Nordic Princess wig from the catalog Billy is now holding.
The customer is now crying on the phone.
Billy cannot think what to say or do. Holding the phone against his ear, he whispers, very sadly, still thinking of his sister Caroline: “I’m so sorry.”
Billy hangs up the phone. He wipes many small tears from his eyes. He gets up from his desk and heads for the bathroom, falling into an adjoining cubicle before he really begins to cry uncontrollably.
The boy detective stumbles into the men’s bathroom and finds another man inside, also weeping. He is drinking from a flask and wiping his teary eyes. The man is a short, greasy, round salesman with an enormous black hair piece and a tiny black mustache. He is wearing a ton of gold chains and several gold rings. The man smiles, shrugging, then offers the flask to Billy.
“This here, friend, is the only way to make it through the sob stories, day after day.”
Billy frowns, backing away. The man shrugs his shoulders, taking another swig.
“We’ll see what you say after a week of being here. They sign you up for the graveyard shift yet, kid?”
“No.”
“Well, those are the worst. You never know what people are going to say when they’re all alone in the middle of the night. You do one week of the night shift and then you’ll be as lousy as me, I promise. Poor old Larry here? I worked the graveyard shift for five years straight. They say you get used to everything being left-handed, but you don’t. I know that much.”
Billy looks at Larry’s left hand and sees the white spot where a wedding ring used to be. He notices there are green markings beneath all of Larry’s remaining rings.
“Sure, well, I’m the national sales leader in this office now, you know, but it wasn’t always this easy.”
“I believe Patrick Vigo is the national sales leader. I think I just saw his plaque outside in the lobby.”
“That’s this month, kid. I’m talking for the whole year.”
“But Debra Cummings was the national leader for the year. Her plaque was beside the others.”
“Well, sure, you’re a sharp one, huh? Well, what I mean is this current year. I’m not talking about the past year. The current year.”
“It’s better never to lie. To be honest, I don’t care either way.”
“Why’d you say that, kid? Why’d you call me a liar like that?”
“There’s a pawn-shop ticket stuck to the top of your shoe. And all your jewelry is fake.”
“Well, sure, I had to pawn the good stuff, but I got this junk because I have to keep up the image. Wow, well, that’s amazing, kid. You some sort of mind reader or something?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s uncanny is what it is. How’d you do all that? Figure me out like that?”
“I dunno. Everyone is good at something. I’m good at finding out the truth.”
“Well, you’re a real danger to have around here. You’re OK by me, pal. You sure you don’t want a quick snortful?”
Billy stares down at the white tile floor. “No thanks. I think maybe I should go back to my desk.”
“Well, OK, stay alive out there, kid. It’s more than you can say for your clients, ha ha. You get dreary, you know where to find me.”
Larry shakes Billy’s hand. Billy slowly returns to his desk, wiping his hand on his pants.
The boy detective picks up the phone and dials once again.
Somewhere, some other phone rings. Sitting at a table, an old man with large glasses stares at a photo of his deceased wife and answers the telephone regretfully.
“Good afternoon. Is Gladys in?”
“Hello? No, no, I’m afraid Gladys isn’t home. No … not, not anymore. Not ever again.”
Billy hangs up the phone quick. He lifts it again and the computer dials the next number.
Somewhere else, on the edge of town, in a tiny, run-down boarding house, Killer Kowalzavich—a monstrous, hammer-faced ex-convict in a dirty blue torn shirt—sits in the darkness of his shabby rented room. He is shaved bald and has all kinds of tubes
The customer is now crying on the phone.
Billy cannot think what to say or do. Holding the phone against his ear, he whispers, very sadly, still thinking of his sister Caroline: “I’m so sorry.”
Billy hangs up the phone. He wipes many small tears from his eyes. He gets up from his desk and heads for the bathroom, falling into an adjoining cubicle before he really begins to cry uncontrollably.
The boy detective stumbles into the men’s bathroom and finds another man inside, also weeping. He is drinking from a flask and wiping his teary eyes. The man is a short, greasy, round salesman with an enormous black hair piece and a tiny black mustache. He is wearing a ton of gold chains and several gold rings. The man smiles, shrugging, then offers the flask to Billy.
“This here, friend, is the only way to make it through the sob stories, day after day.”
Billy frowns, backing away. The man shrugs his shoulders, taking another swig.
“We’ll see what you say after a week of being here. They sign you up for the graveyard shift yet, kid?”
“No.”
“Well, those are the worst. You never know what people are going to say when they’re all alone in the middle of the night. You do one week of the night shift and then you’ll be as lousy as me, I promise. Poor old Larry here? I worked the graveyard shift for five years straight. They say you get used to everything being left-handed, but you don’t. I know that much.”
Billy looks at Larry’s left hand and sees the white spot where a wedding ring used to be. He notices there are green markings beneath all of Larry’s remaining rings.
“Sure, well, I’m the national sales leader in this office now, you know, but it wasn’t always this easy.”
“I believe Patrick Vigo is the national sales leader. I think I just saw his plaque outside in the lobby.”
“That’s this month, kid. I’m talking for the whole year.”
“But Debra Cummings was the national leader for the year. Her plaque was beside the others.”
“Well, sure, you’re a sharp one, huh? Well, what I mean is this current year. I’m not talking about the past year. The current year.”
“It’s better never to lie. To be honest, I don’t care either way.”
“Why’d you say that, kid? Why’d you call me a liar like that?”
“There’s a pawn-shop ticket stuck to the top of your shoe. And all your jewelry is fake.”
“Well, sure, I had to pawn the good stuff, but I got this junk because I have to keep up the image. Wow, well, that’s amazing, kid. You some sort of mind reader or something?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s uncanny is what it is. How’d you do all that? Figure me out like that?”
“I dunno. Everyone is good at something. I’m good at finding out the truth.”
“Well, you’re a real danger to have around here. You’re OK by me, pal. You sure you don’t want a quick snortful?”
Billy stares down at the white tile floor. “No thanks. I think maybe I should go back to my desk.”
“Well, OK, stay alive out there, kid. It’s more than you can say for your clients, ha ha. You get dreary, you know where to find me.”
Larry shakes Billy’s hand. Billy slowly returns to his desk, wiping his hand on his pants.
The boy detective picks up the phone and dials once again.
Somewhere, some other phone rings. Sitting at a table, an old man with large glasses stares at a photo of his deceased wife and answers the telephone regretfully.
“Good afternoon. Is Gladys in?”
“Hello? No, no, I’m afraid Gladys isn’t home. No … not, not anymore. Not ever again.”
Billy hangs up the phone quick. He lifts it again and the computer dials the next number.
Somewhere else, on the edge of town, in a tiny, run-down boarding house, Killer Kowalzavich—a monstrous, hammer-faced ex-convict in a dirty blue torn shirt—sits in the darkness of his shabby rented room. He is shaved bald and has all kinds of tubes
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