the bastard and the laundry

i never took warren for an informer. my family had taken him in at age 12. his parents had been killed in a cheap hotel room on carvel street over a crack deal gone sour. or at least that’s what we told him. "better double check that suitcase," i told warren as i folded my laundry, "ma won't like it if its not all there." warren looked over at me amused, "have i ever forgotten anything?" the truth is, he had forgotten something once. i had won a small glass mirror at a rodeo when i was 5. it had a picture of the duke boys leaning on the general lee. 9 years ago, on our return trip from jarleson florida, warren had left the mirror in our hotel room. i never brought it up again. warren carried the overstuffed luggage down the 4 flights of stairs, nearing the bottom he began grabbing his chest and searching his pockets fruitlessly. holding out his inhaler, i yelled down to warren... "looking for this you godamn duke boys mirror thief?" they never did find his body.