Zene woke up on the sofa, neck painfully stiff. He reached out for the bottle of ibuprofen on the coffee table, conveniently located to deal with the aftereffects of “the night before” every other morning. Dry-swallowing two pills, he got up and headed to the kitchen for water.

In the gray light of the afternoon, the events of yesterday seemed like a dream.

“Better not have been a dream,” grumbled Zene, looking for the instant coffee in the cupboards. He still needed that money. Why hadn’t he asked Arcady for a new check right there and then, anyways?

Probably hadn’t been thinking very well at the time.

A muffled ringing sounded. The phone; he wondered under which pile of clothing he’d left the stupid thing. On the sixth ring, he managed to scoop it up from under a noisome towel.

“‘lo,” he grunted.

“Zene! How are you?”

“Arcady? What the hell is wrong with you? You sound like a goddamned untuned piccolo.” Zene rubbed his ear, then replaced the receiver against the other one.

“Would you like to accompany me to Father’s residence?”

“Did your father die or something?”

“No, no, he’s quite well.”

Zene balanced the phone on his shoulder as he contemplated the beer bottles in the fridge. “So… is he out and you’re breaking in?”

“He’ll meet us at the gate, actually.”

The headache was inching back. “Look, last night was enough, Arcady. I’m not gonna help you kill your dad.”

“We’re not going to kill him. How could you think such a thing?”

There was no sane answer Zene felt he could give.

“We’re going to help him,” continued Arcady.

“Help him?”

“And charge him $400 hourly for the privilege. Shall we split it, say, fifty-fifty?”

“Ah.” Zene finally shut the fridge. There was nothing in there he’d want to drink for breakfast.

He looked around the tiny studio, at the sink full of dishes, the used clothing mounded on the floor, and the strange mold growing on some of the take-out boxes on the coffee table. And the meager gray of winter daylight was already disappearing.

He probably had nothing better to do.

“Don’t suppose you’d mind picking me up,” he said.

---

Zene opened the door of Arcady’s hybrid and said, “What the fuck is that?”

“That’s not a very friendly hello.”

Arcady’s black t-shirt featured a violinist in the midst of passionate play. The scroll end of his violin pointed towards the viewer, so the fact that he was giving one and all the middle finger with his violin hand was prominent. To say the least.

Beneath the image, in large block letters, was the phrase

Fiddle me this!

“I thought your father was a bit formal,” said Zene, shutting the door as he got in.

“Father is very formal.” Arcady pulled the car away from the curb, sliding into traffic with the aggressive passive-aggressiveness of the Seattle driver.

“You know, most people would feel a bit ashamed, dragging in an innocent third party to a pre-made family argument.”

“Who said anything about that?” asked Arcady as he pushed the hybrid through traffic towards an express ramp. “Do you know why you weren’t dragged off to the precinct this morning?”

“Because it was fucking obvious, even to Kincaide, that you and your dad would do anything to incriminate each other in a fucking murder investigation. Can we stop by a Mickey-D or something?”

Arcady chuckled. “Did you seriously think my father would have tried to get his own son indicted during an election year?”

Zene counted to G a few times in his head. “That whole argument was just an act?”

“The death or illness of loved ones brings in the sympathy votes, whereas a son in jail on a charge of murder is… less advantageous.”

Tags: arcady, zene

Trackback URI | Comments RSS