When he was near to dying, when he was fifteen.

*

Guillermo Gonzales, a long-time acquaintance, knocked and entered with a tentative respect.

Small and neatly combed, late fifties, besuited in an almost well-fitting suit in dark grey with a white shirt, and, rather ominously, a black tie.

Lomita spoke weakly and economically.

‘This is simple and I want no contradictions or objections. I do not have the energy. Manita gets my house in Beverly Hills and fifty per cent of all my monies. The tax, Guillermo, you have to work that out, but we are well prepared in all that for Manita. Manita we have already taken care of. The only change is regarding Ever, who gets Casa Lomita and money to live and look after it. It is in my Mexican company’s name so I do not anticipate a tax problem, as you are also a director of the company, Guillermo.

‘That is all, and would you please execute this as my full and final will.

‘Palm Springs would you sell and divide the revenue between the three of you, so we include Ever. That is a thank you Guillermo, for your work and loyalty to me, and Guillermo, if there are any issues of any sort regarding Ever bring in adoption papers for me to sign, later, and I will adopt him as my son and therefore he will be my heir. If that makes life more straightforward. There are no other beneficiaries. And I would like to be cremated, but I guess burial is fine. What do I care? My death, as was my life, towards the end, is in Ever’s hands.’

Ever sat silently in thought, questioning the adoption section. Acquiring a new mother was an interesting concept, but it complicated things for him: he would then have had two mothers and would have fucked them both.

That put him in the realm of being a true Motherfucker.

Lomita, breathing from just the top of her lungs, in shallow gasps, continued.

‘And I would like to take full responsibility, this is going to shock two of you in the room, for the death of Ingmar Lorken. I would like, Guillermo, for you to arrange the police to come in so I can make a full confession. Do you think I should do that?’

There was an expected silence, no one confident as to who she was asking.

‘The murder weapon is in the house. It is in my Fendi bag, Manita.’

Not a hair turned on Manita’s head.

Guillermo had shut down into a frozen pose.

Still not a word was spoken; Lomita closed her eyes.

‘Just for a little rest.’

She said.