Page 122 of Joey

“What the hell is going on?” Wald whispers.

“I don’t know,” I say. Because I don’t. Not really.

But I have a very good idea of what’s coming next. Because I’ve already seen it once. Not like this. Not exactly.

But it’s all close enough to be familiar.

A footman opens the first trunk. But it takes four more—six men total—to pick it up and dump it out on the table.

It’s cash. Bundles and bundles of cash.

“One hundred million,” Michael roars. But he’s already motioning for the next trunk. The footmen appear and dump it out.

“Two hundred million,” Michael yells.

And then it happens again, and again, and again until most of the money is piled up in front of the table because no more can fit on top of it.

“One point five billion dollars,” Michael says through clenched teeth. “That’s my personal contribution. Just for you. Keep it,” he says. “Just take it with you when you leave, Mr. Boston. Put it all in the back of that truck and drive away and promise that you’ll never come back. That you’ll never soil this place with your disgusting face again. That you will not ruin my daughter the way your family ruins everything they touch by forcing her to leave her home and take your filthy name.”

He pauses.

I clench my jaw.

“That’s all I ask,” he whispers. “Just leave us alone.”

I say nothing.

“What?” Michael asks when I don’t react. “It’s not enough? You need more? How much more? What will it take to make you go away?” He turns to the crowd. “Which of you would help me? How many of you are tired of this? How many of you want out? Do you even know why you pay them?”

I look at the crowd. Silent. And then sit down.

I know what they see. I know what that silence and my sitting says.

They see a thug. My silence and sitting implies we have an arrangement.

But that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just… confused. And angry. Because this really was just about my daughter and now it’s turned into something else. Something dirty and disgusting. Like Brooke’s happy memories of the man who didn’t kidnap her to replace a dead daughter. Bought her. Probably for reasons she’d rather not know about.

And then the added insult that her mother and the boyfriend not only allowed the fake kidnapping to take place, but coordinated it.

With my father.

If I was alone right now I’d lean over and vomit.

But I’m not alone. And if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s pretend.

So when a man steps forward and says, “I’ll help,” That’s what I do. I pretend. He takes off his mask and throws it on top of the pile of money. He’s old. Seventies? Eighties? Maybe even nineties. He’s just fuckin’ old.

He reaches into his suit coat and pulls out a checkbook. Writes a check in an unsteady hand, rips it off the pad, and then walks around the table to place it on my plate.

I look down at it.

Nine zeros after the number one on that check.

Nine. Fucking zeroes.

I look up at him and he says, “Make it stop. We’re tired of living like this. Just… stop.”

And then there’s someone behind him. Writing a check. Placing it on my plate. Giving me money. Just like those people did—these same people did—up in the Bossy spire that night.