“No. You wouldn’t.”
Zig thought about that, the car slowly inching forward. “Maybe I wouldn’t. But I’m glad I did.”
Nola turned at the words, annoyed. “You’re really such a softball.”
“No, Nola—I’m a friend.”
Nola rolled her eyes as they approached the intersection. Slowly, KFC and IHOP gave way to mom-and-pops with dilapidated signs and metal bars across the windows. Laisha Afrika Foods. Good Empire Check Cashing. Most of them were closed or boarded up, this part of the neighborhood clearly struggling. Still, on the corner, Zig spotted two Asian men—father and grandfather—each on their own ladder, hand-painting a royal-blue awning with bright yellow letters. Sammy & Sons, plus a logo that looked like a wrench. A hardware store, Zig realized. Something new, even here.
“Nola, as a friend, can I give you a piece of advice?”
“If I say no, will you listen?”
“You don’t like my advice, don’t take it—but again, as a friend—have you thought about talking to your brother?”
“Stop.”
“Nola—”
“Stop. I need you to stop, Mr. Zigarowski. You think you know Roddy—”
“I do.”
“You don’t. I can tell the two of you went through the grinder: you watched him get shot, and sure, that makes you feel bad—but that doesn’t change who he is.”
Outside, the traffic cop blew his whistle, waving them forward. With a tug of the wheel, Nola made a sharp right and punched the gas, sending them screeching around the corner, the hardware store fading behind them.
“Nola, at the risk of sounding prehistoric, have you ever heard of Liberace?”
“Famous piano guy. Matt Damon played him in that movie.”
“Michael Douglas played him, but yes, the flamboyant piano player. Makes Elton John look like a yawn.”
“Can you just skip to the inevitable moral lesson that you tack on at the end?”
“We’ve got a two-hour drive—it’s either this, or I can start retelling old Girl Scout stories from when you were little.”
Nola didn’t answer. Zig was still playing with the deodorant cap, sticking his finger inside it, holding it up like a bobblehead.
“This is back in the eighties,” Zig explained. “To celebrate fifty years of entertaining, Liberace did fifty shows across the country, culminating with two solid weeks at Radio City, which is no small feat. The first night at Radio City, he’s sitting at the piano and starts telling the audience about this young couple who, fifty years ago, met at one of his very first shows. ‘And so, ladies and gentlemen,’ he says as the lights come up, ‘here they are now!’ Ka-zam. The spotlight swings, revealing this sweet elderly couple in the sixth row. Everyone starts clapping, people are crying—it’s one of those touching human moments that lets every person in the room experience the power of true love.
“But here’s the thing,” Zig quickly added. “The next night, he tells a similar story, of a couple that met at his show. ‘And here they are . . .’ he says, pointing to a different old couple. The next night, there’s a third new elderly couple. And the night after that . . .”
“The couples aren’t real. They’re plants,” Nola said.
“Correct. This was before social media—no one was the wiser.”
“It’s a manipulative lie.”
“No doubt—but every night, the audience ate it up, clapping, sobbing, leaving with tears in their eyes as they laced fingers with their loved ones, committed to being better people for just one night.”