Cheri on Top by Susan Donovan

miscalculation that had been.
    Wimbley’s spawn was twice the prick his father ever was, and he’d inherited more than the land development company—he’d inherited the family’s profitable little blackmail business as well.
    The transition from father to son had been seamless. After Winston died, Wim continued with the collections. Six hundred dollars on the first day of every month, month after month, year after year, with a sixteen percent penalty for late payment. Thanks to the Wimbleys, the fear of being prosecuted for murder had turned Purnell into a thief and drained every bit of decency from his life.
    “Of course, I’ll have to charge you for damage to the carpet upon termination of the lease,” Wim said.
    Purnell howled with laughter. That statement was absurd and they both knew it. The lease would terminate when Purnell did. Besides, the carpet—like everything else in this little ranch house—had been purchased by Purnell a long, long time ago, when he still owned the place, back before Lizzie got sick, back when there was a reason to get up every morning.
    “What do you want, Wimbley?”
    He chuckled. “You could at least offer me a drink.”
    Purnell gestured to the gin-soaked carpet. “Help yourself. Straws are in the kitchen.”
    Wim laughed.
    It never failed to disgust him how he’d gotten himself into this mess. After Lizzie got the cancer diagnosis, Purnell didn’t have the time or energy to keep up with blackmail payments to Winston Wimbley. Out of the kindness of the bastard’s blackened heart, the senior Wimbley offered to hold the house title in lieu of payments. Once Purnell was up to date again, he’d get the title back. Never happened, obviously. And now Purnell paid rent on his own home in addition to the blackmail payments. His wife was dead. His kids were grown and gone. The carpet—like the roof, the yard, the furnace, and Purnell’s arteries—was beyond repair.
    “I suppose you’ve heard the big news,” Wim said.
    Purnell looked away. “You came all the way over here to gloat? Is that it?”
    “Not really.”
    Purnell produced a raspy chuckle and shook his head. “Don’t be coy, son. No time to fritter away. My ticker could give out at any moment.”
    Wim looked around the room for somewhere to sit, then thought better of it. “I stopped by to tell you that you got a problem over at the Bugle.”
    Purnell nodded. “We got lots of problems over at the Bugle. Shitty advertising revenue. Shitty circulation. Garland installing his bimbo granddaughter in the publisher’s chair.”
    “Hey, careful now,” Wim said with a wry smile. “That bimbo is my fiancée’s sister.”
    Purnell snapped his suspenders in surpise. “Well, now, that’ll be as near perfect a marital union as this town’s ever seen. Don’t forget to purchase an engagement announcement in the Bugle . I can get you a discount.”
    “Of course you can.” Wim smiled down at him. “The point is, you’re going to need to keep J.J. from writing about that car. Nobody wants that.”
    One of Purnell’s eyebrows shot high on his forehead. “Really now? What kind of sick game are you playing, Wim? You knew as well as I did what was on the bottom of Paw Paw Lake and you dug it up anyway—got all your permits in place and merrily sucked the lake dry. If you didn’t want the truth to come out, why did you go and do that, boy? For sport? To see an old man squirm on the hook just one last time?”
    “I didn’t know she was down there,” Wim said.
    “That’s horseshit.”
    “No. I’m telling you the truth.” Wim suddenly looked nervous. He rubbed his smooth-shaven chin. Not for the first time, Purnell wondered how Wim was able to pull it off—he was just as handsome and golden as he’d always been. None of the rotten, stinking foul mess at his core had ever leached to the surface. It was another way in which the son surpassed the father.
    At least with Winston, he’d been as ugly on the outside as