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okay? I’m glad to see you. Sorry under such lousy conditions. But don’t get too soft and psychotherapy on me. I got my thing; you got yours. I’ll send you a card at Christmas." He checked his watch. "Right now I gotta go."
    "Now? But Little P…"
    "Sorry, brother. Maybe if I’d known you were coming."
    "I’m in town for a couple more days," I said. "Have dinner with me, at least."
    "Can’t, brother. Sorry." He blew smoke out through his teeth. "I gotta work. Deadlines."
    "’Deadlines’?"
    He worked for our mother’s brother, who ran some kind of business. I tried to remember: a restaurant. No, a nightclub—a karaoke den. "What, like a… karaoke deadline?"
    He raised his uninjured eyebrow. "You got your message to me, all right? My condolences. Hey, for both of us. But she’s gone. She’s gone. I’m not gonna tear my sleeve for her."
    The edge of his knife gleamed on the countertop.
    But as he pulled on a raincoat, I said, "Cancer."
    "What?"
    "She died of cancer." I was not lying to Little P, only telling him what he needed to know. "She never went to the doctor. By the time she collapsed, it was too late. They didn’t know where to begin. They couldn’t even say what kind of cancer it was, it spread so far."
    He’d been jerking at the stuck zipper on his raincoat without result.
    "Fucking piece of
shit
." He tore the thing off and threw it to the ground. The tic had returned, a quick spasm at the sides of his mouth.
    "I gotta go," he said doggedly. He motioned me toward the door and took out his keys. "Sorry, brother."
    He locked the door behind us, stood back, fingered the ash off his fag onto the floor. His trousers were perfectly knife-creased. His starched black shirt and suit seemed suddenly odd, given the shabby surroundings. A pause.
    "You need money for a cab?" he asked.
    I shook my head.
    "Okay then." A kind of bleakness in the silence between us. "Sorry about Mother." He hoisted his bag on his shoulder. "You keep in touch."
    "Wait!" I cried, as he started down the stairs. He didn’t turn around. I wanted to keep him here, for a few last minutes, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Then—"What about the will?"
    His step slowed. "What about it?"
    "Mother," I said. "The Remada. She left it to you."
    I couldn’t see his face, but the air around him suddenly pricked. Outside, dark shadows of rain moved behind the frosted glass.
    "The motel," he said at last. "Mine?"
    "I know. Maybe she thought it would bring you home again," I said, but the rebuke didn’t take; he was too preoccupied with this new idea. He stopped dead in the stairwell. I approached him tentatively.
    At length he looked up at me.
    "How much," he said, in an odd, hungry voice. "How much do you think it would sell for? A hundred thousand? Two hundred?"
    I gripped him by the arm. "For God’s sake. Mother’s dead, Little P."
    Immediately he backed off. "You’re right, you’re right. Sorry. Inappropriate." He looked away. "Just a shock, you know."
    "The inheritance?"
    "The
death,
" he said. "Of course Mother’s death. Son of a cunt, Emerson, what do you think I am?"
    I didn’t answer. In the small silence, his cell phone rang again. He switched it off irritably.
    "Okay," he said at last. "Okay. You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s been, what? Five years?"
    "Almost ten."
    "Almost ten years. Dinner. I can move a few things around." He managed a tight smile. "How about tomorrow? You free tomorrow?"
    "What about your deadline?"
    "Fuck the deadline. That Eight Treasures cocklover never broke his back for me. I’ll work it out. So—tomorrow?"
    "Here?"
    "At Uncle’s house. Seven o’clock." He wrote down the address. I took it, feeling oddly guilty. I could have handed over the Remada right then and there, for the legal papers were tucked into my jacket pocket. But I kept this fact to myself.
     
     
     

CHAPTER   5
     
     
    T HE NEXT NIGHT I ARRIVED at Uncle’s apartment building with the ashes as well as a