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"Lady, you any good at finding things?" Of course, it took a moment or two before my mind actually registered anything beyond the word "Lady," seeing as how I bolted from my chair and shot straight backwards when that disembodied and reedy voice suddenly blared into my right ear. The book I'd been reading ended up on the floor, my coffee mug spilling its entire tepid contents all over my desk, and there stood Sheila, staring goggle-eyed and terrified at this scrawny kid who had managed to make it all the way into her office and around her desk without a sound -- well, at least without enough noise to tear my attention loose from the horrifying stalking scene of the whodunit in which I was currently wallowing. The kid, who had also jumped back about a foot, looked at the mess I'd made and said in wonder, "Jeeze, lady, you just gotta do something about them nerves!" With an effort I croaked back, "Jeeze, kid, have you ever heard about knocking?" My pounding heart was still threatening to leap forth from where it had lodged in my throat and flop around on the floor like a beached tuna. "I did knock, lady -- you was so busy reading, you didn't hear me, I guess." "'Were,' not 'was,' kid. 'You were so busy reading --'" "I wasn't reading nothing, lady, you was." Lord help us all. "Kid, I don't allow such rotten English in here." Lame, but it was all I could think of at the moment, stalling him while I tried a little bio-feedback to get my pulse rate somewhere near normal. "Well, Jeeze, lady, sorry 'bout that. I didn't know you was -- were no English teacher!" Oh, the hell with it, I thought in resignation. The sooner I got rid of this little pest, the better. "What is it you want, kid?" He looked at me with an expression that made it abundantly clear he was reconsidering wanting anything at all from this retarded dame. Hadn't he already asked me a question? The kid exhibited deep misgivings about the whole thing. "I told ya what I want, lady. I already asked ya if you wuh -- if you were any good at finding things, and you didn't give me no answer yet, okay?" What have I ever done, Lord? "All right; then tell me, what have you lost?" I asked as I blotted away with a bunch of paper towels at the slop beginning to drip off the front edge of my desk and onto the back of my book, that being hastily toed out of the way. "I didn't lose nothing, lady. He was given away to somebody, and I want him back." The kid was scowling at me, both fists shoved deep into the front pockets of his jeans, his belly button visible between the belt and the front of his Broncos T-shirt, the latter about two sizes too small. My nose twitched upon the discovery he had that wet-dog smell that little boys often seem to have. His voice cracked a little then, and I glanced at him more closely for just a second before returning my attention to the blotting and mopping of the desk and the floor. Keeping my eyes to myself, I muttered over my shoulder, "And just who is it you want back, kid?" "My dog Tippy, that's who. He's mine, and I want him back." "Your dog?" "Don't worry, lady, I can pay ya. I know you private eyes don't do nothin' for free. I been saving up all year to buy Tippy a good dog bed --" and the young and angry voice began edging its way back up the scale again, much to its owner's embarrassed disgust at himself. The kid swung his back to me and aimed his face down at his scruffy shoes, skinny shoulders twitching, knobby elbows tight to his ribs, trying vainly to muffle the tears, snuffling and choking. Somehow I knew he'd do his best to deck me if I sympathized, so I just handed him a box of tissues as I walked by him to put the soggy mess of towels in the trash bin in the corner of my office. By the time I fussed around with that, the sniffs had subsided, and the kid was once again watching me furtively, doggedly hanging in there, waiting for my answer to his original question. No matter what I said, it was bound to be wrong. That was all at the moment I knew for certain. I killed another minute or two getting a can of pop from the little office refrigerator and handing it to the boy. He took it and mumbled what I thought was "Thanks" before jamming his grubby thumbnail under the tab and popping it open. I went back to my desk and sat, motioning the kid to park it in the client's seat across from me. His head was slightly higher after he sat than it was before, which gives you some idea of how short he was. He took a long swallow from the can, exhaled noisily, and then asked me one more time, making an effort at sounding patient, "Are you any good at finding things, lady?" Through my alleged mind flashed a thought of how much smarter I would have been if I'd followed George's suggestion that morning that I sleep in late. Jackie, my workaholic helper, had finals at the University of Denver this morning, and I told her to take the whole day off. It was usually silent as a tomb in my office on Fridays anyway, so I could have just followed his advice. But, oh, no -- not I, of course; I just had to open up in case somebody as well-heeled as Bill Gates might send me a fax, offering me an obscene amount of money to find his long lost Aunt Gertrude. Instead, what I got was this kid, probably exactly what I deserved. Something was telling me that I was about to do a lot of work for about a tenner or less -- probably a great deal less. But looking at that determined little face before me -- well, hell. "Tell me all about it, kid -- wait, I can't keep calling you 'kid.' What's your name?" "Whaddaya need my name for?" Defensive all the time, isn't he? "I need to know the name of my clients, kid. Surely you can understand that, can't you?" The kid froze while he considered the grand sound of "client," and then squeezed out a quirky one-sided smile and replied, "Patrick -- Patrick Coogan." "How do you do, Patrick. My name is Sheila Casey." Another sigh, rolling his eyes heavenward, "I know yer name, lady! Ain't you got it plastered all over your front window?" "'Haven't,' Patrick, not 'ain't.'" "Jeeze, lady," he groaned. "And quit saying 'Jeeze' all the time if you want me to help you." Had I just said that? Jeeze, is right! "Okay, lady; we got a deal?" Yes, indeedy -- a deal. Wonderful! But I nodded anyway. Patrick Coogan, my new paying client, hauled his dirty high-tops onto the seat, crossed them under his skinny shanks, and was ready for business, looking at me in keen expectation. Time to go to work. |