Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

time?”
    “Nah. These crazy bitches can just cool their engines. Hang on, my brother.” He was gone for a matter of seconds while he must have closed a door somewhere, since the din was largely gone when he returned. “That better?” he asked.
    “Much. You workin’ a gig or something?”
    “Yeah. Fuckin’ bachelorettes. I’m changin’ into my sailor outfit.”
    I bugged my eyes for Ben. “He’s changing into his sailor outfit.”
    Ben laughed.
    “Listen,” I said to Patreese. “I won’t keep you but…my brother’s coming out to see me tomorrow, and he’s been acting really peculiar since we got home.”
    “Uh-huh.” This was noncommittal at best.
    “Has something…happened around there?”
    “Around where?”
    “The Gospel Palms.”
    A long silence and then: “Well…your mama had a fight with ol’ whatshername…Lenore. I reckon that must be it.”
    “A fight?”
    “Yeah. Knock-down-drag-out. She don’t want her comin’ around anymore.”
    “Was this about the power-of-attorney thing?”
    Another puzzling silence. “I don’t really know for sure.”
    “Yes you do, Patreese. She tells you everything.”
    Patreese cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Sorry, Michael…I can’t do this. You just wait and talk to your brother. You’ll be fine. I don’t feel right about gettin’ all tangled up in family matters. It wouldn’t be fair to you, either.”
    “Okay,” I said evenly.
    “A lotta shit shakes loose when folks are dying. You don’t need to hear it from the hairdresser.”
    What on earth? I thought.
    “You’re not pissed at me, are you?”
    “No…of course not.”
    “I saw your mama day before yesterday. She’s no better…but she looked a lot more at peace, you know? Now that she’s spoken her peace.”
    Someone must have opened the door, because that mindless estrogen roar was drowning us out again. “I gotta go,” said Patreese. “Say hey to that sweet thing o’ yours. I’ll call if there’s any change with your mama. Don’t you worry.”
    Before I could thank him he was gone. I closed the phone and turned to Ben.
    “Now I’m really freaked,” I said.

22
    Keep Me Company
    T he restaurant at the Airport Marriott was called JW’s Steakhouse, presumably after old Mr. Marriott himself, the archconservative Mormon billionaire. It made sense that my brother had picked it. This was a piece of his America, clean and predictable, a safe refuge at the gates of Sodom. Whatever his mission today, Irwin would feel better here, buffered by families and beef-eating businessmen. These were his peeps.
    Me…I’d never felt so out of town this close to the city.
    Irwin had chosen a quiet corner of the restaurant. He stood up when he saw me, fussing reflexively—and rather touchingly, I felt—with his comb-over. When we were face-to-face, he thrust out his arm and grabbed my elbow with the other. He’d learned this trick from our father, an acknowledged master at keeping love at arm’s length.
    “Hey, bro,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
    “No problem…I was already in the neighborhood, so…”
    “Sit down, sit down.” He was too distracted to joke. “You ordered yet?”
    “Irwin…I just got here.”
    He looked mortified. “I meant…you know…would you like to?” He handed me the menu. “These places are pretty dependable. I’ve been to the one in Anaheim and the one in Philly. Fine cuisine every time. The Cowboy Steak can’t be beat.”
    At eighteen ounces the Cowboy Steak would have choked a coyote, so when the waitress arrived, I ordered the seared tuna. “That’ll be good, too,” Irwin offered gamely. “It’s all good here.” Then, without a word to me, he ordered double scotches for both of us.
    “Hey,” I said. “I’ve got clients this afternoon.”
    “Just bring ’em,” Irwin told the waitress.
    When she was gone, there was a lead-footed silence, so I jumped into the breach and asked him, as tactfully as possible, what the hell was going on.
    “First off,” he replied, “it’s not about you havin’ the power of attorney. I know about that and I don’t care. Mama can die whenever she pleases. She’ll get no trouble from me. I want to make her as comfortable as possible. She knows that, too.”
    I nodded, wondering how he’d found out. “Does Lenore feel that way?”
    His expression grew stony. “She’s got nothin’ to do with this. You and me are the next of kin, and that’s that. Whatever we say