The interview room at the police station is cold as air pushes through the vent and grazes my skin. The charcoal grey paint on the walls makes it seem dark in here when in actuality, a bright fluorescent light dangles above the table. One of those double-sided mirrors is to my right, and I know Detective Shapiro and her partner are on the other side watching me. They might even be running down a game plan to get me to spill my guts. 

It’s not going to happen.

Even if they can prove I was there when Richie shot Mindy, I’ll keep my mouth shut and accept whatever charges they throw at me. I will never regret putting that monster down. I’m just mad I didn’t do it sooner.

The interview room door opens, and Detective Shapiro waltzes through in a pants-suit tailored to perfection. If she didn’t have it out for me, I’d say she’s pretty hot. Her skin is smooth, like she takes pride in her moisturizing routine, and now that I have a good look at her under the bright light, she has to be my age. Maybe a little older. It makes me wonder who she stays moisturized for. Perhaps I can lay on the charm to get myself out of this.

“I’m going to cut right to the chase, Mr. Gomez.” She opens a folder on the table and flips through pages but doesn’t make eye contact. “When Richie Reddy was autopsied, gunpowder residue was found on his hand and parts of his wrist.”

“Great. Looks like you have your man. Can I leave?”

“Not so fast.” She grins and looks up at me. “The lab found DNA under his fingernails, and something tells me that you didn’t get that scratch on your face from a wild romp in the sack.”

Damn. I guess Sammy wasn’t smart enough to clean Richie’s fingernails when he staged the scene. I clasp my hands and rest them on the table. If they’re going to make an arrest, then I’m fucking ready. Slap those bracelets on me. Karma has finally come to claim me for all the shit I’ve gotten away with. Detective Shapiro tugs on a pair of rubber gloves and removes a tube-like object from her pocket, and holds it out.

“We just need a swab of your DNA to prove the skin under Richie’s nails is yours.”

But on second thought, I’m not going down this easy. I need a lawyer. I’m about to ask for one when the interview room door swings open. Detective Archibald is there, and he looks pissed as he gnaws on his bottom lip like a bulldog.

“Interview is over.”

“What!” Detective Shapiro barks.

“It’s over. He’s free to leave.”

“Like hell he is!” Shapiro skyrockets to her feet, causing her chair to shoot from beneath her and screech across the floor. “What the hell is going on?” 

Her partner holds up his hands. “I’m just the messenger.”

“Well, who gave the order?”

He rubs the back of his neck with a sigh, “It’s coming from up top.”

“This is bullshit!” Shapiro slaps the table.

“Miguel Gomez.” Detective Archibald motions for me. “You are free to leave.”

Rising from the chair, I say, “Well, it’s been nice chatting, but I’ve worn out my welcome.” 

“This is unbelievable!” Shapiro storms around the table, her partner warning her to stand down, but she gets in my face anyway. “You might be free to leave, but I’m on to you, and I’ll be the heavy breath on your neck when you can’t sleep at night.”

“Sounds hot. Would this be post-coitus?” I say, and her face turns redder than a lobster boiling in a pot. “If you want to fuck me, just say so.” 

“Keep it up, Mr. Gomez. I’m a damn good detective, and I will get to the bottom of who shot Jesminda Arora and killed Richie Reddy.” 

Detective Shapiro barges past me, mumbling expletives, and her anger echoes down the hallway as she argues with her partner. I’m grinning from ear to ear, knowing I won this round, but my smile drops. Was it Augusta? Did she get me out of this mess? Fuck. I brace myself against the door, and my stomach churns as I think about what she’ll have me do to make it up to her. I can’t go through that humiliation again. 

When I exit the interview room and walk past the doorway to my right, the detectives are in there, along with another man. He’s older, in a brown suit, and with a hand on his hip, revealing a shiny badge. My guess is he’s their boss. Detective Shapiro is shouting like a chihuahua foaming at the mouth, and he barks at her to watch her tone.

Oh, boy. She’s in trouble, but it’s not my business, so I shuffle down the hallway and out of the precinct like my ass is on fire. I spill onto the front steps, my eyes searching for a black SUV with blacked-out windows, but it’s not one of Augusta’s penguins waiting for me. 

No. It’s my mom.

“Come on, come on.” She waves me down from behind the wheel.

I take reluctant steps toward her car, then bend at the waist to peer into the passenger window. My brows fly up to my hairline.

“Detective Rooney?” 

“Ask questions later!” my mom says. “Get in.”

∆∆∆

Something I’ve never noticed before is how much of a flirt my mother is. We sit in her kitchen as she dotes on Detective Rooney with coffee and a crumb cake she bought this morning. He snacks on it while she whips up dinner, and I swear I’ve never seen her happier. She’s grinning like a cheerleader, all giggly to have the hot football player’s attention.

And I swear she’s wearing a push-up bra under her form-fitting wrap dress. I grunt as she bends over, her ass practically in Detective Rooney’s face as she slides a casserole dish of green enchiladas into the oven. 

What a little slut.

The old retired detective misses his mouth as a bite of crumb cake ends up on his chin. 

“Ma,” I clear my throat. “Can I have a word with you?”

“About?”

“Something private.” 

“Can it wait?” She straightens and fluffs her hair coquettishly. 

“No.”

“Ugh, fine.” She turns to Detective Rooney with a smile and a wink. “I’ll be back.”

If she keeps up these theatrics, I’m going to barf. She follows me into the hallway with a bounce to her walk, and I swear she’s adding extra sway to her hips. When we’re away from earshot, I spin on my heels to face her.

“Ma, what the hell!”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you not to get him involved. I don’t even want to know what you did to convince him or what he did to get me out of that interview!” 

“Is that all you wanted to talk about?” she laughs.

“I don’t like owing favors.”

“Calm down.” She bats her hand at me. “Steve isn’t asking to pay him back.” 

“Steve?” My eyes widen. “So now you two are on a first-name basis?” 

“I’ve always called him Steve.” 

Dragging my hands down my face, I release a groan, and I can’t believe I’m about to ask this, “Are… are you sleeping together?”

My mother’s smile drops, and she looks me dead in the eyes. “That is none of your business.”

“Oh, I think it is, considering you shoved your nose all up in mine.” 

“That’s different.” She raises her chin, hands on hips.

“How?”

“It’s a mother’s job to look out for her son, and I always protect you. Don’t I?”

“Protecting is one thing. Shoving your nose into my sex life is another.”

She narrows her eyes. “Is this about that Angie woman?” 

“No.” I place my hands on my hips. “Maybe.”

“I just don’t understand why you like these wild girls.” She rubs her temples. “Is it so hard to meet a nice woman who works a simple nine-to-five and comes from a good family?”

“Well, there aren’t a lot of nice girls who would get with a mess like me. I’m damaged goods, and they can see the red flags from miles away.”

The words are barely out of my mouth when a cold, hard slap strikes my face. I reel my head back with a shake. Did she really just do that? The little Latin lady before me wags her finger.

“I never want to hear you speak so badly about yourself again. Do you hear me?”

“Well, it’s true.” I shrug, and she slaps me again. “Ow, fuck! Must you slap me?” 

“Someone has to knock some sense into you. Might as well be me.”

I rub my cheek. “Did you have to hit so hard?” 

 “Yes. You are a reflection of me. So when you speak poorly about yourself, you speak poorly of me and how I raised you.”

“Ma, I didn’t mean—”

“You might be many things, like a pendejo for one thing, but you are not damaged goods.” She smooths down my shirt and pats my cheeks. “Are we done here? I don’t like to leave my guest waiting.” 

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Good.”

About an hour later, we sit around the dining table like some happy family. The last time we sat here was a few days before I bashed Chuck’s skull. He was royally drunk, slurring over his words, and could barely spoon the food into his mouth. I think he even passed out at the table. So, after his death, we always dined in the kitchen to avoid the memory of our last supper together. 

However, my mother has revamped a few things since my last visit. A fancy runner expands the table, with each seat having a place setting and a cloth napkin. There’s even a centerpiece with fresh flowers and candles surrounding the vase. Jesus. She went all out.

My eyes narrow at her across the table, but she ignores me. I hope this show isn’t for Detective Rooney, a.k.a. Steve. Judging by how he gazes at her, I’d say he has a little crush, so it would be pretty messed up if she were doing all this to take advantage of him. 

Damn. 

Maybe this is why I’m so fucked up? I learned all of this shit from her.

“Mijo, are you ok?” she says.

“Yeah, fine.”

“You don’t look fine. Your face is all like this…” She bunches her brows and scrunches her nose to demonstrate. “Like you need to fart.” 

“Ma!”

But Detective Rooney laughs with a mouthful of green enchiladas and wipes his mouth. “You do look like you need to fart.” 

“See?” my mom says.

“Fine,” I release a slow breath, then eye them both. “How did my mom convince you to get me out of that interview today?” 

“She called and said you were down at the station getting questioned,” he says casually and takes another bite.

“Ok, but why would you go out of your way to help me?”

“Why not?” He shrugs.

“Because it’s weird! After all these years, she calls you out of the blue, and you jump to my rescue? It doesn’t make sense.”

He teeters his head. “Well, I wouldn’t say out of the blue…”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’ve kept in touch,” my mother says. 

“Well, we’ve done more than kept in touch.” He winks at her.

I point my fork at him. “What was that!”

My mom rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so immature, Miguel. We’ve been dating on and off for twelve years.” 

“What!” My eyes widen at him. “Aren’t you married?”

“Divorced for the last fifteen years.” Detective Rooney clears his throat and wipes his mouth. “Your mother and I got reacquainted about twelve years ago. Then we lost touch for a bit because I was too stubborn to see what was right before me.”

“He wouldn’t propose.” My mom shakes her head.

“Propose?” I brace the table with my palms.

“I was a fool,” Steve sighs. “We should have eloped right then and there during that trip to Italy.”

“Italy!?” I drop my head in my hands. This keeps getting worse and worse. It’s like my mom has an entire life I never knew about.

“But she stayed on my mind, so when she called…”

My mom reaches out and clasps his hand. “It was like time never stopped for us.”

“Exactly.” He beams at her. “I’m never letting you go now.”

This can’t be real. What twilight zone did I stumble into? But when I look at my mom, she beams right back at him, and I can’t recall her ever gazing at Chuck the way she is at Steve. I’m officially uncomfortable.

“Cool, but it still doesn’t explain why you would stick your neck out for me again,” I say.

“Simply put,” Steve says with a shrug. “Because your mother asked me to, and I love her.”

"Love?" I swallow the lump suddenly forming in my throat. My mom deserves love. Maybe I'm being too hard on them.

"And I love him, too," she says.

Releasing a low breath, I wave my hands. “Well, I can’t let him protect me.”

Steve laughs, “I’m sixty years old, Miguel. You’re not letting me do anything. I did it because I wanted to. So drop this macho act, and accept my help.” 

∆∆∆

After dinner, my mom makes dessert while I sulk on her back porch with a finger of whiskey in hand. I’m texting Angie about what happened at the station and with my mom’s lover, a.k.a. Steve, a.k.a. Detective Rooney, who saved my ass when I was a kid after bashing my stepdad’s skull. A selfie of her and Alma comes through, making me crack a smile. She went to Jackson’s for dinner, and it’s good to see Alma smiling after being abducted by her ex. The cops have sniffed around about Gino going missing, but ultimately they believe he died in the fire that broke out at the Hellion’s drug warehouse. 

Now the fight to regain custody of their kids from his parents begins. Sammy knows a promising lawyer, so Alma is in good hands.

The kitchen’s backdoor opens, and Steve steps out to join me on the porch. We’re bathed in the glow of the moonlight as it drifts past silver clouds, and I can see by his expression that something is on his mind.

“I looked into your situation, and you’ve gotten yourself into some deep shit, kid.”

“I’m aware.”

“I got the police to back off, but at some point, they will get that DNA sample from you. So, I need to know who staged the scene. No one else was there when the cops arrived.”

Rubbing the back of my neck, I stare at him, contemplating whether or not to be truthful. When I was a teen, my gut told me I could trust this man, so I did. However, after this evening’s revelations, I don’t know what I feel.

“Come on, Miguel. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”

Fuck it. On an exhale, I say, “Sammy Costello.”

“Sam—” Steve slaps a hand to his mouth, then drags it down his grey goatee. “Jesus, kid. The mobster— Sammy Blue Eyes?”

“Yeah…”

“How did you get mixed up with him?” He leans against the porch railing, and I hesitate. “Come on, Miguel. I can’t help you if you don’t trust me.” 

I rest my palms against the railing and gaze out toward the yard. Like most city homes, the yard is small to accommodate the other houses smooshed against my mom’s in a typical concrete jungle fashion. My life is like these homes with one shit storm stacked on top of another. Maybe the only way to crawl out from under it is to trust in Steve.

“Why did you and my mom keep your relationship a secret for so long?”

“She wasn’t sure if you’d be ok with it, but it was mostly my fault. Dating after divorce is hard enough, but the thought of marriage can be even harder. There is all this doubt about whether it’ll end up in divorce too.”

“Tell me about it. I still wear the scars of Celia’s betrayal, and I’m not sure if I’ll get married again.”

“No? Your mom said you’re dating a woman she doesn’t like. Is it serious?”

“No. We both have a lot of shit we need to work on as individuals, but maybe one day.”

“You see yourself marrying her?”

“I don’t know.” I grimace, rubbing the back of my head. “Maybe it’s ok to be together without a legal piece of paper? Look at Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell. They’ve been together for ages but aren’t married. Maybe marriage muddles what’s truly important.” 

“It’s nice to share your life with someone either way.”

The critters chirping in the bushes take up the silence as our conversation falters, but I know Steve didn’t come out here for small talk about love, so it’s time I shit or get off the pot.

“Alright,” I say, and pinch the bridge of my nose with eyes closed. “I’ll tell you everything, and I mean everything.” 

Steve shifts to face me. "I'm all ears, kid."

Downing the rest of the whiskey, I wipe my mouth with a half choke as the warm booze scrapes my throat. Then, I spill my guts to him—completely disembowel myself and bleed every shameful thing I’ve done since Angie entered my life. 

I don’t think.

Instead, I let the words flow, and there is a high possibility I will regret this later, but damn, it feels good to let this all go.