by Lee Nichols
“Well now, you tell me.” He leans back in his chair and clasps his hands behind his head.
I know this is a test, and it’s one I should try to fail, so I can get out of this freak office. But I need a job. Thick stack of cash has become thin stack. If I don’t get this job, I’m going to be kicked out of my trolley, living in my car (parked outside Maya and Brad’s, of course) and forced to shoplift groceries….
“You catch shoplifters,” I say.
“Well, now, ladies and gentleman,” he says. “Spenser’s got himself a live one. Most of it is employee theft—that’s the biggie. But I’ve got me a customer right now thinks they’re losing too much money to two-bit sticky fingers. That’s where you come in. You shop, keep your eyes open. You see a palmer, call security. Only thing to remember, wait until they’re out of the store—otherwise it ain’t shoplifting. Think you can handle it?”
“Perfectly. No problem.”
He shuffles some papers around on his Formica. “Customer is Super 9. You can start tomorrow?”
“I got the job? I mean—you’re hiring me? I’m hired? You’re hiring me?”
He stares. “Any reason I shouldn’t?”
“No! No—this is…I’m just so pleased.” Though, in fact, I hate Super 9. I can’t stand five minutes in that superstore discount hell. How am I gonna last a whole day? “Working in investigative services. Catching, um, sticky fingers.”
“You watch yourself. Some of these guys are professionals. It’s a billion dollar industry.”
I nod in agreement, and we go over my wages (low) and benefits (none). He asks for my driver’s license and slides me a W-2 form. Deductions, dependents…all very mystifying. I puzzle it out—probably in record time—and hand it over.
“Any questions?” he asks.
“Well, there is one thing.” I smile winningly. “Your nickname? They call you Spenser because of the books?”
“What books?”
“You know, Spenser for Hire, the private detective. Robert Parker, I think. There was a TV show, too.”
He looks blank.
“Starred Robert Urich?”
“Oh, you mean Dan Tanna. What’s that got to do with me?”
“Umm…” Not worth it. “Nothing, I guess.”
He tells me to report to Phillip, the head of security at Super 9, tomorrow morning, and asks if I’m ready to start watching my training videos. I am, but I worry that we haven’t bonded. I mean, if I’m gonna be Elle Medina, Girl Detective, I ought to have some rapport with my boss, right? So I ask if he’s got any interesting cases.
He lights a Marlboro Red with his silver lighter, and I can tell he’s pleased with the question. “Nothing new under the sun, Medina. Divorce, background checks and industrial security. Well, and a little something else. You heard about Holly? The bitch that went missing?”
I’m a quarter-second from snapping that I’ll sue his aging-Tony-Danza-ass if he calls women “bitches” in my presence, when I remember: “The golden retriever puppy who needs her medicine?”
He blows a smoke-ring and nods.
“Do you have any, um, leads?”
“Nothing but dead ends,” he says glumly.
“I’m sure something will turn up,” I say. “If Ace Ventura can do it, so can you.”
“Ace who? Never heard of him.”
I try to explain, but he doesn’t believe Jim Carrey was in anything other than The Truman Show, The Majestic and, for some reason, Ocean’s Eleven. Then he sits me down in front of his VCR for four hours of investigation instructional videotapes from the 1970s. They’re groovy, man. Shoplifting is a bad trip.
“What on earth is that?” Mr. Goldman asks as I heft the gigantic orchid (just like the one at Bread and Water) onto the bar.
“It’s a gift. For Maya. For everything.”
“Ellie,” she says. “It’s beautiful. You didn’t have to—” Then she gets suspicious. “Where did you get it?”
“At that cute little garden shop around the corner.”
“You mean Honeysuckle? They charge twelve bucks for a single rose.”
“I know, everything is gorgeous.”
“What did it cost?”
I refuse to tell. I’d lie, but she’d check.
Mr. Goldman chuckles. “You girls, always the same since you were this high. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He waves goodbye, and leaves out the back.
“I love your dad,” I say, to distract Maya.
“Elle,” she says. “You can’t spend money right now. Do you understand this? Money is not for any passing whim, for anything that catches your eye, you have to plan and you have to budget, and you—”
She enlarges on this theme for five minutes, not pausing for breath until Perfect Brad comes in.
“Hey,” he says, leaning over the bar to kiss Maya. “Where’d the tree come from?”
“Elle,” Maya says. “The real question is, how did she afford it?”
They look at me, and after a dramatic pause I say: “I got a job.”
I am hugged and kissed and exclaimed over, and I eat it up with a spoon.
“Well, who’s the lucky boss? Where are you working?”
I brace my hands on the bar. “Grab hold of your barstools, boys. There’s a new sheriff in town.”
Maya giggles. “What?”
“You’re working for the Sheriff’s Department?” PB asks.
“Better. I’m a private dick.”
“Elle, those badges in Cracker Jack boxes aren’t real.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Brad says. “Are you investigating, or being investigated? If it’s anything like Planned Parenthood…”
I flick a cocktail straw at him. “I am working for Ross Investigative Services, thank you very much.”
“Do you get to go undercover?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” I brief them on my duties.
“You’re getting paid to shop,” Maya says, wide-eyed. “You can do that.” She makes it sound like a chipmunk would be overqualified.
“Thanks, Maya.”
“No, really. You actually did it! This calls for a celebration.”
I wag in my chair. That’s more like it.
Brad says, “We’ll take Elle to dinner when the new guy comes in. Go to Shanghai and drink too much Tsingtao.”
“What new guy?” I ask.
“New bartender,” Brad says.
Maya shoots him a look. “He’s not really new,” she says. “He used to work here, and Brad’s been after me to get some help, and I promised this guy—who worked here before—”
“You already mentioned that part,” I say.
“Elle, you wouldn’t have liked working here. You need to do something that’s yours, not Louis’s or mine or anyone else’s.” She’s gentle and sympathetic. “And I promised the guy I’d hire him again if I could.”
I finger a ring of condensation on the bar. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t expect you to hire me. I’d be a terrible bartender.”
“Come have Chinese with us,” she says firmly.
“It’s a fantastic place,” PB says, apparently trying to cover his faux pas. “Robert Zemeckis goes there.”
His awkwardness makes me realize that Perfect Brad has actually stuck his foot in it. I’m elated. He’s not perfect! Then I think: if he were always perfect, he’d be unbearable, thus making him imperfect. So, the fact that he screwed up makes him even better and more perfect. And not only is he perfect but their relationship is perfect. And it does hurt that Maya didn’t want to hire me. I know it’s silly, but it does.
“Sorry—just stopped in to drop off the orchid,” I say, suddenly wanting to be alone. “I have places to go, people to stake out.”
I almost run over Monty on my way out the door. He greets me in a courtly manner—he’s natty as ever in a beige linen suit with a yellow silk tie—and I remember what I forgot to tell Maya and PB.
“Oh, and guess what his name is,” I call back to them.
I laugh. “No, that’d be too Russian novel. His name’s Spenser.”
“What’s wrong with Spenser?” PB asks.
“It’s a private detective series. There’s like a thousand books.”
“Robert Parker,” Monty says, taking his usual stool.
“See,” I gesture to Monty. “Monty knows. Robert Parker.”
“Never read him,” Brad says.
“There was a TV series with Robert Urich, and the big black guy, Hawk?”
“I thought you said Robert Parker,” Brad says.
“That’s the author,” I say, exasperated.
“Was that the one that was like in Vegas or something?” Maya says.
“That’s Dan Tanna.” I shake my head in disgust. “Just forget it.”
I bump the door open with my hip and…
…the dame stepped out of the juke joint like a crime wave waiting to happen, her shapely gams seductive as a pair of Manolo Blahniks on the 50% off rack. It was early Wednesday evening, but she was dressed like late Friday night, in a suit black as widow’s weeds and sexy as Marilyn Monroe’s whisper. Sure, she was hurting. Who wouldn’t hurt, stabbed in the back with a jade dagger by the orchid woman who owned the juke? The orchid woman who had a hunk of man wrapped around her little blond pinky, while the dame had nobody except a mysterious Mexican with a hypnotic voice, and Babyface Eddie Munster hot on her tail. But as she walked to her jalopy, a smile played around her ruby lips….
I’m going to be a private detective! My first real job.
I plan on going straight home to condition my hair for the big day tomorrow, but get sidetracked by the mall.
Barnes and Noble has a surprisingly well-stocked section on private investigation. Three books. On the cover of one is a woman P.I. holding a gun. Sexy, in a woman-with-a-gun sort of way. Perhaps P.I. Elle will need a gun. First, however, I need a credit card, so I can buy the book. I shoot thanks-but-no-thanks to the cashier with my finger pistols, and head to Nordstrom.
I ponder shoes while wondering where people buy guns. Pawn shops? There must be gun shops, of course, but—ooooh, Cute BCBG heels. Only $145. I got a job, I deserve a new pair of shoes. I ask salesgirl to bring me a pair. Notice violet Charles David mules while I’m waiting. Girl brings me BCBGs, and begrudgingly heads back for the purple mules.
I strut the BCBGs in front of a full-length mirror. They’re cute, but…what will the other girls be wearing? Will there be other girls?
“You look good in those,” the salesgirl says, as she plops the Charles Davids on a bench.
“Do you think I could run in them?” I ask. What if I have to chase down a shoplifter?
“Ummm…” she says, and wanders off to help another customer.
I try on the Charles Davids. Then the BCBGs. Then the CDs, then the BCBGs again. Hard to decide. The BCBGs have a strap, though, which might make shoplifter-apprehension easier. I glance around to see if anyone is watching. Free and clear. I do a quick skip and start running. Just a couple steps, to see.
Unfortunately, I’m aiming toward the front door.
“Stop her,” the salesgirl shouts. “She’s wearing our shoes!”
My fear of being tackled by the perfume girls overcomes my fear of having to deal with this, so I skid to a halt, to explain. Explanations are not forthcoming, however, as my right heel snaps off, and like a track star who’s missed the hurdle, I wrench my ankle and sprawl to the tile floor.
I check to see if only my pride is wounded, not my ankle, and look back to find a pair of Bally wingtips standing in front of me.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” the wingtips say sternly.
“I was only—”
“She asked if I thought she could run in them,” the salesgirl says. “I never thought she’d try to steal them. Sorry, Todd.”
I struggle to my feet and face Todd.
I know him. He was in my high school chemistry class. We dated briefly. Great. Can this get more embarrassing?
“Todd? It’s Elle. Elle Medina? From high school?”
“Elle? What are you doing stealing shoes? I thought you lived in D.C. or something.”
“I wasn’t stealing. Honest. I was just—running.”
The salesgirl snorts.
“It’s all right, Celia,” Todd says. “I’ll take it from here.” He points to my tote and shoes, which look forlorn sitting on a couch surrounded by shoeboxes. “Are these yours?”
I nod, and he grabs them. “My office is this way.”
I hobble after him. “It’s good to see you,” I say, as though we’ve met over lunch. “So, you work at Nordy’s now?”
He doesn’t feel like chatting until we’re in his office. “Technically,” he says. “We can’t charge you with shoplifting, as you never left the store, despite your intentions.” He’s serious and officious. Whatever happened to the goofy seventeen-year-old who said he wanted to join the Mafia when he grew up?
“Todd, my intentions were completely innocent. I wasn’t trying to steal the shoes. I just…” I just don’t know. How does it happen? The Planned Parenthood Fiasco, the Coffee Condom Catastrophe, and now this? I begin to think my mother is right, and these disasters are the world’s way of telling me I’m on the wrong track.
“Can’t think of an excuse, huh?” Todd says.
“I don’t need an excuse. I was—”
“Doesn’t matter, I’m not going to press charges.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “Funny way to run into each other again, huh?”
He’s flirting with me! Maybe this is the answer to boyfriend problems. Think about it: a) we sort of know each other already, b) he’s seen me at my worst (almost) and is still flirting, and c) he works at Nordstrom, and undoubtedly can get me a HUGE discount!
I twirl a curl behind my right ear.
He smiles. “I thought you were in D.C., married to a lawyer.”
It’s times like these I wish I knew a good lawyer joke. “Actually, I just moved back. I’m working as a—I do investigations. Private investigations.”
“Like Kinsey Milhone? E is for Elle.” He’s definitely interested in me. “How’d you get that job?”
“I sort of fell into it. That’s what I was doing with the shoes.” I make pumping notions with my hands, as though jogging in place. “In case I have to chase down perps.” The word “perps” comes out funny, like maybe I should excuse myself. I stop pumping my hands.
“You have any interesting cases?”
“Nothing new under the sun, Todd,” I say. “Divorce, background checks, industrial work. How about you? Worked here long?”
As he tells me the story of his career, confirming everything I’ve been led to believe about dating, I have plenty of time to casually grab my things, remove the BCBGs and put on my own shoes. “Hey, good seeing you, Todd.” I look at the clock over his desk. “But is that the time? I’ve gotta go.”
I step towards the door.
“Wait,” he says.
I pause, my hand on the doorknob. Should I give him my phone number? I think I should. I know he’s not an axe-murderer—I mean, I’ve met his parents. And a shoe discount is always appealing…I turn and give him an encouraging smile.
He returns the smile and gestures to the mules I’ve left lying broken on the floor. “You’ll have to pay for those.”
Chapter 15
Stayed up late watching Charlie’s Angels rerun—with the original angels. The episode where Cheryl Ladd shoots and kills a baddie, and is so stunned that Sabrina has to ease the gun from her hand. Was food for thought, for those of us in law enforcement, so I did not fall asleep easily. A good thing I don’t have to be at Super 9 until ten.
At precisely ten o’clock-ish, I step into the Super 9 security office. I feel distinctly out of place in the mazelike Employees Only area, wandering the cracked cement floor looking for the office. Gigantic boxes of All-Temperature Cheer, Billy’s Pork Jerky and Brawny Paper Towels make me feel
like Alice in bunnyhole.
Phillip does not help. It’s the first day of school all over. He’s a surly, toad-faced middle-aged man with an obvious toupee. I tell him I’m Elle Medina, from Ross Investigative Services.
He says: “Yeah? So?”
I shift uncomfortably. “So, um, Mr. Spenser told me to report to you.”
“Yeah? You’re not gonna do me any good back here. Get out on the floor. You see anyone stuffing anything up her shirt—” he pauses and leers “—or down her pants, you let me know.”
Am flushed and mortified as I push through the swinging doors onto the sales floor. Spenser said check in, so I checked in. I know I’m supposed to be on the floor, looking for shoplifters. I just did what I was told. I hide behind a display of Oreos, and want to cry. Also want to stuff entire package of Oreos into my mouth.
I pull myself together. The New Elle may have a really stupid job, but she’ll do it better than any previous Retail Loss Reduction Associate ever has.
I grab a cart and wander aimlessly. This is too obvious, so I trickle through the $1.99 CD bin until a salesboy asks if he can be of assistance. Embarrassed, I randomly grab Thom Jonez: How Do You Like My BSD? and say I found what was looking for.
Drop Thom on a display of tube socks. Pretend Louis hasn’t married Iowan floozy, and eye men’s underwear as if buying tighty-whiteys for my loyal, loving husband. Carefully scan all underwear packages to determine if the models are gay. They are.
I glance around investigatorially, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s shoplifting. Decide my fictional husband wears boxer briefs, not tighty-whiteys, and agonize over the color combinations of the 3-packs. Would prefer a pack with purple, berry and green, but the berry and green only come with navy, and the purple only with black and white….
After underwear and Big & Tall, I hit the toy section. My trained eyes detect no shoplifters. Not even a punk kid. I have an extended fantasy about catching Eddie Munster shoplifting, and sending him to a bleak, violent prison for his formative years. Then:
Inspect bicycles for sale. Banana seats seem to be less popular than I remember. Several models have very cute baskets. One has a horn, which honks far louder than expected. No shoplifters.