opened the refrigerator door simultaneously. Itâs a mobile age, all about multitasking.
âYo,â I said.
âYo,â Greer mocked, with a peaky smile in her voice. âThatâs a fine way to answer the telephone. What if Iâd been one of your doctor clients? You certainly would have made a businesslike impression.â
Greer cared a lot about impressions. Interesting, since Lillian and I had found her in a bus station in Boise, Idaho, when I was nine and Greer was barely thirteen, working the waiting room in an effort to cadge enough money to buy a meal at the seedy lunch counter. Sheâd been wearing tight hip-hugger jeans that cold winter day, I recalled, along with a fitted black leather jacket, a blue Mohawk, a fat lip and an attitude.
Now, she was married to a famous plastic surgeon; sheâd become the classic Snottsdale wife, with a tasteful blond pageboy, winsomely brushing her gym-fit shoulders, an Escalade and enough jewelry to add ten pounds to her weight on any given day.
âThanks for the timely vocational pointer,â I said, reaching for the milk carton standing lonely on the top shelf of the fridge and taking a cautious sniff. I flinched, dumped the stuff in giant curds into the sink and tossed the carton. The water made a decisive whooshing sound as I washed the works down the drain. âIf Alex told you to call about his Medicare billings, you can tell him I already e-mailed them to the office. And Iâm not altering the codes.â
Alexander Pennington, M.D., was Greerâs husband. He was twenty years older than she was, with a very bitter ex-wife and a creative bent for diagnosis. As in, if the medical facts didnât jibe with Medicareâs payment schedules, he whittled them to fit.
A chill wafted into my sphere, coming from Greerâs direction. âAlex didnât ask me to call,â she said stiffly. âNor did he say anything about the billings. Weâre trying to help you, Mojo. Throw a little business your way, since you seem determined never to get a real job .â
I could have pointed out that at least I worked for my money, instead of drawing an allowance from a rich husband, but I didnât. Greer really pissed me off sometimes, but I considered her my sister, and I loved her. That day in the bus station, Lillian had bought her a meal and a seat next to us on the Greyhound to Las Vegas. Our latest car had just died alongside the highway, but not to worry. When we got to Vegas, Lillian put twenty dollars into a slot machine and won a spiffy subcompact. Greer was as much a part of our strange little family as if sheâd been born into it.
Iâd been too young to get the big picture, back then. Greer was a runaway and, thus, pimp bait. Sheâd already done some hooking by the time Lillian took her in, but afterward, sheâd been a straight-A student and an all-around good kid.
âAre you still seeing that cop?â Greer asked, when I went too long without saying anything. Greer was uncomfortable with silence. If I didnât chatter like a magpie, she thought I was mad at her.
âNo,â I said, examining the fridge again. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to tap my bank account and spring for a few provisions.
âGood,â she answered. âHe might as well still be married.â
No way was I walking into that one. Alex Pennington, M.D., had been married when Greer met him at a country club mixer, where sheâd gone to network, hoping to line up some jobs for her interior design firm. Yes, Penningtonâs wife had been a raging drunk, but that didnât excuse the fact that he and Greer had started an affair the same night. Systematically, theyâd eased the first Mrs. Pennington right out of the picture, and within a year, Greer took over the title.
âTucker,â I said, âis not married. Heâs divorced.â
âEmotionally, heâs