Page 16 of The Love Scam
“I’m too young to babysit.”
“And I’m too old to take a loan from a kid.”
“Possible daughter,” she corrected politely.
He bit back a groan, found them a small bench in the Giardinetti Reali, and tried to think of his next move, tried to think past the drumbeat ofyour money’s gone your money’s gone your money’s gone,tried to squash the panic.
Okay. First. It probably wasn’t gone. His bank was half a planet away; it was likely an electronic snafu, or their system was down, or something that was completely explainable during business hours—what time was it in Las Vegas, anyway?
Whatever the problem was, he was worth about twenty million, and that much money doesn’t just disappear overnight, not for real. If nothing else, his mother and/or Blake would have warned him, since their names were on all the paperwork, too: When his father had died playing9 1/2 Weeksfoodie sex games with his cutie of the month,*their mother had overseen the trust until he and Blake came of age, and now they all shared the fortune. They weren’tallbroke, ergo Rake wasn’t broke. Not for real. Not—y’know—permanently.
But what to do in the meantime? Borrow another phone(and oh God what funthatwould be) and reach out to Blake for help?
Except Blake was one of the seven people in America who didn’t do Facebook. At all. Not even ironically. He barely did email; he sure as shit didn’t tweet. He preferred phone calls and—yeesh!—snail mail, and he’d only started texting two years ago, the goddamned Luddite. Thought social media “encapsulated all the ills of the world” and wanted nothing to do with it.
Okay, then: Mom.
Except his mother was stuck in Sweetheart, North Dakota. Yeah, he was stuck, too, but he wasn’t stuck somewhere that sounded like a place you were sent if you lost a bet, somewhere they’d outlawed dancing in the fifties, and where there was only one streetlight. She had problems of her own—boy, did she!—and he sure as shit wasn’t going to add to them. Was this selflessness? Or just the pure natural instinct of a grown man not wanting his mommy to know he was in such a weird dumb mess?
Hey, Mom, you know how I only call you when I need something, and maybe on your birthday? Listen, sorry you’re hip-deep in family problems, here’s another one: Someone stole all my money and I’m stuck in Venice. That’s Italy, not California. Come get me, Mommy? Bring cash and Snickers.Yeah, that was a whole world ofno. Also, you’re maybe a grandma! Some stranger dumped a kid on me we don’t know is mine and then ran off. So there’s that.Which needed to be straightened out ASAP.
There was the nuclear option, but he’d have to be a lot more than broke and stranded in a foreign country with shit drying in his hair and saddled with a cute second-grader before he’d take that step. Maaaaaybe if he was in the ICU. Or had lost the use of his legs, brain, and dick. If he was hangingoff the edge of a cliff by one hand and his fingers were slipping.Maybe.
The consulate? Nope; they were the reason he’d been appalled to wake up in Venice in the first place. Venice was beautiful, the food was incredible, the gondoliers had the best stories, and still he’d had no plans to come back after his last visit. The misunderstanding had been… extreme. The kind where grim men in uniforms held on to your passport and asked questions ad nauseum, then finally gave it back, only to immediately provide an “escort” to the airport.
The cops?
Maybe. But only if the consulate mess hadn’t spilled over to the local police, and he wouldn’t know that until he talked to them. Which would be a bad time to find out the knives were still out for him at the Consular Agency: when he was surrounded by cops. “You guys better treat me right! I was rich yesterday!” Pass.
He couldn’t linger in the park much longer, either; loitering was frowned upon when you smelled like he did, and there were laws against begging here. Maybe he could find another friendly homeless person.Thanks for the phone, I don’t suppose you can arrange lodging, too, right? Sorry about that whole homeless thing, by the way. Oh, a sandwich? For me? No, I couldn’t. Well, maybe just one bite. And one for the kid on my left.Ugh.
Rake plunged his hands in his pockets past the wrists and tried to think. There had to be something he—
“We could ask Delaney for help.”
He jumped. The kid had a near-uncanny ability to fade from his consciousness; she didn’t fidget or hum or kick her feet or any of the things kids did when they were bored (and which he still did on occasion). No one would ever feel theneed to buy Lillith a fidget spinner. She just sort of faded into the background, blending like adorable chubby-cheeked camouflage until…
“That’s an idea.” He felt for the business card he’d absently tucked away after Delaney left, and now he pulled it out and looked at it. Plain white, neat black lettering, nothing embossed: I. C. Delaney. Exactly the kind he’d have if he ever had business cards. Well, maybe with everything in a kind of shrieking red font. And I. C.? What was that supposed to mean? Didn’t she say her name was—God, what was it?—something from one of the hotties inThe Breakfast Club.No, not Judd Nelson. Definitely not the geek who grew up and turned psychic—Claire! That was it, Claire Delaney, who for some reason called herself Delaney, except when she was handing out business cards, when she called herself I. C. Delaney.
She’d even told him where she was staying, probably just trying to be nice—never in a hundred years did he think she was trying to pick him up, not after the horrors she’d endured in his company—but still: He had that info in his brain somewhere.
Somewhere he’d never stayed, somewhere cheap, relatively speaking. He even remembered feeling mild sympathy for anyone who had to stay somewhere less than luxurious in a city with the Ruzzini Palace and Palazzina G. Not that her hotel sounded terrible; it simply wasn’t the best—the best—best—Best Western Olimpia! Yessss! Finally things were going his way! His brain was actually engaging and being helpful! He’d actually figured something out without Delaney’s help! For the first time that day! Suck it, Blake!
“We should probably get going,” Lillith the Uncanny was saying. “Her hotel’s a couple of kilometers from here.”
“How d’you even know— Never mind.” He flipped thecard over and saw she’d written the name of the hotel on the back, like she knew he’d have trouble remembering, and where it happened to be at the kid’s eye level. Like Delaney figured he’d need a mental nudge. Which was annoying, and not just because she was right.
“You think you’re soooo smart,” he told the card, then put it back in his pocket. “And you…” To Lillith, who once again put her small hand in his. “You’rereallysmart. C’mon, let’s go to I. C. Delaney.”
Eleven
Fifty miles! Fifty fucking miles from point A to point B, all because Delaney had a hard-on for Best Westerns. Well, okay, three. Three miles in a city that offered at least a dozen ways to get lost with every turn. Three miles during which every step made him worry the top of his skull was going to implode until his brains squirted out of his nose. Three miles during which Lillith never once complained, though she offered to pay for a vaporetto. (He’d been tempted for a few seconds, but then pride—stupid, nauseating pride—won out.) Three miles during which he cursed Past Rake for leaving Present Rake in such a mess. Future Blake needed to get busy on a time machine so he could go back and beat the shit out of Past Blake, and oh thank God here it was.
He couldn’t help but note the irony; the hotel was in the Piazzale Roma, the one place in Venice accessible by car, if he’d had one. And just a few feet from the vaporetto stop, if he’d let Lillith use her lawn-mowing money (was she even big enough to mow lawns?) to buy them tickets.Venice, you cruel, ironic bitch.
He tried not to stagger as he entered the lobby
(dignity, man! where’d you hide yours?)
