How his father would have hated the way Eric had spent his inheritance. That broken-down hotel? What the hell are you thinking? No goddamn common sense, boy, that’s what’s the matter with you. “I can’t hear you,” Eric sang as he crossed the parking lot. The world was full of people just like his old man, who thought that because an idea was unusual it was impossibly fucked up. As if the way he had lived was better. He’d spent his money on himself when he spent it at all. Always tense, always wound up. Finally popped an aneurysm in his head from the pressure of being pissed off all the time. Eric could have told him: the point of money was to make people happy. To give them things, if you could. There wasn’t much left now, but that didn’t matter. They had the Blackbird and just enough left over to fix it up. He climbed into his truck and called Rory.
