Emil – Minna Hong

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter eight, part two

Posted on September 17, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“I’m not really sure.” He still won’t look at me. “She wouldn’t talk to me after that. I assume Moira told Annie I confronted her.” The truth, but not all of it. He is sweating again, so I push the issue.

“What did you talk to Moira about the night before the party?” I have definitely caught him off-guard. There is a look of panic on his face, and I haven’t even asked him about the supposed attempted rape.

“Who told you I talked to her then?” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. “The bitch! I wouldn’t have thought she’d have the nerve to tell anyone.” So it is true. I look at him expectantly, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks. It’s a well-known trick of the cop trade to stay silent, forcing the perp to talk. It works. “It wasn’t enough that she seduced my daughter, oh no. She couldn’t be satisfied with just that, could she? No, she had to do more. Moira did cocaine once in a while. Crack. I bet you didn’t know that.” I didn’t, but I keep quiet. Now that he’s finally talking, I don’t want to do anything to stop the flow. “She only did it recreationally. I think she thought it made her cool or something.” I see where this is going, but I want to hear him say it. “She gave some to my Annie. Imagine that! The girl is only twenty-three, and this barracuda gets her hooked on crack. ‘Just try it,’ she says. ‘It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.’ So my Annie, my innocent daughter who is so in love with Moira, does what she is told. Before she knows it, she’s shooting up daily.”

“How did she get that kind of money?” I ask. Crack, while cheaper than its glamorous cousin, cocaine, is still not cheap if being done every day.

“My ex gave it to her before she realized what Annie was doing with it. Once it became clear that Annie was using, Ginny—my ex—refused to give her any more money.” A font of information up to this point, Emil stops. He doesn’t want to tell me anything else, but I wait him out. There’s no contest, and he breaks. “Annie started hooking to make the money to feed her crack habit.” It is what I’m expecting to hear, but saddens me, nonetheless. Any residual good feelings I had for Moira drain away; I’m glad I never went on that date with her.

Emil hadn’t been able to put Moira’s treachery out of his mind which is why he met with Moira the night before the party. He had been brooding about his daughter almost nonstop for three months, and he couldn’t take it any more. His work was suffering from his lack of concentration; he was having difficulties sleeping at night; he’d lost ten pounds because he couldn’t eat. It was one reason he was taking a sabbatical next year. He had to talk to Moira again, if only to give him peace of mind that he’d done everything he possibly could to help his daughter. He said Moira wasn’t so high-and-mighty when Emil threatened to tell the department about her conquests. In fact, she looked absolutely panicked until she realized that she had something to threaten him with, too. She told him she’d turn Annie in to the cops if Emil ratted on her. Emil’s nostrils flare as he starts breathing harder. His skin is ashen, and he is panting slightly. I worry that he will have a heart attack in front of my eyes. I won’t be able to handle the guilt if I send this man into cardiac arrest.

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter eight, part one

Posted on September 12, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“Let’s go,” he says when he appears, forty-five minutes later. He is looking straight ahead, his lips set in a thin line. I buckle myself in as he takes off with a screech. Paris is a good driver, but when he’s angry, he becomes more aggressive. I wisely keep my mouth shut as I do not want to aggravate him further. Most of the time, I can jolly him out of a mood, but even I know my limits. Neither of us speak the entire way home.

When we reach our place, he shuts his door with a slam and marches up the steps to our apartment in silence. I follow him meekly, not wanting to set him off. Inside, I head for the fridge and grab two Molson Ices. I pop the tops and hand one to him. He strides into the living room and sits on the couch, flicking on the television and rummaging through the channels. He presses angrily on the remote at the rate of three clicks per second. I sit next to him, but abandon any hope of actually watching anything. We sit in silence, drinking our beers. I sneak glances at him, wondering if I should say something. I want to be supportive, but I also don’t want to get into his business if he would rather I butt out. We have been friends long enough for me to know that talking things out is not always the best thing to do with him. Sometimes he needs to brood before he feels able to discuss the problem. I let him ruminate all he wants, giving him a wide berth.

“You know what pisses me off?” Paris finally says, settling on MTV where there is some asinine reality show on. “The assumption that I took advantage of a lonely older woman, that I’m nothing more than a gigolo. That damn inspector actually thinks I tried to swindle Max out of her money!” Paris’s eyes reflect the hurt he’s feeling. An easygoing guy, he really gets steamed when his niceness is called into question. Because he is so impossibly good-looking, people have a hard time believing that he could be interested in someone less than gorgeous-looking her/himself. It’s a stereotype Paris has had to fight all his life, and it ticks him off every time. The fact that it’s true for the most part doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Did she say that?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want Paris to think I’m questioning his interpretation of events.

“Over and over. She asked if I was in Max’s will, if I thought I should be, if I was angling to get put into Max’s will, if I knew the contents of Max’s will. The way she was harping on the will, you’d have thought I wrote the damn thing.”

“It’s her job,” I counsel, wanting to calm Paris down. I glance at the VCR clock and see that it’s seven-thirty. “Shit! I promised Emil I’d go over to his place at eight.” I jump up from the couch and hurry into the kitchen. I’m starving, and I want to eat something before I skedaddle. I grab a Tupperware and open it. Paris made fajitas for lunch, and there are two left over. I heat them up, then scarf them down.

“You have one hour,” Paris says sternly as I pass by the living room. “If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m coming after you. Understand?”

“Are you ok, Paris?” I ask, pausing. I hate to leave him while he’s in such a state, but I need to talk to Emil.

“Go,” Paris orders me. “Now.”

“Let me give you Emil’s address,” I sigh. I scribble it down along with Emil’s number in case Paris threw away the number and hand the scrap of paper to Paris.

“One hour,” he reminds me, shaking a finger in my face. I give him a look that tells him what he can do with that finger. It’s a fifteen-minute walk to Emil’s place, and I savor the night. Some people refuse to walk in the Mission District by themselves at night, but I relish it. I like seeing the diverse population that roams the streets—so different from the increasingly homogeneous crowd that litters the Mission during the day. The tourists still haven’t infiltrated the Mission, but unfortunately, the yuppies have. However, the Mexicans are loud and proud as well. I hope they keep the upper hand, but I am doubtful that they will be able to live in peace. I make it to Emil’s place with five minutes to spare.