“He’s fucking my mom, I know it.” Foley finished his beer. Signalled for another.
Chris scoffed. “How can you think about something like that?”
“People fuck. My mom is people. Easy, man.”
“How would Jerry even know her?” Chris was often purposely aloof, always leading Foley by the nose.
“Cause I invited him over to dinner. She wanted to meet him.”
Jerry was the mechanic and body shop guy Foley was apprenticing with. He was almost sixty, battled gout, and made inappropriate comments about the underage girls who passed by on the way to the coffee bar a block over. Sometimes he’d wander out front for a cigarette, always with a wrench. He’d toss it to the ground. “Help an old man grab his tool,” he’d ask, and you knew he was referring to his dick because of course he was referring to his dick.