “That’s not what the rabbi says. Jews believe children are the religion of the mother. That makes me Catholic.”
    “Ei-leen.”
    “What is it, Benny. Why are you yelling?”
    Eileen was wearing tight Capri pants with a halter top. Benny took one glance at her tits and almost lost his train of thought.
    “Jennifer, Ethan, you’re finished with your cereal. Go get ready for camp.”
    “We are ready, Daddy.”
    “Then go wait for the camp bus.”
    “There is no camp bus.” Ethan planted himself in his chair, arms across his chest. The position stated clearly that he wasn’t going to leave the kitchen until he’d heard what his father wanted to say to his mother. “It’s Mrs. Delano’s turn to drive today.”
    “Well, go outside and wait for her.”
    “It’s too early, and it’s hot outside,” Jennifer said.
    Benny leaned closer to his daughter. “Then go watch TV until she comes,” he said in a low monotone. “Both of you.”
    Jennifer appealed to her mother with a drawn-out, “Mom.”
    Benny could feel his patience draining. “Eileen?”
    “Go ahead, baby,” Eileen said. “Go, Ethan.” She helped Jennifer from her seat. “Daddy needs to talk to me.”
    “Why can’t I ever hear what Dad has to say when he wants to tell you something juicy?” Ethan whined.
    Eileen glanced at Benny. “Exactly for that reason, sweetheart. He wants to tell me something he doesn’t want you to hear. That’s what grownups do sometimes.”
    “It isn’t fair.” Jennifer pouted and left the room, huffing and stomping her foot in a mini-fit of temper. Ethan smirked.
    After his kids were out of hearing distance, Benny said, “Herb Mokler called me a pimp. A pimp! Where the hell did he get that?”
    Eileen wiped the coffee-splattered table. “Probably from someone you set up at the club. Word gets around, you know.”
    “And he called you a tart.”
    “He what?” Eileen’s two words wailed like an air-raid siren. “A tart. Why, the son of a bitch. Herb Mokler should know about tarts. His wife has banged every tennis pro at the club since they joined. The nerve.”
    “How do you know about his wife?”
    “People talk. Especially, you know, tennis pros.”
    Benny glared at her. “Since you have an…inside track, maybe you should pull Mrs. Mok ler―what’s her first name?”
    “Laura.”
    “Yeah, Laura. Maybe you should pull Laura aside and tell her to put a gag on her husband, unless she wants her extra-marital escapades made public.”
    “Not a problem, dear. I never liked her anyway. She’s always making co mments about how my boobs jiggle when I play tennis. She’s a jealous, flat-chested tramp.”
    Eileen plopped in the chair, calling Benny’s attention to her jiggling boobs. God, they were beautiful. “Hmmph, pimp, indeed,” Benny said under his breath. “I’m not a pimp. I never take a cut. Don’t work on percentage. Why are people ugly, Eileen?”
    “I don’t know, honey. It’s just the way they are.”
    Benny spread the paper, scanning the front page. “Oh, my God.”
    “What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    “Remember that actor I told you about? Cindi’s boyfriend? What was his name? Dirk something?”
    “The extortionist?”
    “Yeah, that’s the one.”
    “Hansen. I think you said his name was Hansen.”
    “He’s dead. Someone found him in a Dumpster. It says he was mutilated. Wonder what that means.”
    “In the old days it meant someone cut off his pecker. Probably still means that.”
    Benny gulped. “Jesus.”
    “Don’t say the Lord’s name in vain, Benny. It offends me.”
    “Don’t get into what’s offensive. Remember, Jesus isn’t the Lord in this house.”
    “Maybe he should be. Bad things are happening to people you come in contact with lately. If you believed in Jesus, those things might not happen.”
    Benny thought about what Eileen said. Not the Jesus part, but the bad things happening part. First Serena, then Cindi and Melody, now this con artist Hansen. Oh, and Colin blackmailing Rick Martell, triggering a visit from Don Mario Russo, a crime boss who wouldn’t bat an eye while he put a bullet in the back of Benny’s head, mob style.
    There could be no other explanation. Benny was fucking cursed. On top of that, his children thought he was a pimp. His breakfast bagel felt like a slab of cement in his gut, churning up acid