“Now you look like a successful private investigator,” she says.
I look at her in surprise, wondering how she knew I was a private investigator. She smiles and holds up one of my business cards. “It was in the pocket of your coat.”
“You went through my pockets?”
“It fell out. Can I keep it?” she asks, already sliding it into the depths of her cleavage for safekeeping.
“Sure,” I say with a nod.
“You never know when I might need the attention of a private investigator.”
I gulp. “Yes, you never know.”
Her eyes look me up and down. “It’s a quality coat. It even has a removable liner which means it can be worn most of the year.”
“It’s nice,” I say.
“Look at yourself,” Reggie says, aiming me at the mirror. The three of us—me, the coat and Reggie— look in the three-sided mirror. Nine reflections look back at us.
“This coat says you,” she says.
I catch a glimpse of the tag in the mirror. It goes for 995 dollars. Ouch.
Reggie must see my hesitancy. She reminds me, “It’s half off the tag.”
I hold my breath and do a mental inventory of my check book.
Reggie leans in close and whispers into my ear, “I’ll even let you use my employee discount and whack another twenty percent off.”
“You’d do that?”
“I would. Consider it a payment forward in case I ever do need your services. One never knows.”
“It’s a deal,” I say quickly before she changes her mind.
Five
Now I remember why I hate going to the mall. I always forget where I parked my car. I know I parked in the back because I don’t want scratches or dings, but exactly where in the back is beyond me. Is forgetting where you parked your car genetic? Is it a woman thing? I’ve never seen a man walking around, craning his neck, trying to find his car.
As I search for my car, I think about how if this private detective business doesn’t pan out I should invent a fluorescent orange flag on a pole that goes on the roof of your car. You could push a remote button and the flag would raise and you wouldn’t have any trouble spotting your ride.
There she is! I finally spot Silver. She is huddled behind a Ranger Rover. By the time I crawl behind her wheel, my nose is red and runny from the frigid temps and my temper is foul. My mood doesn’t improve any when I arrive at my office and find Veronica—the woman, not the cat—sitting at my desk. Maybe I should invent an app that warns you whenever an ex-girlfriend is within a hundred yards.
My ex’s name is Veronica Smythe. She’s a powerhouse lawyer who looks like a Playboy centerfold. The juxtaposition of sexy and brainy is intoxicating. As I look at her sitting at my desk I have to remind myself of how much I hate her. She’s like the sun and I’m the moon and it usually only takes about two seconds for me to be pulled into her gravitational orbit.
I have broken up with Veronica exactly seventy-one times. She insists that we’re still together. I don’t know if it’s the lawyer in her or what, but she won’t take no for an answer. She’s like a poodle humping my leg; she’s not going to stop until she decides she’s done. I don’t help matters much by occasionally sleeping with her, but if you saw her you would understand why my moral compass goes on the fritz whenever she’s around. Let’s just say she has more curves than the Indy 500.
As soon as the door closes behind me, Veronica swivels around in my chair, flashes her baby blues and tucks an errant long blond lock behind her ear.
“You spruced this place up a bit,” she says.
I can’t decide if she’s being facetious or not. The desk, chairs and filing cabinets came from a used office supply store. They have been used pretty hard, but what can I say, I’m on a budget.
“How’d you break in?” I ask. I already know she won’t tell me how she got in. She used to break into my loft even though I’ve changed the locks seventeen times. When Travis moved in he almost maced her because he thought she was a serial killer. That put the kibosh on her breaking and entering the loft. She’s like a reverse Houdini, always breaking into places.
“Am I not supposed to visit my girlfriend’s new office and offer her my services?” Veronica asks.
Answering a question with a question is an old lawyer trick. I used to fall for it. Not anymore. “First, we’re not girlfriends. Second, you broke and entered,” I say.
“You disappoint me,” she says.
“How?”
“I distinctly said that I was offering my services. And you didn’t say ‘what services?’ If you had, I would’ve seduced you and we could have spent a very enjoyable fifteen minutes christening your new office.”
I sigh. And even I don’t know if I sigh because I missed the opportunity for a little afternoon delight or because I find her power over me annoying. Veronica smiles and picks a pen out of my plastic cup that serves as a pen holder. She scribbles on my desk calendar then tosses the pen in the trash. I watch her do this with four more pens. Scribble, throw, scribble, throw…
“What are you doing to my pens?”
She pitches another one in the waste basket. “They don’t work. I don’t understand why you keep pens that don’t work. Doesn’t it irritate you when you grab a pen and it doesn’t write?”
“No, it does not because as you will notice there are two containers of pens. One contains the pens that write and the other are pens that have names, addresses and phone numbers on them. Those pens are my Rolodex.” I pick up the trash can and fish out the pens she threw away. I plunk them back in the plastic cup and cross my arms, daring her to comment.
“Hmm…how quaint. Most people just input that info into their phones.”
“I’m not most people.” I immediately regret saying this. I know from past experience that Veronica could take this opening and run with it. She could make mincemeat of me in two seconds if she wanted to. Thankfully, she doesn’t want to. Instead, she rakes her gaze up and down the length of my body. Fear slides down my spine like an ice cube dumped down the back of my shirt.
“Is that a new coat?” she asks.
I shrug like I dump a grand on a coat every day.
Veronica gets up and comes over to inspect. She fingers the fabric of my lapel and I swear I can feel her touch way below my belt.
“Is it a London Fog?”
“No, it’s a Burberry Brit.” I take two steps back.
“Business must be booming. Those go for a pretty penny,” Veronica says, moving in to me again.
“A very nice lady gave me a discount on it.”
Veronica smiles and now both her hands are caressing my lapels. She says breathily, “She must have been a very nice lady. Was she attractive?”
In Veronica’s world people’s worth is enhanced or discounted depending on the luck of their genetic code. Good-looking people automatically rate higher even if they are cheats and thieves.
“She is extremely attractive,” I reply.
“Did she ask you out?” She sits on the edge of my desk and purposely hikes up her skirt so I can get an eyeful of her long shapely legs. Sam Spade would say that she’s a dame with nice pins.
“No. She sold me a coat. I gave her my card in case she needed my services.” I turn away from Veronica’s peekabo show and hang my coat in the small closet.
“What, she didn’t she give you her pen?”
“Cut to the chase, Veronica. Why are you here? What do you want?” I slip behind my desk and sit in my own chair.
“I’ve got a job for you,” she says, suddenly all business. She stands and bends over her briefcase which was on the chair in front of my desk. From this vantage point I have a perfect view of her butt.
She looks over her shoulder and smiles. I’m busted. I quickly look away. She laughs, pulls a folder out of her briefcase and tosses it onto my desk.
“What’s this?” I ask, using one finger to slide the folder closer to me.
&nbs
p; “That’s the dossier on Milton Charles. I need as much smut as you can dig up on this guy. He’s supposedly a paragon of virtue. His wife is the heiress of Peter’s Pickles and she’s loaded. Before they married she made him sign a pre-nup. Now he’s trying to divorce her and he’s saying the pre-nup isn’t legal. That she committed fraud.”
“What kind of fraud?”
“He says she misled him on the nature of her past dalliances.”
“What does that mean?”
“She said she was a virgin and she isn’t,” Veronica says.
“Who is anymore?”
“Evidently it’s a conservative Christian marriage. He wanted to marry a virgin. A rich virgin.”
“So he says the entire pre-nup is void because she wasn’t a virgin?”
“And he wants half her money because of it.”
“Silly question… Exactly how did he know she wasn’t a virgin?” I say, trying to wrap my mind around the whole thing.
“He claims it was the absence of a hymen.”
“What?”
“I know it’s silly and old fashioned. But it is a sign of an unused vagina,” Veronica says.
“A primitive sign. What does she say?”
“That she doesn’t know why her hymen is missing.”
“It could be any number of reasons. Did she ever ride a horse? Play volleyball. Ride a bike?”
“We all know that, Jaime. But the real reason Milton Charles is doing this is because she doesn’t want the publicity and he knows it. He’s looking for a quick settlement. Can’t you just see the newspapers headlines? Pickle Heiress in a Pickle. Or Peter’s Pickles Heiress Tickles Pickle.”
I snort. “So she not only wants to avoid giving him half of her loot, but she wants to avoid the bad publicity.”
“You got it. So, that’s where you come in. You can either find all the smut on Milton Charles or you can find Mrs. Charles’s missing hymen.”
“I’m on it.”
“I knew you couldn’t resist,” Veronica says. She leans over the desk and kisses me. “Let me know what you find out.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?” she asks all innocent-like. Then she does it again. She presses her lips against mine and my hands betray me by pulling her closer. She gives me just enough tongue to promise more, then stands, grabs her briefcase and sashays out of my office.
As soon as the door closes, I look at my lap and say, “Traitor.”
Six
“You’ll have to watch Lebowitz,” Mrs. Friedman says. The large green parrot is sitting on her right shoulder. All Mrs. Friedman needs to complete the picture is an eye patch and a bottle of rum.
Lebowitz squawks, “Watch the birdie, watch the birdie.”
I’m sitting at the desk in the Friedman’s living room using her computer. I’m on Cheaptickets.com trying to find Mrs. Friedman a flight to England to retrieve her husband. I look up and I swear I see Lebowitz snicker at me.
“I don’t know anything about birds,” I protest. “I’m a detective not a birdsitter.” The truth is that Lebowitz scares me. Well, not Lebowitz personally. I’m scared of all birds. My fear started when I was seven years-old and my mother let me stay up late and watch Hitchcock’s The Birds.
I know kids now are used to seeing scarier stuff, but Freddy Kreuger isn’t real. Birds are real. They're all over the place. Birds attacking people could really happen. It was around that time that my mom also let me stay up late and watch To Kill a Mockingbird. That scene where Scout dresses up as a ham and gets chased by a boogie man? I’ve been scared of ham ever since.
“You’re the only person who can do this, Jamie. The Bird-Sitters demand at least six weeks notice or they can’t accommodate you. I can’t go off and leave Lebowitz with some off-the-street sitter with no references sitter. He’s special.” She nuzzles the bird with her nose, saying, “Aren’t you, baby? Aren’t you special?”
Lebowitz says, “Special birdie, special.”
I wince. There’s no telling what kind of germs Mrs. Friedman is getting from that bird. Hasn’t she ever heard of the avian flu?
“I’m not so good at pet care,” I say. This isn’t a lie. I am notoriously bad with living things. That includes children. “I babysat my neighbor’s plants once and killed them. I think I gave them too much coffee.”
I had read somewhere that coffee grounds were an ingredient in compost and compost was good for plants. So, I gave the plants a mixture of water and coffee grounds in the form of coffee. I figured two birds, one stone. Maybe the coffee was too hot for them, though. They did wilt pretty fast.
“I have detailed instructions. You won’t be able to muck it up. I trust you, Jamie. You found Leo. You can certainly take care of a parrot. He’s quite well-behaved.” She puts the bird back in his cage and latches the door. If he’s so well-behaved why is she locking the cage door?
I scroll down the list of possible flights before giving in. “Okay, okay. I’ll watch the bird. What do I have to do?”
“Here’s the list,” Mrs. Friedman says, handing me a laminated page of instructions. “Follow these instructions to the letter and you’ll be just fine. I’ll have Mrs. Pittman from next door pop in, too.”
“Why can’t she take care of Lebowitz?” The bird looks at me when he hears his name. He closes one eye and cocks his head. I’ve never noticed how sharp his beak is before. He could put my eye out with that thing.
“Because she’s a dog person.” Mrs. Friedman says as if it is a deficit in Mrs. Pittman’s personality.
“What’s wrong with being a dog person?”
“They think birds are lacking in interpersonal skills and have no bowel control, which is a blanket statement and an unfair assumption.”
“Okaaay.” I don’t point out that her precious Lebowitz just lifted his tail and pooped right in front of us.
“Did you find me a flight?”
“Yes, it leaves in two hours. Get packed and I’ll drive you. You do have a passport, right?” This begs the question that Mr. Friedman must have had his passport with him. “Does Leo always carry his passport with him?”
“Certainly. He has a bag all packed that he keeps in the trunk so he can leave at a moment’s notice.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re Jewish, dear. He’s afraid of a terrorist take-over or a dystopian scenario. Our people will be the first to get shipped off, followed by your people. You might want to keep a bag packed and ready too.”
“Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”
“History repeats itself, Jamie. All Jews and Gays should be ready to flee to Canada at a moment’s notice.”
“Jews and Gays, Jews and Gays!” shouts Lebowitz.
Seven
I’m a proud member of the typical Italian-American family. We yell a lot. We cry a lot. We eat a lot. The only reason I don’t weigh five hundred pounds is because I got the skinny gene from my father. My mother, Bella Bravo, is a big woman. When she hugs you, you know you’ve been hugged. She wears her plus size like a sexy negligee. I don’t know an Italian man around who doesn’t have the hots for Bella Bravo.
It also doesn’t hurt any that she’s the best cook in the whole city. My Pa, Eddie Bravo, is what you call a ladies’ man, meaning he attracts, but does not act. Ma would kill him he did. He’s got thick black hair and eyebrows to match. He has a gruff exterior, but in reality he’s a softie.
My parents live in the same house where I grew up. They’ll live in that house until they die. It’s nothing special. Blue collar neighborhood, three bedrooms, one bath, small back yard, smells like garlic. My parents aren’t real big on change. They’ve had the same furniture for forty years. Even the same shag carpet. When it came with a lifetime warranty, my parents took that literally. Even my old bedroom still has posters of Lara Croft and Buffy taped to the walls.
My sister's bedroom is across the hall. She's the opposite of me in almost every way. Her childhood bedroom
is decorated in white wicker furniture and a pink canopy bed. There's a poster of Michael Jackson on her wall.
It’s Monday night so that means I’m at the dinner table eating Ma’s famous spaghetti and sauce. Pa is hoovering in the noodles but that doesn’t stop him from talking. “So work’s good?”
I nod. I can’t eat and talk at the same time. Last time I tried that a noodle came halfway out my nose. I sat at the table trying to decide whether to suck the noodle back down or pull it all the way out when Pa reached over and yanked it out for me. Let me tell you, tomato sauce in the sinus cavities hurts like hell.
I finish chewing and tell him about the Friedmans and my case for Veronica.
Pa slurps the last noodle off his fork and says, “You say you’re looking for a Jew and a hymen?”
I nod again.
“I once knew a Jew named Hymen,” Dad says. “Hymie for short.”
“Edward,” Ma scolds.
“What? It’s true!” he says.
Ma shakes her head in disgust and tells him, “Basta. And wipe your mouth.” She looks at me. “Have another piece of bread.” She puts the bread on my plate. “You’re too skinny.”
I look at the bread. “Where’s the garlic? How come you two get garlic bread and I don’t?”
“Just in case,” Ma says.
“Just in case what?”
“You know… In case you want to kiss somebody special later this evening. You don’t want garlic breath.”
“By special, do you mean a vampire?” I say.
Ma frowns. “I mean Veronica.”
"Same difference." It’s not bad enough that Veronica won’t take no for answer, neither will my mother. She loves Veronica. I have a sneaking suspicion that she just wants a lawyer in the family.
“Can’t say my job was ever that interesting,” Pa says, snagging another piece of garlic bread out of the basket. Pa worked for the city. He was a garbage man. He retired last year.
“All in a day’s work,” I say.
“When’s the last time you saw Veronica?” Ma asks.
This happens a lot at the dinner table. I carry on two conversations at once, one with my mother, another with my father.
Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery Page 3