38. Polenta - Part 2

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A/N:

Note that this is part 2 of the "Polenta" chapter. I've published it right after part 1. So, if you're an early reader, don't get confused and make sure you've read part 1 before continuing here.


———


I told Homer the whole story. I explained how Theresa and I had invaded TCorp, how Thierry's guys had caught and abducted us onto The Indomitable, and how I had escaped.

At some point in the tale, I approached the polenta on my mother's table and prodded it with a thumb. It was still warm. I sat on a chair next to it and started eating with my fingers, ignoring my mother's frowning chemotherapy stare.

"The yacht was in St. Georges bay, you said?" Homer asked.

I nodded. "But they could be anywhere by now."

He sighed into his receiver. "Woman, you seem to attract trouble."

Impatience seized me. "I don't seek it out, the trouble. And we don't have time for philosophy. We have to help Theresa. And I have to get away from here. I'm at my mother's apartment, and the police are bound to search this place soon."

"You're right," he said. "But, you know, there's one good thing about Theresa being on that ship. This puts the matter into the competence of the Coast Guard, and they are not part of the municipal authorities. Listen... I could call a guy I know there. It would help, though, if I had some proof. Do you still have the list you got at TCorp?"

The list? It took me a moment to understand that he was talking about the list of Thierry's expenses. "I... I've sent it to my personal e-mail address, I can forward it to you. But, why do you want it? They might be killing Theresa right now... who cares about the money that Thierry stole?"

"You see... the man I know, he's not easily convinced. Giving him some proof for your story would help. He, and his colleagues, they're not like the regular police, not some 911 that will jump into action first and ask questions later. These guys are much more... administrative."

Did he really need that list to get the Coast Guard moving? Or did he need proof to convince himself that there was something behind the tale Theresa and I had spun? But I didn't have time to argue with the man. "Okay, I'll send it to you. Just give me your email address." If he thought he needed it, he could have it.

I snorted when he told me his address was hh@hhisps.com. In return, I gave him my mother's number and asked him to call me once he knew more.

After he hung up, I shoveled in the last of the food, licked my greasy fingers, and left oily smears on my mother's phone to log into my webmail account and search for the message with the list to forward it to Homer.

The email wasn't there.

I looked again.

It still wasn't there.

"Anything's wrong?" my mother asked, standing right next to me.

I jumped—I hadn't noticed her approaching.

"I..." I scrolled the list of messages, but there was nothing from TCorp among the junk of the last few days.

"Can I help?" she asked.

I shook my heed. The only thing I needed was that list to kick Homer into action. But wait—I also needed clothes, and I needed to get out of here before the police arrived.

My mother still ogled me, rubbing the hem of her Meat Loaf t-shirt between a yellowish thumb and a finger. The skin around her nails was dry and torn.

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