Under the Knife(75)

He dug out his phone and thumbed a number, a special one, buried under layers of software security. Real black-hat-type shit, with enough encryption to leave even the NSA guys scratching their heads should they ever stumble across the signal.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Sis.”

“Brother.” He heard surprise, mixed with affection. “It’s been a while. Are you okay, Brother? Staying out of trouble?”

“Trying, Sister. Trying.” The last time someone had mocked (to his face, at least) Sebastian for addressing his twin as Sister, and her for addressing him as Brother, had been back in seventh grade, and that kid had ended up with a shattered jaw. It had cost Sebastian a stint in Juvey, the first of several. But it’d been totally worth it.

“Well. I guess that’s an improvement over not trying.”

He smiled. “How’re the kids?” His hand tightened around the phone. “How’s Sammy?”

“Good. Real good. Straight A’s so far this semester. Again. The teacher—she’s real young, but nice. And knows her stuff. Teach for America. She says Sammy’s real smart.”

“Naturally. He takes after his uncle.”

“She says that he treats the other kids good, too. Helps them with their schoolwork. She says he could go far, but that he needs stimulation. Stimulation.” She snorted. “I’m doing my best, Brother. Not a lot of stimulation around here. Not the good kind, at least. They closed the library in our neighborhood, which wasn’t for crap, anyway. I’ve been taking the kids to the central library downtown, on weekends. When I can. Central library’s real nice.” She paused, and then added quietly, “He had a checkup at Children’s Hospital last week.”

Sebastian’s stomach clenched. “And?”

“Pretty good. I think. But they didn’t say cure. They said … remission. Yeah, remission. That’s what they called it. They told him he was a survivor. He loved that.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Survivor.”

Survivor.

You and me both, kid.

“They never say cure, Brother,” she said. “The doctors. Why is that, do you think?”

His palms suddenly felt sweaty. “I don’t know, Sis. You know, uh, how doctors are. He, ah … there with you now?”

“No. He’s down at the Boys and Girls Club. After-school program. He’ll be back soon. The counselor always walks him home.”

Through the receiver, Sebastian heard a far-off siren, followed by what might be the nearby jangle of breaking glass, and hoarse, angry shouts in what sounded like Russian.

“Sierra?” his sister said. “Sierra. Get away from the window, baby. That’s my big girl. Mommy wants you to go to her bedroom, okay? And sit on the bed. Turn on the TV and sit on the bed. Mommy will be right there, baby.”

Sierra asked her who she was talking to. She told her.

“Hi, Uncle!” a tinny voice called from the background.

He laughed. Goddamn, it felt good. “Hi, Sierra.”

“He says hi back, baby. Now do what Mommy says. Thank you, baby.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she said curtly.

He ignored her lie. Jesus. I’ve got to get them out of that shit hole. “How’s Sierra?”

“Good. Except her parochial school raised the freakin’ tuition. Again. You believe that crap?”

“It’s the Catholic Church, Sis. They’ve been robbing people blind for thousands of years.”

She laughed. “Yeah. I suppose.”

“How much you need?”

She hesitated before saying, “There’s, um … something else.”

“What?”

“The … medical bills. Thought the problem was fixed. But when I took Sammy to his appointment, they almost didn’t let him see the doctor. I had to practically beg.”

Begging was not in his sister’s nature. He could only imagine how hard that must have been for her. “The fifty grand I sent six months ago—”

“Was a start. But those damn co-pays piled up, Brother. MRIs, chemo, surgery, hospital stays…”

He wanted to smash his phone to pieces on the cement picnic table. Mother fucker! Wasn’t goddamn Obamacare supposed to take care of this shit? He’s just a fucking kid!

He said calmly, “How much you need?”

A pause. “It’s not dirty, is it? I don’t want your money if it’s dirty. You know that.”

“No. It’s clean.” Clean enough, he thought, gazing at the horizon. Clean as he could make it. “How much?”

She told him. Shit. A hundred thousand more. That was a lot of goddamn money. Much more than he’d suspected. Plus, he knew she was lowballing him, asking for much less than what she really needed. She was a proud woman—she worked two goddamn jobs, shitty jobs with shitty pay, because it was all she could get.

He sucked his teeth. Jesus Christ. The sick kid of a single mother. Couldn’t they give her a goddamn break? He couldn’t let them end up on the street. But paying off those bills, even in part, would burn through much of what was left in his account. Most of the payment for Finney’s job—this goddamn shitty job—was on the back end. Thank Christ it was over. He needed what Finney owed him. Now.