executor?â
Lorraine shrugged. âBecause he liked you better, I guess.â She sipped her coffee through a Mona Lisa grin.
âNo, no, no. It was because my father was his godson. That must be why he picked me.â
âSo why didnât he name your father executor?â
âBecause he hated my mother. He never trusted her.â
âOh, Michael, will you please stop with that?â
âItâs true. He didnât trust her because sheâs not Italian. Thatâs probably why he didnât like me. I was a half-breed.â
âSo why did he pick you, then?â
âRevenge.â
Tozzi picked out another butter cookie, a bell with red sprinkles on it. He tossed it in his mouth and chewed without thinking, then realized he was eating only out of aggravation because he never ate anything artificial that was red. Red dye number whatever. Gives you cancer. Shit .
Lorraine picked around in the cookie tin until she found a plain one with nothing on it. âYou shouldnât get yourself all worked up over this, Michael. Being executor isnât that big a deal.â
âYou donât think so? Iâd rather be Secretary General of the United Nations. You watch. This is gonna be nothing but trouble. Youâre gonna find out youâve got cousins you never knew you had. Theyâre gonna smell Uncle Peteâs will and theyâre gonna come out of the woodwork. You watch. And theyâre all gonna swear that they were so close to Uncle Pete. And whoâre they gonna scream at when they donât get what they want? Whoâre they gonna sue? Huh? The executor. Me.â Tozzi picked out a plain cookie with a walnut stuck in the center. âBesides, I donât have time for this right now. Iâm stuck on this trial thing, the Figaro Connection.â He bit into the cookie and it crumbled in his hand. âShit.â
âDonât get all bent out of shape. The universityâs on winterbreak until the end of January. Iâm only teaching one course next semester, and I have all my notes from last year, so I donât have that much to prepare. I can do a lot of the running around for you.â
âReally? I thought you were painting Gibbonsâs apartment, making the place livable now that youâre living there.â
Lorraine stared at him dead-on. She wasnât smiling. âIâve been fighting with Gibbons over colors for the past two weeks. He doesnât like anything I suggest. He says my tastes are too âteacups and doilies.ââ
âYou canât compromise?â
Lorraine sighed. âDo you know what his idea of a compromise is? Pepto-Bismol pink. Do you know why he likes that color? He says itâs the color they paint police interrogating rooms. It supposedly has a very soothing effect on agitated suspects. Thatâs what he told me. This is what Iâm married to.â She took another cookie. A bell with the red carcinogen sprinkles.
âDonât they make a pink that you both like?â
âI hate pink. And do you know that ugly blue plaid carpeting he has in the hallway? He says he likes it. He doesnât want me to replace it.â
Tozzi frowned and shrugged. âItâs not so bad.â He remembered that blue plaid. It was just like the pleated, blue plaid skirts Lesley Halloran used to wear to school with the navy blazer, her school uniform. He also remembered that blue-jean miniskirt she wore with the lacy white blouse at the Halloween dance sophomore year. The night he almost asked her to dance.
âMichael? Are you listening to me?â
âHmmm?â
Lorraine shook her head, disgusted. âYouâre as bad as Gibbons. All you think about is the FBI.â
âCome on, Lorraine. You know thatâs not true.â
âWell, maybe itâs me, then. I used to be able to overlookGibbonsâs eccentricities, but now that weâre married, they
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