Page 65 of Race With The Devil

“So what’d it say?” asked Maddy.

Slayer seemed to recall what he was talking about. “Oh, right. I sent in the DNA you found in Lavinia’s vagina and asked for a match to the DNA we swabbed from inside Mr. Morgan’s mouth. It was a match.”

Lytton said, “That just proves he fucked her before someone else tossed her over the cliff.”

But even inebriated, Slayer was ready for action. He pointed at us with his plastic flute. “And it matched with skin scrapings from her shoulder, where he put his hand when shoving her.”

“Ah,” said everyone at the same time, nodding their heads with knowledge.

I said, “You’re pretty up on this whole DNA thing.”

Slayer nodded. “It is a good tool for my toolbox. I need to stay relevant.”

Slushy stood. “Speaking of relevant. Slayer. I’d like to stay that way, too.”

Slushy steered Slayer by the arm as they turned their backs to us. The last thing I heard was Slushy saying what sounded like, “I was thinking of maybe doing some commercials.”

“TV commercials?”

“Well, as much as this mug was born for the big screen, I was thinking more like radio. I’ve been told I’ve got a very slick, sincere voice . . . “

Paddington stirred under my hand. His ears puffed up, like they did when he saw a squirrel. Unity was heading our way, making a funny face at the two con men as she passed them by.

She slung a thumb at them. “What was that all about? Warning him not to run his own DNA again?”

Ford said, “That cousin twice removed of his is serving like ten years for nonpayment of child support.”

Bellamy and Lyric were approaching. Bellamy really did have a motherly vibe with her arm protectively around Lyric, though they were separated by only ten years. I let Paddington run over to Bellamy. “Who’s that?” I asked him excitedly. “Go see.”

Lyric broke away from her foster mother. She ran toward me with open arms. “Tanner! I can’t say ‘thank you’ enough times for helping me in court. Without Beetle sitting next to me I don’t know if I could’ve made it.”

“Thank Wolf,” I said. “He’s been training Beetle to be a companion dog. Maybe they’ll go on all the Bikers Against Child Abuse runs from now on.”

Lyric tousled my hair. “Yes, but you were the one who brought Beetle from St. Louis. I swear, I wouldn’t have had enough guts to stand up to Gary, to face him in court, if I didn’t have that little fluffster sitting beside me—even if I hadn’t been wearing a Bare Bones cut.”

“Aw,” I said, unaccustomed to being treated like a father. “You have to give yourself credit, Lyric. Your testimony was vital. And you were perfect. Going up against that twatwaffle was the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen. The jury were so disgusted, you could tell.”

She shrugged. “And Unity’s testimony helped massively. Showing a repeat pattern helped put that fuckturd away for twenty years.”

Maddy asked, “What’s your mom doing now?”

Lyric shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. Without Gary’s shitty income she’ll have to give up the house. Become homeless. I seriously don’t care.”

I knew what she meant. When parents treat their children with disdain and even battery, they still expect those kids to be around, to step up to the plate for them. That’s unrealistic. My mother basically ignored me my entire life. Men were more important to her than her kids. It took me a long time to admit she was basically a slut. After I came to look at her objectively, I was surprised she knew who our fathers were. And should these parents who ignore or mistreat their kids be accorded the same level of respect and duty as parents who actually take an active hand in bettering their kids’ lives? In my life, I’ve seen very few people with parents like that. But the few I’ve known, well, those kids went onto college and good careers because they had their parents’ support. They had self-respect.

I doubted any Bare Boner could say the same. I’d met Duji’s New York Italian father in a wheelchair, and they were always sniping at each other. Taking care of an old-timer was hard enough, but an old timer who not only wasn’t grateful for your help but actively, nonstop bitched at you for trying to assist? “I want some velcro to repair these plastic patio chairs!” “But dad, the velcro and materials will be $100. You can buy new chairs for ten.” “How dare you suggest I switch to a smaller trash can?” “But dad, you only use half this one, every week.” “Get your hands off my garbage can! It’s mine!” Or, the best I’d heard was from Wild Man, his mother disinheriting her kids because they dared to arrange her pills in one of those weekly pill reminders. Thank God that people of my generation were starting to live shorter lives, but we were stuck with the parents who lived forever.

No thanks. Let them pay someone to put up with that bullshit.

And when I was old, other Prospects would have to help me out, because sure as shit, I was going to patch in, sooner or later. Lytton was giving me a hint of what was to come.

He said, “After you eat, Tanner, we want you to put on these pasties”—he pulled out some glittery things shaped like little Chinese straw hats—“and go shirtless through Wal-mart, CVS, Whole Foods, and Safeway buying up every box of tampax you can find.”

“Tampax?” asked Maddy, normally not one to butt into club business. “So, he only has to buy up tampons?”

Lytton looked confused. “Well, all of it. All the tampons and all those pad things. Did I leave anything out?”

“That should cover it.” Maddy, Lyric, and Bellamy grinned to beat the band.