Page 57 of A Long Con

“Ira Hogshead, that’s me,” I confirmed. “You taking us back to Lake Havasu?”

“That’s the idea.” He lifted his chin. “Show me the painting.”

“All right. It got a little wet crossing a flash flood, but it shouldn’t damage the painting.” I helped Berkeley in first, tossed the pack back to him, then got into the front door gunner’s seat.

“Who those guys you were talking to?”

“Some local do-gooders. They helped us climb the cliff.”

It had been ages since I’d flown in a chopper—back in the days when I guarded drug lords—and I enjoyed the sudden lift as we rose nearly vertically. Stay vertical, I’d heard bikers say to each other. Stay alive.

That was what we’d done. I glanced over my shoulder at Berkeley. His hair was dusted with cinnamon powder too, sticking every which way in its spiky glory. As we swept horizontally over the slot canyons to the open desert, Berkeley’s look said that he saw me imbued with a fire engine red aura. He was at peace with himself because now he liked himself when he looked at me.

Our long con was over. We could return to being regular cons now.

I felt kind of numb, to be honest, floating out of the hospice building where I’d just seen Elaine—for the last time, probably.

She didn’t speak and moved only once in awhile, a nudge of her jaw or a twitch of her hand, like a hibernating creature. Her skin was also a polar blue due to oxygen deprivation, the nurse told me. He asked my permission to take her off the feeding tube. I signed some papers to that effect. I couldn’t even hug my mother because of all the tubes and monitors. I could hold about half of her hand.

Elaine had not been the greatest mother. Instead of fighting back against my dad, she had caved to his rages. I spent so much time at Cloud’s house his mother got sick of me. I ran out of friends to stay with. It was a giant relief when my dad left for good, but it plunged us into poverty.

A few little bubbles formed at Elaine’s mouth, but she would never speak again. I knew I should be glad that during a prior visit, when I’d asked about my twin sister, she’d said, “Albany.”

“Was that her name?” A miniscule nod. “How did she die?”

“SIDS,” she whispered.

“SIDS? SIDS?” I wondered aloud, until I went and asked a nurse. I had never really investigated what that was, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Nobody knew the cause. It was kind of a catch-all term for “we don’t know.” Some infants just were not meant to thrive. I had to put my suspicion of my mother to bed. She hadn’t been able to let go of the tragedy of losing Albany. Maybe that was why she clung on so tightly to every other button and nail.

“You think this is it?” asked Cloud, fists sunk deep into his cargo pants pockets.

I was breathing very shallow. It was making me light-headed—as if I needed more of that. “I think so.”

“Did she say anything?”

“No. I think she’s done talking.”

Cloud clicked open the doors of his Prius and we got in. He drove a block before saying, “Hey, you’re wearing a red shirt.”

I was glad he noticed. “It’s fuchsia, isn’t it? My first clothing that isn’t black and white!”

Cloud nodded. “Glad you’re moving on, man.”

“I’m glad being Berkeley, the Berkeley I am now. Just don’t call me Sterling.”

Another few blocks, and he said, “Do you think we were idiots? I mean, back in the day.”

“You mean as teenagers?”

He nodded. “Yeah, man. Smoking weed, listening to the Dead, and falling off roofs.”

“Nah, we didn’t do anything wrong. Except maybe the Grateful Dead part. Since I was twelve and hit my head, I’ve had sixteen years of an amazing adventure no one could have predicted.” Then it occurred to me that Cloud meant his own life. On the spur of the moment, I decided to show my hand. I clapped him on his shoulder. He jumped, and almost hit someone’s fender. “Cloud, Royal and I are giving you a raise. You’ve done such a good job helping me with the house—for free, I might add. We’ve decided to give you a paying job.”

Cloud’s jaw hung low.

“Well, maybe not that much at first. But we want to go into the house flipping biz. You’d be the ideal property manager, seeing as how I want to spend most of my time painting. Pictures, that is.”

“Whoa! No fucking way!” Cloud burst. “Are you fucking serious? I’d be the ideal property manager.”