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Tenants were a plague worse than cockroaches. At least vermin didn't sue you when the accommodations were not to their liking, they just resigned to their insignificance and waited to be exterminated, if Malcolm chose to do so. Not that he felt particularly inclined to call an exterminator at the moment.
Peters had asked him to be sensible, claiming a judge would order him to fumigate the properties eventually, but Malcolm wouldn't hear of it. He never liked being told what to do, not by a judge, and especially not by a bunch of lazy simpletons. Malcolm told him to start acting like a lawyer and stall as much as he could. Pretty soon the plaintiffs would run out of time and money and drop the lawsuits. Nine out of ten times, that worked out fine. These people didn't have what it took to win a fight.
"If you'd let me settle, it might be... easier for you in the future," Peters suggested, careful as to not upset him.
"I don't pay you to play nice, Jerry," Malcolm barked back at him. "If these people don't like it, they can move. For what I charge them, they should be glad it's only cockroaches."
"But what of the heat? There isn't a judge-"
"Jerry, figure it out," Malcolm said, leaving no doubt that the conversation was over. He was tired. He wanted to go home and have a quiet dinner, with a nice glass of Scotch. If he had known this was what being a landlord was like, he'd have invested in something more glamorous than real estate in a cow town in Maine. He should have gone to New York instead; he was always meeting men (and women!) who'd made a fortune there. Felix had invested in the stock market once, and now he wouldn't have to work ever again in his life!
Maybe he'd do that next, as soon as Junior left for college. Yes, as soon as he didn't have to worry about him anymore, life would be easier. He'd get to think of himself, for a change.
As soon as he approached the kitchen, however, Malcolm knew that the new life he had been dreaming for the past seventeen years wouldn't start tonight. He could hear his son's voice in the dark, whispering something that he couldn't quite make out. It was enough to set him on edge.
One night for himself.
Was that too much to ask?
One bloody night!
He couldn't handle Junior right now. The lad chose the worst moments to try and have a conversation, always ranting on and on about his aunt's bloody shop, or about something irrelevant that happened at school, or asking after the properties. As if he understood anything about business. If Junior was ever put in charge, he was bound to ruin them in a month.
Malcolm didn't want to talk tonight. He needed to be alone with his thoughts and a glass of something strong. And it was almost nine anyway, shouldn't Junior have finished his own dinner and retired to his bedroom by now?
It only made sense to Malcolm when he finally entered the kitchen and saw the back of what seemed to be a girl (though nowadays, one could never be sure) sitting at the table with his son. The lad was leaning closer, holding on to her hand, whispering something to her.
Malcolm turned on the lights and demanded, “What is this?” although it was actually quite clear what that was. His son was entertaining a lady friend. Had that been any other day, Malcolm might have felt relieved, maybe even a little proud. A girl! Finally the lad was turning into a man. But right now, he was just exhausted and wanted his son to go have his date anywhere else.
Junior's head snapped up as soon as he saw him.
“Dad!” he said, sitting up straight. No matter how many times Malcolm called him out on it, the lad still had a terrible posture.
The girl looked back at him, then pushed herself up to her feet to show some respect. Junior followed suit. Pretty enough girl. Nice curves in a cheap dress, flat shoes that ruined her sex appeal almost completely. Who ever thought flat shoes for women were a good idea? She looked older than Junior by a couple of years, or at least she had a more mature look.
“Dad, this is Milah,” Junior said.
She went as far as to bend her knees slightly, to offer a sort of curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Gold.”
Malcolm was unimpressed. “Take your friend and go talk elsewhere, Laddie. I had a terrible day.”
Without looking back to check if they were doing as they were told (was there any doubt?) Malcolm be-lined for the cabinet. He selected his best whiskey, something he'd usually reserve to entertain his lady friends, and a glass. But when he turned, Junior and the girl were still standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at him like two deers caught in headlights.
“Out, Junior,” Malcolm repeated, sitting down and giving his son a stern look. “You can ask me for my blessing some other time.”
He proceeded to pour himself a generous dose of Scotch, as if the two of them had already left. But they didn't. Neither of them moved. The girl held on to one of Junior's hands with both of hers, positioning herself slightly behind him, as if she wanted to be shielded, which was a joke really. Junior was a scrawny kid, of a delicate nature. He couldn't protect anyone.
He said, “Daddy,” in that same whiny tone he had used since he learned to talk.
Malcolm huffed.
Daddy, daddy, daddy.
College couldn't get here soon enough. Junior would learn nothing from it, if his high school report cards were of any indication. A waste of money. But if it got him his freedom back, it would be worth it. No more of this constant whinging. The lad was seventeen now, for goodness sake! At that age Malcolm was already working and earning his own money, and not lingering around the house, expecting favors.
Malcolm looked up from his glass to order them both out of the kitchen, again, when he finally noticed the look on their faces. He had seen it enough times before. They were terrified. Because they had gotten into trouble.
No. It couldn't be. Junior was stupid enough to do something like that, yes, but he wasn't man enough to have taken that girl to bed. Malcolm wasn't even sure his son understood the mechanics of it. Did he fancy women at all?
And yet, there he was, holding a girl's hand, looking at him like he had screwed up big time.
“Daddy,” Junior started again, careful and mild, as it was always his way to address his father. Fearful, never respectful. “Milah thinks she might-”
“No.”
Though he hadn't shouted, Junior still went quiet. He always did. The girl squeezed his hand and seemed to recoil even more behind him.
He tried again, "I just mean that-"
"No," Malcolm interrupted, firm, impossible to argue with. He pointed a finger at his son. "Here's what you are going to do. You are going to take your girlfriend out of my house and you are going to have this taken care of. The next time you talk to me, it will be to say this problem has been solved. Is that understood?"
The lad sighed, as if Malcolm wasn't quite getting it. "Daddy, this isn't really something we can fix like that."
Malcolm rolled his eyes. He had an idiot for a son. He pushed his chair back and observed, with some delight, how Junior took a step back, scared of what might be his father's reaction. Instead, Malcolm reached for the notepad Mrs. Potts kept on the counter and scribbled Alphonse Whale's name and number. He shoved the piece of paper into Junior's free hand.
“There. You take her there and everything will be taken care of,” he said. “And after that, I don't want her,” he indicated Milah with a nod, “anywhere near my house.”
Junior looked down, comprehension spreading on his face. He looked horrified, but Malcolm didn't care to soothe him. It was time for him to grow up, and this would probably do the trick.
The girl, however, was clearly much more clever and understood everything long before Malcolm had even reached for the notepad. So she did what girls do in these situations: she started crying.
Junior said, “Milah, don't cry,” making Malcolm roll his eyes again. Not that he was in any position to judge his son. If he hadn't given in to a pretty girl's crying once upon a time, then he wouldn't be standing in the kitchen with a couple of stupid teenagers.
After this was all over, he and Junior would have a serious talk.
“Please, Rumple," she pleaded, her voice barely audible. "I don't want to do this."
Malcolm could have laughed. "You should have thought of that before you spread your legs so easily, sweetheart."
For a second, Malcolm caught a glimpse of a glare behind the veil of tears. But when she moved closer to Junior, her voice was sweet. Clever girl indeed.
“Rumple, please, I don't-”
"Rumple," Malcolm scoffed, then addressed his son. "Does she even know your name? Or was knowing that you're my son enough to let you between her legs?"
Now the girl looked up, wet eyes defiant as she answered, "His name is Malcolm."
"Then you might as well use it."
"Why would I?" she retorted, her small voice full of fire. "He hates it."
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at her. He would call Alphonse himself as soon as they left. For a little extra money, the good doctor could make it impossible for her to pull this trick ever again. He'd ask him to make it painful, too, just so she'd learn. It would be expensive, but it would be worth every penny.
With the corner of his eye, he caught Junior smirking.
"You think she's funny, Laddie?" he snapped, and the little smile was gone.
“I-” Junior started, but then faltered. The girl came closer to him, whispered another plea inside his ear. When he spoke again, he tried to sound reasonable. “Dad, I'm sure we can think of-”
“Junior, you had your fun with her,” Malcolm interrupted, growing angry by the minute. This shouldn't be this hard. “Now it's time to be a man and look after your best interest. The both of you.” He turned to her. “And since she is too stupid to realize how much of a mess she's made, you'rethe one who has to make the tough decisions. So tomorrow, you will take your little friend-”
“I won't make her do something that she doesn't want to do,” he cut in, as if his father's suggestion was madness.
“It doesn't matter what she wants to do!” Malcolm shouted. His son trembled, but didn't recoil. “How old is she?”
“I'm seventeen,” the girl answered, before Junior could open his mouth.
Malcolm didn't spare her a glance. “Started early, did she? And where are her parents? Not around anymore, I bet.”
She answered, “They died,” but Malcolm could tell that was a lie. She probably left home, or was kicked out of the house. Troubled youth. Yes. She had that look. No wonder she had the lad wrapped so tightly around her little finger. She probably told him a sob story, and he fell for it.
He was about to say all of this out loud, when Junior spoke again, soft, tentative, “You're here.”
Malcolm looked at his son. He was staring at him, full of expectation. The girl had lowered her eyes to the ground, already preparing herself for the worst case scenario. But Junior was still hopeful, looking at Daddy so that he could make all of his problems go away.
Daddy, there is a monster under my bed.
Daddy, a boy is bullying me at school.
Daddy, I need money to go to college.
Daddy, my girlfriend is pregnant and I don't want to deal with it.
Malcolm took a step back. “No.”
“Daddy-”
“No, I see how this goes,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. “You're off to college, and I'm stuck with them, ain't that right?”
“No!” he said, shocked that his father would even think such a thing. “No, we just-”
“You want money?” Malcolm continued, even louder. “You want her to move into my house?”
“Daddy, we just want your help,” Junior said. No. He whined. He was always whining. Nothing was ever good enough. The lad only knew how to suck him dry, pulling his money, pulling his youth, his life, his future-
“You're not going to do this to me,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. “Not again.”
“Daddy, we just need help-”
“I gave you my help!” he shouted. “You take her there and that is it!”
“I won't take her to the butcher you take your girlfriends to!” he replied, crumbling the piece of paper to a ball and throwing it on the floor.
Malcolm stared at it with wide eyes. Why was this so complicated? Junior was a little wimp. It had never taken more than a stern look to get him to cower and do as he was told.
Behind him, the girl was beginning to smile, hopeful.
Malcolm pointed at her. “That slut is not worth all your troubles.”
“Milah!” Junior all but shouted back. “Her name is Milah!”
“I don't care what her name is! You're going to-”
“No!” his son screamed, a resolute face, but nervous hands that kneaded at nothing, over and over.
Malcolm could easily defeat him in a screaming match. The lad, much like his tenants, was weak-willed and couldn't hold his own in a fight. Or he could stop being nice and rip a page from his father's book. A thorough beating would put some sense into the lad. Lord knows he had wanted to do it for ages.
But why give in to anger when everything could be solved much more easily.
Dropping his voice to a soft threat, Malcolm announced, “I won't pay for Law School.”
That caught their attention immediately, and what a satisfaction it was. The girl seemed particularly shocked. Her head snapped up and there was no trace of a smile this time, as she stared at Malcolm with eyes full of fear.
“I won't pay for anything,” he continued. “If you decide to go through with this, you won't have my money, and you won't have my house. You'll be out on the streets with nothing but the clothes off your back.”
The girl's breath got caught in her throat and she seemed ready to have a panic attack.
But Junior was quiet, staring at him with sorrowful eyes. He wasn't scared at the thought of having no more of daddy's money to waste on his whims. Neither did he seem surprised, as if part of himself had been preparing exactly for that kind of reaction, and all that was left for him to do was to be hurt.
Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “Milah, can you wait for me outside while I talk to my dad?”
She scooted closer. “Rumple, I don't want to be alone, please.”
“It won't take long. I promise I'll go fetch you in a minute.”
She didn't move.
Malcolm wondered how many men had broken a promise as simple as to meet her outside. A few, he'd bet. She was probably used to waiting on the street for hours, always hopeful that her boyfriend or lover or whatever it was that women like her had, always waiting for a man to come and meet her, so that they could start a wonderful life together. Until her feet got too tired and she was forced to leave with her tail between her legs.
If Malcolm had it his way, tonight would be no different.
Junior insisted, “Please, Milah,” in a soft voice that she must have found truthful enough, because she finally started moving. He expected her to throw him one last glare before leaving the kitchen, but her eyes were on the floor the whole time.
Junior didn't speak again until they heard the front door open and close.
“I can work,” he suggested. “I don't have to go to Law School. You can, you know, take that money and just-”
“Give it to your girlfriend?” Malcolm finished. The thought of it was enough to make his blood boil. “Why? So she can spend it?”
“So we can start a life together. Then you won't have to worry about anything.”
“Is that bastard even yours?”
Junior seemed shocked by the question. It hadn't even occurred to him.
Of course not.
Why would it have?
“Yes,” he answered.
“How do you know? Because she told you so?”
He didn't answer.
“Did you even have sex with her?”
“I did,” he answered, his voice a whisper.
“How many times?”
“What?”
“How many times did you shag your girlfriend?”
He turned red. “I'm not keeping count, dad!”
“Keep count! How many times?”
Junior seemed to be at a loss for words, but judging by the way the red on his cheeks intensified, he was thinking about it.
“A dozen? Maybe?”
“Did you pull out, or did you always-”
“God, dad!” he said, horrified. “I know how sex works! We did it! It's mine!”
“Women lie, Junior! I shouldn't have to tell you that.”
“She wouldn't lie. She loves me.”
Malcolm stared at him. “You cannot be that much of a moron.”
But, apparently, he was. The possibility that his precious girlfriend was a lying slut didn't even seem to weigh on his mind. He wouldn't consider it, no matter how much Malcolm insisted.
He said, “You don't need to give us money. Just-just let us stay here for a few weeks, just until I find a job, a place to stay-”
“No.”
“Just a couple of-”
“No.”
Junior opened his mouth to beg again, but closed it before any words could come out. Finally, he understood. There would be no help whatsoever from his father. He could plead on his knees or offer his soul, it made no difference.
“Men don't cry, Junior. Stop this,” he said, as he noticed his son's eyes filling with tears. “I am doing you a favor. A child you don't want can ruin your life.”
The lad dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, covering his face as it crumbled. When a sob erupted from his tiny frame, Malcolm didn't even consider his words might have been the cause of it.
“I said stop it, Junior,” he repeated, though that was the kindest his voice had been all night. “Go fetch your girlfriend and tell her you've changed your mind. Then, after it's all done, you can leave for Law School, maybe meet another girl, a good girl.”
For a moment, Malcolm thought he'd gotten through to him, as Junior stood silent, seemingly pondering his words.
But then his hands fell to his sides and he shook his wet face.
“Junior,” Malcolm insisted, as if he was talking to a petulant child, “I am serious. You won't have any help from me.”
He shook his head again.
“I own this town, Junior. Where will you live? Who will give you work once I tell them not to?”
Without warning, his son took a step forward and grabbed his sleeve. Malcolm was too surprised to do more than take a step back. He was about to shout that he let go of him and stopped this nonsense, when Junior looked into his eyes.
“You are my father!” he pleaded. “You are supposed to help me!”
“Why?” he replied. His father had never helped him. Nobody did. Especially not his son. If anything, Junior had set his life back a decade. And now, the lad wanted to add the slut and the little bastard to this unwanted family. He would be left with nothing. All his hard work, and what for? So that Junior could throw it all away because he was too stupid to handle a girl like a man should.
His son kneaded his sleeve, as he sobbed openly. Pathetic. Weak. “Please! I don't want to do this by myself!”
Malcolm pried his fingers from his shirt.
“You are not my problem anymore,” he said, unmerciful. “Now get the hell out of my house.”