“Well, dear,” she said, her chin dropping, “he is my son. But you, Bobby, have come so much further.”

“Then why is everything always him, him, him?”

“Because he is our shared enterprise, darling. Yours and mine, the entire family’s. Everything he achieves, it’s as if we’ve achieved it, too. And don’t forget, dear, he’s half Spangler.”

“Bobby, listen to me,” said Ramirez. “We want to help you, we really do. Talk to us.”

Aunt Gloria turned to the police and spoke in a tight, angry voice. “If you detectives will . . . calm yourselves for a moment. I’ll take care of this.”

“Bobby, we can’t help you until you put down the gun,” said Ramirez. “I’m afraid of how things might turn out if you don’t put down the gun.”

“Threats won’t be necessary,” said Aunt Gloria. “Come here, dear, come by my side.”

Bobby felt himself pulled in two directions, by Detective Ramirez with her lips and her tawny skin, with her promises of more, much more, even as her gun pointed at his chest. And Aunt Gloria, who had once been his guiding light. And who was finally acknowledging how far he had risen.

“Come, dear,” she said. “I have something to tell you. A secret.”

He hesitated, looked at the detective once more, and then, with the gun still pointing at Francis’s atrophied heart, he took a step toward his aunt. He felt warmer suddenly, comforted, as if the twisted old woman in that chair were the hearth and home he had pined for over the years. He took another step, felt the heat of her as if she were a toasty fire of aromatic love.

“Come closer still,” she said. “The secret I have is for you alone.”

He couldn’t help himself. No matter how far he had risen, she could always pull him to her with a sweet purr from her lovely throat. He went to her, squatted beside her, all the time keeping his gun steady on Francis and his gaze steady on the pretty detective.

His aunt leaned over to him and put her twitching lips close to his ear. With the palsy, she couldn’t help but brush his flesh with her own.

“You’re going to ruin everything,” she whispered so softly that no one else could hear.

“That’s the point,” he said just as softly.

“No, dear. Don’t forget all we owe each other.”

He pulled back as he exclaimed loudly, “Each other?”

“Bobby,” said Detective Ramirez, “Bobby. This isn’t going to end well. Please, I’m asking, I’m begging. Please put down the gun.”

“Listen to her, son,” said the older, black detective. “She only wants to help you.”

“Oh, why are you two bothering me?” he spit out. “Shouldn’t you be outside arresting the man in the car? Do you know who it is? Do you have any idea?”

“The car in front?” said Ramirez.

“Yes, of course, the car Byrne came in,” he said as he let the gun jerk toward the boy standing stock-still in his stupid gray suit before it rested again in the direction of Cousin Francis. “Do you know who is inside that car, listening to our conversation?”

“Listening?” said Aunt Gloria.

“Don’t be dim-witted, any of you. Byrne is wearing a wire, and the accomplice in the car is listening to every word. And here’s the joke of it all: It’s his father. It’s that lying Irish blackmailer Liam Byrne.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said his aunt.

“Oh, it’s him. Check it out. Back from the grave. He’s the one you should be after. And the son there, who has caused nothing but trouble by following in his father’s footsteps.” Somehow strengthened by his outburst, Bobby turned back to his aunt. “And what the hell do I owe you?”

“You’d still be in Des Moines without me. You’d still be driving a milk truck.”

“You made promises.”

“I know, dear,” she said, again in a soft whisper so that no one else could hear. There was a briefcase beside her chair. She tapped it. “And they are about to come to fruition.”

“It was never about money,” he whispered back.

“I know.”

“Why can’t it be me?”

“It can.”

“Why him?”

“Why not both?”

“I’m tired of waiting.”

“You won’t be waiting anymore.”

“All the promises.”

“Yes, dear.”

He dropped his head as he further dropped his voice. “It’s hard to admit this.”

“Go ahead, dear.”

“I can barely say it.”

“Try.”

“I love you.”

“I know you do.”

“No, it’s not just like . . .”

“I know, dear. I love you, too.”

“No, I love you in the other way.”

“You’re my special boy. Remember I used to tell you that?”

“I watch your movie. I found a copy and watch it in my room. You, with your gloves, your special white gloves.”

“Aren’t you naughty, my special boy?”

“I watch it over and over.”

“I was something when I was younger, wasn’t I? I could turn men to slaves with just a look, a gesture. I was special in every way.” She pulled his head closer and patted the front of his neck. “And you’re my special boy. We are linked, Bobby dear. Forever. You and me. We’re Spanglers.”

“Yes.”

“And with Spanglers the family always comes first.”

“Yes.”

He turned his face to hers, so that their eyes were staring directly each into the other’s and their lips were a hairsbreadth apart.

“Do you love me?” she said in a voice below a whisper, in a voice more breath than anything else.

“More than you know,” he replied in a voice just as soft.

“Then there is one more thing you need to do.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know, dear. But just one thing more, and then you can rest.” “I want to stay here, close to you.”

“And you know what it is. To protect the Spangler line. You know what you need to do.”

“I don’t think I want to.”