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what. Let the cards decide. We’ll play a hand of five-card draw.”
    If Phil won, I had to do whatever stupid chore he had in mind for me. If he lost, he didn’t necessarily have to do it instead, but neither did I. Sometimes, “just to keep it interesting,” as Phil would say, we played best two out of three.
    I gave Detective Antonelli an example.
    About two weeks earlier, my mother went into the garage to try to find somethingthat she had brought with her when she and Jamie and I had moved into Phil’s place a little over six years ago. I couldn’t remember what she was looking for. I’m not even sure she told me what it was. But I do remember that she couldn’t find it and that she said it was because the garage was such a mess. It was piled with stuff that, according to her, she hadn’t seen Phil use even once since we’d moved in. She muttered about it all week. She said that when Phil came home for the weekend, if he did one thing and one thing only, he was going to clean out the garage.
    When Phil came home that weekend— one week before he got shot at the bank machine—they had an argument about the garage. Phil said what he always said: “I’m away from my family all week, working hard to put food on the table, a roof over everyone’s head, clothes on everyone’s back. When I come home for the weekend, I expect to relax. I
deserve
to relax.”
    But my mother didn’t back down. She wanted the garage cleaned out.
    No way, Phil told her. It was a whole-weekend job, and if she thought he was going to spend the whole weekend doing chores after he’d just spent the whole week working, she was going to have to think again.
    My mother still didn’t back down. She was here all week, she said. She had to look at that mess. Worse, she had to try to find stuff in that mess. And, by the way, she told Phil, “I work too. I put in twenty-five hours a week at the store. Plus I keep this house clean. I take care of all the details. I make sure there’s food in the fridge and in the freezer so that you can eat good home-cooked meals when you’re here.” My mother was a good cook. “I make sure there are clean clothes in your closet and clean socks and underwear in your drawers. I even do beer runs so that there’ll be plenty on hand when your friends come over.”
    Phil didn’t say anything to that. Instead, he looked at me. He said, “David, I’ve got a little job for you.”
    â€œNo way,” I said. None of the stuff in the garage belonged to me. I didn’t see why I should have to clean it out.
    â€œI’ll play you for it,” Phil said.
    It was such a big job that I wasn’t sure I wanted to play him. I didn’t want to take the chance I’d lose.
    My mother said, “One of you is going to clean the garage or neither of you is going to get a meal out of me for a month.” It was totally unfair. I was the one who would suffer the most if she refused to cook. Phil was away five days out of seven. She scowled at us and left the kitchen.
    â€œCome on, Davy,” Phil said, needling me. He knew I didn’t like to be called that. “We’ll play best two out of three.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. I knew my mother wasn’t bluffing. She was angry about the garage and she wanted the job done. “On one condition.”
    Phil looked at me. “Now you’re giving me conditions?”
    â€œIt’s for Mom,” I said. “The loser
has
to clean out the garage, even if it’s you. Deal?”
    Phil thought for a moment. “Deal,” he said. He stuck out his hand and we shook.
    Phil dealt the cards. I won the first hand—a pair of queens to his pair of nines. Phil won the next hand—three jacks to my pair of fives and pair of sevens. The next hand was the one that would decide whose weekend was ruined. I discarded three and tried to keep