One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(41)

Russell looks between all of us, his face paling as he gathers the enormity of the situation. “But if we draw the wrong attention and our plan backfires—”

“We’ll summon the perfect storm,” Tyler finishes. “We’re talking a majority of the big players, including the FBI, ATF, and the military itself sniffing in our backyard.”

“So, it’s a good thing we’ve got feathered friends in high places,” I add.

A tense beat of silence passes as the stakes set in. None of us expected to deal with something so high-risk this early.

Peter speaks up. “So, what is the plan?”

Glancing around, I make a quick decision and walk over to the tool shelf, snatching three Solo cups from a sleeve along with a handful of washers from a coffee tin. Taking a side of the high top away from the rest of them, I line the cups up on the table and lift a single washer. Using my sleight of hand, I place it beneath a cup before scrambling them. The washer noisily drags on the table, all eyes on the cups until I stop and lift my gaze to Jeremy for his guess.

Jeremy sighs and points to what he’s sure is the obvious cup, and I lift it. Empty. His eyes widen in surprise as I slowly start to re-scramble.

Russell groans in protest. “Hey Dom, you are aware we have a lobby full of people, right? No need for a visual demonstration to get your point across. Contrary to what you might think, Jeremy is the only idiot here.”

Jeremy gapes at him. “That really hurt.”

Peter speaks up. “Dom, we get it. We’re going to use illusion to get the job done. It’s child’s play. You going to sing us Ring Around the Rosie too?”

I pause my movements. “Have you ever examined the lyrics to that sadistic fucking nursery rhyme?” I resume my version of the shell shuffle. “Ring around the Rosie,” I relay, “refers to the rash associated with the plague. Posy was a bouquet used to mask the smell of decaying flesh.”

“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down,” Peter rasps out thoughtfully, “damn, that is some sick shit.”

“See how that works?” I draw out. “Everyone at this table probably knows the words.” They nod in confirmation. “That’s the crux of our lack of critical thinking. That sick rhyme and countless others have been passed down for generations because we’ve been careless as to what we teach one another.” I eye Peter. “Bet you’ll think twice before you sing that lullaby to your baby sister.”

I stop my shuffle. “And when you have a spare minute, Google the origin of Jack and Jill and some of the others, and you’ll soon find our Mother Goose was in favor of Munchausen.”

Russell makes his guess and weighs in. “So, I gather we’re going to have them all scrambling to find the balls?”

“No, brother,” Tyler says, a devious smile lighting his face as I swipe the cups off the empty table and Tyler extends a closed hand over it, slowly lifting his fingers to reveal a palm full of washers. “We’re going to eliminate the game.”

Stalking back to my Camaro when Mrs. George pokes her head out again, I leave Tyler to lay out our strategy of framing Spencer and his accomplices without drawing attention to the club. Retrieving my phone from the glove box, I power it on to see a waiting text from Sean.

Sean: Meet me at the lake, bring the usual.

Got shit to do.

The bubbles immediately start.

Sean: Yeah, you do, but you’re taking the day off.





“Encore, Maman!” Again, Mama.

“Patience.” She tosses my pajamas on the bed next to me. “Arms up.”

“Encore, Maman!” Again, Mama, I yell louder, lifting my arms.

“Such a demanding little lark,” she says, pulling my shirt down before pinching my nose. “Count with me.”

“Un, deux, trois,” One two three, we recite together before she begins to sing. “Alouette, gentille alouette.” Lark, gentile lark! “Alouette, je te plumerai.” Lark, I will pull your feathers! “You sing too, gentile lark.”

“Je te plumerai la tête.” I will pluck your feathers off your head, I sing as she begins to tickle me.

“Je te plumerai la tête.” I will pluck your feathers off your head, she sings back.

“Et la tête,” off your head, she sings high.

“Et la tête,” off your head, I drop my chin and sing low.

“Alouette,” Lark! She sings.

“Alouette,” Lark! I sing back.

She presses her nose to mine, our eyes getting bigger as we sing together. “O-o-o-oh!”

She pushes me back on the bed, hair tickling my belly as she kisses it, and I try to wiggle away.

“Encore, Maman,” I yell as she chases my foot with my pajama pants.

“Et le bec,” off your beak. She pinches my lips.

“Et la tête,” off your head. She plucks my hair.

“Alouette!” Lark!

She stops, yawning.

“Maman,” I yell. “You did not sing it all!”

“We can sing again tomorrow.”

But we didn’t. We didn’t sing.

We never got to sing again.

“Maman,” I whisper, speeding away from the lake, chest burning as trees blur in my peripheral. Irony strikes me that mere hours ago, I chastised my inked brother for taking stock in a nursery rhyme while I replay the one I’m most familiar with—a subconscious punishment.