popcorn. That was six years before I arrived that night with Ex #6 and seven years before now. I’ve been a regular all that time. But the only reason Ex #6 and I were at the bar that night was because I won the coin toss.
“Tell me about your day,” Ex #6 said.
“I got burned on a surveillance job.”
“That means you got made?” he said, showing off his learned jargon.
“Uh-huh.”
“You told me you never got made.”
“Rarely. I think I said rarely.”
Milo stepped over to us and refilled my whiskey. Milo was then in his midfifties, now (for those lousy at math) in his early sixties. He’s an Italian-American male, approximately five foot seven, with thinning brown hair streaked with gray. He wears only pleated trousers, short-sleeved oxford shirts, an apron, and usually the latest in athletic footwear, which provides the only modern touch to his ensemble. You might imagine that I have only a passing relationship with Milo, but you’d be wrong. I’ve seen the man at least twice a week for the past seven years. I count him as one of my closest friends.
Ex #6 patted the bar and pointed to his glass. Milo eyed him rudely and refilled his drink at a snail’s pace. Ex #6 put some bills on the bar and snapped a thank-you.
“I got to take a leak,” Ex #6 said as he strode to the back of the bar. Milo watched him disappear, with the phony smile on his face dropping off as he turned to me.
“I have a bad feeling about that guy,” said Milo. I didn’t pay attention since Milo has said the same thing about all my boyfriends since I was twenty-one.
“I’m not having this conversation again, Milo.”
“It’s your life,” he said.
Sometimes I get the feeling it isn’t.
The following morning, I was in the Spellman offices typing up a surveillance report from a job earlier in the week. My mother was waiting for Jake Hand, a twenty-four-year-old hipster, guitar player, and porn shop clerk we occasionally employ when we’re overbooked on surveillance jobs. Dad and Uncle Ray were working a case in Palo Alto. The clock struck 8:00 A.M ., and Jake walked in the door sporting his tattoos and an extra spring in his step.
“Mrs. Spell, look at the clock.”
My mother glanced up at our classroom-size timekeeper and said, “You’re on time. I could kiss you.”
Jake thought my mother was serious and offered up his cheek. She gave him a quick peck and then sniffed the air.
“Did you shower, Jake?”
“Only for you, Mrs. Spell.”
Jake is secretly in love with my mother, which manifests itself primarily in grooming-related activities. In fact, most of her male acquaintances are secretly in love with her. Mom’s blue eyes and ivory skin are perfectly offset by long, dark auburn hair (from a bottle these days). Only the crow’s-feet around her eyes give away her age. But Jake can see no flaws through their thirty-year age gap, and Mom enjoys the luxury of having a truly devoted employee. I often wonder what turns their conversations take after eight hours in a car together.
“Isabel, when you’re finished with the background, I need you to go shake down your brother,” my mother said casually as she gathered her surveillance equipment.
“About?”
“About the twenty grand his firm still owes us on the Kramer job.”
“He’s going to tell me the same thing he always does. We get paid when they get paid.”
“It’s been three months. We expended six grand out of pocket and have not seen any return. I can’t pay our bills.”
My father likes to remind me whenever he hands me my paycheck (and has some time on his hands) that PI work will never make me rich. The fact is the PI bill gets paid last. Rent, office supplies, utilities are necessary for a business to thrive, but you can live without your private investigator. Although my parents have made a decent living for themselves with the business, there are times when we have a serious cash flow problem, which often happens when we do jobs
“Tell me about your day,” Ex #6 said.
“I got burned on a surveillance job.”
“That means you got made?” he said, showing off his learned jargon.
“Uh-huh.”
“You told me you never got made.”
“Rarely. I think I said rarely.”
Milo stepped over to us and refilled my whiskey. Milo was then in his midfifties, now (for those lousy at math) in his early sixties. He’s an Italian-American male, approximately five foot seven, with thinning brown hair streaked with gray. He wears only pleated trousers, short-sleeved oxford shirts, an apron, and usually the latest in athletic footwear, which provides the only modern touch to his ensemble. You might imagine that I have only a passing relationship with Milo, but you’d be wrong. I’ve seen the man at least twice a week for the past seven years. I count him as one of my closest friends.
Ex #6 patted the bar and pointed to his glass. Milo eyed him rudely and refilled his drink at a snail’s pace. Ex #6 put some bills on the bar and snapped a thank-you.
“I got to take a leak,” Ex #6 said as he strode to the back of the bar. Milo watched him disappear, with the phony smile on his face dropping off as he turned to me.
“I have a bad feeling about that guy,” said Milo. I didn’t pay attention since Milo has said the same thing about all my boyfriends since I was twenty-one.
“I’m not having this conversation again, Milo.”
“It’s your life,” he said.
Sometimes I get the feeling it isn’t.
The following morning, I was in the Spellman offices typing up a surveillance report from a job earlier in the week. My mother was waiting for Jake Hand, a twenty-four-year-old hipster, guitar player, and porn shop clerk we occasionally employ when we’re overbooked on surveillance jobs. Dad and Uncle Ray were working a case in Palo Alto. The clock struck 8:00 A.M ., and Jake walked in the door sporting his tattoos and an extra spring in his step.
“Mrs. Spell, look at the clock.”
My mother glanced up at our classroom-size timekeeper and said, “You’re on time. I could kiss you.”
Jake thought my mother was serious and offered up his cheek. She gave him a quick peck and then sniffed the air.
“Did you shower, Jake?”
“Only for you, Mrs. Spell.”
Jake is secretly in love with my mother, which manifests itself primarily in grooming-related activities. In fact, most of her male acquaintances are secretly in love with her. Mom’s blue eyes and ivory skin are perfectly offset by long, dark auburn hair (from a bottle these days). Only the crow’s-feet around her eyes give away her age. But Jake can see no flaws through their thirty-year age gap, and Mom enjoys the luxury of having a truly devoted employee. I often wonder what turns their conversations take after eight hours in a car together.
“Isabel, when you’re finished with the background, I need you to go shake down your brother,” my mother said casually as she gathered her surveillance equipment.
“About?”
“About the twenty grand his firm still owes us on the Kramer job.”
“He’s going to tell me the same thing he always does. We get paid when they get paid.”
“It’s been three months. We expended six grand out of pocket and have not seen any return. I can’t pay our bills.”
My father likes to remind me whenever he hands me my paycheck (and has some time on his hands) that PI work will never make me rich. The fact is the PI bill gets paid last. Rent, office supplies, utilities are necessary for a business to thrive, but you can live without your private investigator. Although my parents have made a decent living for themselves with the business, there are times when we have a serious cash flow problem, which often happens when we do jobs
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