“That’s right. But if he knew you were alive, I’m sure he would not want to put you in harm’s way.”
“You are in harm’s way, Adam—you do get that, right?”
I shrugged. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you, okay? No one.”
I pulled for eye contact.
“Look, the truth is—this isn’t about Mr. Elkaim or my uncle, that’s just a bullshit excuse.”
“Then what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Cinnamon,” I said conspiratorially, “I loved Emil. I mean, I didn’t know him like you did, obviously. But he was the closest thing I ever had to a hero. Ever. He was free and fearless and just…he was like—everything I ever secretly wished I could be. Forget about Mr. Elkaim—if I don’t find out why someone would take down my hero, I will never be right with myself.”
This little speech only tensed her more. She looked into the eyes of her mug, as if for help, but Tiki, that mocking god of war, was no help at all. She whispered, “Mr. Elkaim is dying?”
“Yeah,” I said, “it’s a bummer. And he has no peace. Devon came to him, got him all fired up and then…” I showed her my palms.
She stared me down hard, measuring for God-knows-what. Then: “Of course Devon was right. Of course Emil could never have killed anyone, least of all his best friend.”
“I believe it. But then, what happened? Was Emil protecting you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you part of it?”
“Part of what?”
“Of the murder of Reynaldo Durazo.”
“Of course not.”
“Well, then why did you run?”
“I ran,” she said, “because we were cornered. My mother was convinced that Emil was guilty. She claimed she saw him fighting Rey in the backyard. She lied through her fucking teeth. I was seventeen. The cops weren’t going to take my word over hers. It was a nightmare. And it wasn’t just…”
“What?”
“The story blew up. Word spread, fast, threats started coming—even before Emil was arrested. Rusty Durazo, Rey’s uncle, was this big labor union guy and the press went crazy. Plus, Rey’s cousin Lucas was a fucking loon from LADS or NASH or…some psycho skinhead posse. I got phone calls at three in the morning, got chased out of clubs—I was fucking terrified, morning, noon, and night.”
“Jesus. Okay, okay. But why would your mother be so convinced about Emil?”
“I don’t know. ’Cause she’s a crazy narcissistic bitch? Or ’cause she wanted to push me away? It felt like she was pushing—like maybe she wanted to run away. But she was always pushing me in those days, to lie, to sneak. I learned all the tricks from her—when to shut up, when to roll over, play dead. Plus, ya know, far away, I made better material.”
“For what?”
“For the Marjorie show, the great pity party.” Cinnamon scoffed and drank.
“So…you’re sure Emil didn’t do it.”
“Beyond,” she said. “He was with me the whole damn night.”
She shook her head. “My parents were fighting as usual. My mother—ya know, she knew my dad was gay, right? And she just hated him for it. Like, maybe he couldn’t make love to her, but did she have to hate him for it?”
“And she had a lover?”
“Lov-ers. So many I lost track.”
“I met her,” I said cautiously. “Quite a woman for eighty-nine.”
Nothing.
“Does she know where you are?”
Cinnamon held the wet-eyed staring contest. Then she said, “My mother is a monster, okay? A beautiful monster. And she couldn’t help it, men went insane around her, like apes. Women loathed the sight of her.”
“Because—”
“She oozed sex, and I don’t just mean she was nice to look at. She was about sex. Like, she just moved and talked with the…the possibility, the promise…people just lost their fucking bearings, man.”
“Tough for a daughter.”
“You can’t imagine. The jealousy I went through—by age eleven, twelve. It was like living with a terminal illness. So maybe I had to get away.”
“She is…a powerful presence.”
“By half.”
“How do you mean?”
