Mark gathers himself and squints at me. “Who are you people? You’re not police, are you?” He’s doing his best to sound tough, but his voice trembles.
“No, we’re not police,” Gavino says, rapping his knuckles on the table. “We’re much worse than police. The cops are restrained by laws and morality, and neither of those things bother me all that much. Don’t look at her.” Gavino snaps his fingers at Mark, grabbing his attention. “Keep your eyes on me. I’m the one that’s going to start hurting you soon.”
Mark gags and pales and his knees start jostling. “This has to be some kind of mistake. I can’t help you. I’m sorry, I really can’t. Mr. Strafford was a very brief acquaintance, but it’s been years since I’ve spoken to him and I never plan on speaking to him again. Please, I can’t help.”
“I thought you didn’t know him,” Gavino says, feigning surprise. “How did a lowly little postal worker like yourself meet a man like Malcolm, huh?”
“Please,” Mark whispers, wiping his face, and I can’t take anymore. It’s this house, barely maintained and so lonely, and this man falling apart and sweating. I can’t stand to be here anymore. I come around and stand behind Gavino and glare at Mark.
“You knew my mother, you two worked together,” I say and he slowly looks at me with a dawning horrified expression. “You got her fired, didn’t you? Do you remember that?”
“You’re Cathy’s girl?” He barely whispers it.
I nod once. “She was my mother.”
“You must’ve been so young back then.”
“Five years old. I remember because that year, Mom lost her job and we got kicked out of our condo and ended up moving into a mobile home. She broke her ankle trying to carry a big TV down the steps and got hooked on oxycontin after that. She went downhill from there. I bet you can imagine the story, you’ve probably read about a dozen similar stories in the paper.”
Mark blinks at me rapidly. I didn’t tell Gavino those details, but he doesn’t look surprised. He keeps on glaring at Mark, the bad cop to my good, or at least the real threat of violence here.
“Cathy was a nice lady,” Mark says, looking down at his hands. “Real good lady. I’m sorry she got fired and all that happened to her. Is she doing okay now?”
“Dead,” I say. “Overdose.”
Gavino twitches. Mark groans and closes his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“What did Malcolm pay you to fire her?”
“I can’t.” Mark squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “I really can’t. He’ll kill me.”
“Malcolm’s not here,” Gavino says, “but I am.”
Mark groans once and opens his eyes. “Please, you don’t understand. I was younger then and stupid. I had gambling debts—”
“How much?” I press, starting to lose my temper.
“Thirty thousand,” Mark says and I release a strangled sound from deep in my throat.
Thirty thousand dollars. That’s how much my mother’s life cost. Thirty grand to get rid of her. Thirty grand to shove her into hell. If we hadn’t gotten kicked out of the condo, if she hadn’t broken her ankle and started on the pills, things would be different. My life wouldn’t be one long list of miseries.
Instead, this man got to clear his gambling debts, and here we are.
I step forward, leaning over Gavino’s shoulder to stare into Mark’s face. “You killed my mother, you son of a bitch.”
His face drains then and he shakes his head. “I only fired her. That’s all.”
“She lost her pension.”
“That decision was way over my head.”
“She lost everything because of you.”
“Please, I’m sorry.” Mark leans forward, face in his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Mark,” Gavino says, gravelly voice almost gentle. He holds a hand up, stilling me, and I step back to try to get myself under control. It’s hard to see this man right now, knowing what he did to my mother. And for almost nothing. Not nearly enough for the pain it caused. “I need proof.”
Mark looks up, eyes watery, cheeks tear-stained. “Proof?”