“Doesn’t matter. What matters is I have a problem, and I think you can solve it.”
I should have walked out. Instead, I drank my coffee.
He slid a folded stack of bills halfway across the table.
“My mother is in a nursing home,” the man said. “Her name is Rosie. She has dementia. On her good days, she tells everyone within earshot that her son never comes to see her.”
“So, go see her.”
For half a second his eyes drifted to the window.
“I can’t watch her like that,” he replied. “Business obligations. Relatives are asking questions. Friends of the family. It’s becoming a situation.”
He slid a folded stack of bills halfway across the table.
“Five hundred a week. Weekend visits. Call her Mama. Pretend you’re Tim. That’s my name. She won’t know the difference, Jeremy. She doesn’t know who’s in front of her anymore.”
I should have said no. I almost did.
I looked at the cash.
“That’s not right, Sir.”
“Right doesn’t pay your mother’s bills.”
The words landed exactly where the stranger meant them to.
“How did you know about my mother?”
“I asked around. You’re a known quantity, Jeremy. Decent guy. Roughly the right age. Looks the part.”
