“The other day some dude opened the package right in front of me. I’m trying not to know!” I protest, following him down the hall into a bedroom he’s made into an office, complete with a big wooden desk that he likely picked up off the side of a street and two leather chairs. I think in another life Malcolm would have liked to have been . . . well, Ian. A wealthy investment guy who had a big office overlooking the Hudson Bay and lots of lackeys. Malcolm would totally get off on being driven around the city by Steve.
I slump into one of the leather chairs as Malcolm picks up three packages and throws them on my lap.
“First thing,” he says.
Ordinarily I would jump up and leave, but this time I linger, running my finger along the edges of one of the envelopes. I need answers, and Malcolm might be a person who can provide them.
“How do you know Ian Kerr?” I finally ask.
The question takes him by surprise, and he looks over his shoulder as if expecting someone to swoop down and crush him. “Why?”
“He’s holding my mom hostage.”
“What are you talking about?” His voice is full of disbelief, as if I’m a silly child making up some silly story.
“I ran into him during a delivery the other day and—”
Malcolm interrupts me, “Wait.” He closes the door and then sits in the leather chair next to mine. “All right, go on.”
“He showed up when Mom and I were leaving for the zoo yesterday. Apparently someone even told him our apartment number.”
Malcolm isn’t ashamed of this at all but simply motions for me continue.
“This morning he sent a car over to bring us to NYPH. When Mom’s chemo was done, the car was there again. Only this time it doesn’t take us home. Instead, we go to that new Century development over on 8th and—”
“—Midtown Mini Mansions, yeah, I know,” he interrupts.
I roll my eyes. Malcolm knows everything. Always. “Do you want me to finish the story?”
“Whatever.” He motions for me to continue.
“Mom isn’t feeling well, and it’s not like I can pick her up and carry her off, so I put her to bed and then—”
“What’s it look like?”
“What’s what look like?”
“The view? The apartment?”
“Malcolm!” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Are you even listening to me? He has my mother. Now tell me what he wants from me.”
He sticks his knuckle in his ear. “I’m right next to you. Do you have to shout?”
“Yes!” I give a little scream and kick him in the leg. “Because you aren’t listening to me.”
Malcolm shoves me back, and I feel like we are adolescents again living in a tiny two bedroom apartment in Queens, not too far from his current place, arguing about who gets to play the next game of Sonic. It was usually Malcolm because he’s always been bigger and stronger and meaner than me.
“Hasn’t he told you?”
“No, if he had, would I be here, talking to you?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. He contacted me asking me if I knew of someone who could handle a delicate situation. I sent him a couple of people and they didn’t fit whatever idea he had about he wanted. You were kind of a last ditch effort.”
“How much are you getting paid?”
He looks down at his shoes but not before I see the flash of greed in his eyes.
“How much?” I ask again.
“One hundred,” he mumbles.
“He’s paying you a hundred thousand dollars to find someone to fulfill his little job? There must be more.” Folding my arms, I glare at him. “Malcolm James Hedder, you tell me the truth.”
He slouches down in his chair until his head is resting on the back. Blowing a big stream of air out, he gives up the rest of it. “And I have to make sure you never tell.”
“We both know I won’t.” It still doesn’t all make sense. Why Malcolm? His specialty is small packages, as far as I know. Not people. “Your mom’s in that much trouble?”
Malcolm exhales heavily and shakes his head. “When is she not? Don’t you think we’d be better off without our moms sometimes?”
“Bite your tongue,” I cry. “I love my mom.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“It’s not.” She’s not a burden to me at all. “Besides, she’s going to get better.”
“I don’t know if it’s good for you to keep lying to yourself about that or not.”
Furious at the direction of the conversation, I spring from my chair, but Malcolm’s there before I’m able to wrench the door open. His hand presses the door back closed, and he murmurs into the top of my hair, “I’m sorry, Tiny. I need the money. I knew you’d be the right person for the job because you needed it too.”