choking a little. "Okay. What's it all about, AlfieT' he looked around, suddenly aware. "Is Mariah off with her friends?"
“ Yes, and no. And, yes, we are alone here. I arranged it that way."
“Really? Is this entrapment? This is very low-alcoholcontent beer."
“Only entrapment for your professional opinion."
“You didn't have to ply me with dinner for that.”
She sat back on her tailbone in her chair, balancing her beer bottle on her stomach. This was no Molina he'd ever imagined.
“Mariah is away from home for a couple of weeks.”
“What does that mean?"
“It means that my naive, gutsy daughter got herself accepted by some stupid, exploitative reality TV show, and Mama couldn't say no without being cursed for life. So. . ."
“Wait a minute! Is that the Teen Queen thing?"
“And 'Tween Queen," she corrected with loathing. "Mariah thinks she wants to be a singing star and win a date with the latest Boy Toy nonsinger around. What's a mother to do? I could take any casino boss in town in for questioning, but I can't put a leash on my only daughter.”
Matt chewed some nachos while he thought about it. "No, you're right. You can't. She got accepted? On her own?"
“Yeah. Every kid has access to a video recorder nowadays."
“Mariah? She's just a baby."
“Are you out of it! This is not what I want your advice on. Here. Watch her homemade video. The one that got her on the show.”
Molina got up, skirts swaying, to pop in the offending video.
Matt began to understand her mixture of panic and pride. Mariah had shot up. Those chubby baby features and limbs were starting to look coltish and graceful. Her eyes were as dark as her mother's were light, making Matt wonder about the father again. Likely Hispanic.
Molina was half and half, although what the other half was he couldn't guess.
Mariah's voice was a contralto that blared like a boom box on occasion. She was a belter, unlike her crooner mother, and suited the pop music mode of her own day. But she had a voice. Too.
Molina got up to eject the tape and dropped it atop the TV.
Matt decided it was time to gently probe at the maternal wounds. "So the problem is . . . Mariah is unrealistic about a performing career?"
“Who isn't unrealistic about a performing career? Everybody dreams. Maybe a tenth of one percent lives the dream. No, the kid can try it. She might break the odds. I think this freaking show is foolishness, but that's not the problem. It's possible that a killer is stalking the contestants."
“My God."
“I've got people on the stalker thing. That's not the big problem."
“What on earth could be, then?”
Molina leaned back, drained a bottle of Dos Equis, eyed the pathetic level in his own bottle, and got up.
“ We're out of beer, and the chili on the stove is about to desiccate. Come, sit down and eat.”
Chapter 14
Bad Daddy
The chili was red, full of beans and beef, and hot enough to fry the soles off a pair of Dr. Scholl's sandals. Matt tucked in.
He and Molina sat at a small round table in a tiny bay window off the kitchen. He sensed this nook was hardly ever used for dining. Instead, quick bites were taken at the elbow-height eating bar between the kitchen and the living room.
Molina had poured their beers into thick glass mugs chilled in the refrigerator. Correction: Carmen had done that.
“So the problem—" Matt began when the first edge of his hunger had been soothed.
She had only picked at her chili—the plump bean here, the chunk of ground beef there. An occasional ring of soft-cooked jalapeno. She leaned back in her chair, suddenly Madame Interrogator again.
“You know what it's like to be a bastard.”
Professional interrogator. Always went for shock value.
“ Yeah. It means your mother is called names for the sin of being trusting and honest. Is there a woman in the world who gets caught in such a situation who antici pated it, or wanted it?"
“Maybe only the Virgin Mary."
“She got a warning
“ Yes, and no. And, yes, we are alone here. I arranged it that way."
“Really? Is this entrapment? This is very low-alcoholcontent beer."
“Only entrapment for your professional opinion."
“You didn't have to ply me with dinner for that.”
She sat back on her tailbone in her chair, balancing her beer bottle on her stomach. This was no Molina he'd ever imagined.
“Mariah is away from home for a couple of weeks.”
“What does that mean?"
“It means that my naive, gutsy daughter got herself accepted by some stupid, exploitative reality TV show, and Mama couldn't say no without being cursed for life. So. . ."
“Wait a minute! Is that the Teen Queen thing?"
“And 'Tween Queen," she corrected with loathing. "Mariah thinks she wants to be a singing star and win a date with the latest Boy Toy nonsinger around. What's a mother to do? I could take any casino boss in town in for questioning, but I can't put a leash on my only daughter.”
Matt chewed some nachos while he thought about it. "No, you're right. You can't. She got accepted? On her own?"
“Yeah. Every kid has access to a video recorder nowadays."
“Mariah? She's just a baby."
“Are you out of it! This is not what I want your advice on. Here. Watch her homemade video. The one that got her on the show.”
Molina got up, skirts swaying, to pop in the offending video.
Matt began to understand her mixture of panic and pride. Mariah had shot up. Those chubby baby features and limbs were starting to look coltish and graceful. Her eyes were as dark as her mother's were light, making Matt wonder about the father again. Likely Hispanic.
Molina was half and half, although what the other half was he couldn't guess.
Mariah's voice was a contralto that blared like a boom box on occasion. She was a belter, unlike her crooner mother, and suited the pop music mode of her own day. But she had a voice. Too.
Molina got up to eject the tape and dropped it atop the TV.
Matt decided it was time to gently probe at the maternal wounds. "So the problem is . . . Mariah is unrealistic about a performing career?"
“Who isn't unrealistic about a performing career? Everybody dreams. Maybe a tenth of one percent lives the dream. No, the kid can try it. She might break the odds. I think this freaking show is foolishness, but that's not the problem. It's possible that a killer is stalking the contestants."
“My God."
“I've got people on the stalker thing. That's not the big problem."
“What on earth could be, then?”
Molina leaned back, drained a bottle of Dos Equis, eyed the pathetic level in his own bottle, and got up.
“ We're out of beer, and the chili on the stove is about to desiccate. Come, sit down and eat.”
Chapter 14
Bad Daddy
The chili was red, full of beans and beef, and hot enough to fry the soles off a pair of Dr. Scholl's sandals. Matt tucked in.
He and Molina sat at a small round table in a tiny bay window off the kitchen. He sensed this nook was hardly ever used for dining. Instead, quick bites were taken at the elbow-height eating bar between the kitchen and the living room.
Molina had poured their beers into thick glass mugs chilled in the refrigerator. Correction: Carmen had done that.
“So the problem—" Matt began when the first edge of his hunger had been soothed.
She had only picked at her chili—the plump bean here, the chunk of ground beef there. An occasional ring of soft-cooked jalapeno. She leaned back in her chair, suddenly Madame Interrogator again.
“You know what it's like to be a bastard.”
Professional interrogator. Always went for shock value.
“ Yeah. It means your mother is called names for the sin of being trusting and honest. Is there a woman in the world who gets caught in such a situation who antici pated it, or wanted it?"
“Maybe only the Virgin Mary."
“She got a warning
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