Getting Sassy by D C Brod

it.
    But there was one guy whose name I had managed to track down, and I consulted a lawyer concerning any recourse I had. Piddling little. The situation had involved a proposed shopping mall in which, over the course of several months, my mother had invested more than fifty grand before the company had gone under and filed for bankruptcy. The investors were the only ones who lost anything in the deal. The company had been a minor piece of a large conglomerate owned by William “Bull” Severn. Recovering the money would have been difficult, seeing as, for all his wealth, none of this was in his name. His wife’s name was on most of these holdings, with some consigned to a cousin and a half brother.
    Maybe I had consulted a spineless lawyer, but he had me convinced there was no way I could win without bankrupting myself. And even then there were no guarantees. I hated that about the system—the people who’d stolen from my mother would never pay for it because they had money and/or sleight of hand on their side. Being right had nothing to do with it.
    I thought about writing an exposé. Figured a magazine would love a piece like that. And, while there was some interest, in the end no one would touch it because of the potential for libel suits from wealthy folks with deep pockets.
    Now I decided that perhaps my mistake had been in pursuing only legal options.
    I peeked in on my mother. Her mouth hung slack and she was snoring. Bix had managed to squeeze his plump little body between her feet and the back of the couch where he slept.
    I got on the internet and Googled Mr. Severn. I knew that he lived in the Chicago area, but I didn’t know what he’d been up to lately. And by the time I heard my mother’s groan, which accompanied her rise from the couch, I had the seed of a plan. At least I knew how I might worm my way into Severn’s company. Severn, like any self-respecting mogul with more money than he knew how to spend, had bought himself a racehorse. Once I learned that, I Googled WilliamSevern and Mick Hughes. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find the two of them linked in a number of articles; horseracing was a small, tight world, and I assumed one never got over being a jockey. But when I saw the photo of Severn and Mick in the stable with Severn’s horse, I read the caption and then the article. A plan began to form in my mind. It needed definition—an object to be precise—and I didn’t know exactly how I would pull it off. But I did know where to start.

    It was early afternoon, and I sat with my mother as she smoked another cigarette and we chatted about little things—the Cubs’ season, Bix’s snoring and the loud ticking of my cuckoo clock—and then she asked to be taken home. While she was in the bathroom, I peeked in her purse and found a cigarette that had “fallen” in there. I almost checked her wallet, but knew that was a line I didn’t want to cross. So I just removed the smoke and slipped it back into the pack, which I tucked into a kitchen drawer.
    After she pulled her sweater on, she opened her purse, shoved her hand down into it and felt around. Then she looked up at me with knowing, angry eyes. “I see you’ve been through my purse.”
    Crossing my arms over my chest, I said, “I see you tried to smuggle a cigarette.”
    “That hellhole,” she muttered. “What’s the harm in letting us smoke?”
    “I’m sure it has to do with safety, Mom.”
    “It’s ridiculous.” She spat the word out as she hooked the strap of her purse over her forearm and picked up her cane.
    “You know, Mom, if you don’t like where you are, if you need to be someplace where you can smoke and fart to your heart’s content, then we’ll find somewhere else for you to live.”
    “Hmph.” She glanced around my apartment, stopping to straighten one of the throw pillows she’d used. “If I lived here I could smoke.”
    “No, you couldn’t.”
    “Oh, I forgot. Your lily-white