“I’m telling you, James, this is not a good idea.”
“Skip, can we talk to Jody? It’s your gig, I know. But I think you’re missing the boat if you don’t at least-”
“We’ll talk to him.” It was a mistake. I knew it. I always know it. I figured if I lived long enough, I’d eventually learn not to listen to James Lessor. As it happened, as I pointed out at the beginning of this story, I didn’t. I didn’t live long enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
E m was amazed. Not good amazed
“You constantly surprise me, Skip.” Her eyes shifted to the water, where South Beach lay past Star Island and Palm Island. Twenty-three stories up, sitting on her balcony, we watched the sun bouncing off the green saltwater, glinting off of the boats in the marina below.
“I don’t want to be predictable.”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t like surprises?” I’d read in Men’s Health or some guy magazine that girls like surprises. And, they like men who are full of surprises. Men’s Health seemed to know what they were talking about. I mentioned this to her.
“There are girls who like bad boys too. I don’t happen to be one of them.” I guess this was a good thing to know.
I changed the subject. “Do you think James has a bad-boy image?” I’d always wondered what attraction James had to women. They always seemed very intrigued by him.
She rolled her eyes. “James is an idiot. He has an idiot image. Wanting to be a spy?”
“Em, I can’t let James take the rap for that.” The causeway traffic that went to South Beach was slowed down. Half the vehicles going over and coming back were white box trucks, servicing the wealthy residents of the islands, and the fancy hotels and restaurants that catered to the flocks of tourists who visited for the sun, the sand, and the crazy nightlife. Em could watch it anytime she wanted. And, she could visit South Beach anytime she saw fit. She had the location. She had the means.
“It’s always James. When you get in trouble and-”
“Hey. I explained it to you. Carol Conroy is willing to pay a minimum of ten thousand dollars if I just keep my eyes open.”
“Skip, have you considered why people, and especially attractive women, are suddenly throwing money at you?” Her eyes were wide and she had this surreal smile on her face.
Considered it? I was consumed with it. Selling my services for cash. Now it was more than just Sarah doing it. I cleared my throat. “I hadn’t really thought about it like that.”
“Bull. You expect me to believe that?” Em took a sip of her mojito, never making eye contact. Wearing shorts and a halter top, her feet were up on a wicker footstool, and I admired her smooth, tan legs. We’d spent the last hour inside with nothing on, but she looked great, clothes or no clothes.
Inside I could hear her printer chattering away. She worked at home most of the time, helping daddy run his construction business. The slip in the housing market hadn’t affected the old man much. He worked for the upper- upper end of the rich and famous, and those people never seem to suffer an economic downturn.
Finally she spoke. “And this thing with Sarah? She’s not coming on to you at all?”
I finished my bottle of Heineken, Em’s treat. “Are you kidding? Like I told James, she’s out of my-” I’d already said most of it.
“Oh?” She spun around and looked at me with a frown. I wasn’t scoring points here at all. Em got up and walked to the railing. “But I m not?”
“What I meant was-”
“I heard you, Skip. She’s out of your league. Which must mean you think she’s really hot, and,” she paused, “I’m not.”
“If it makes you feel any better-”
She looked away. “It probably won’t.”
“James says you’re out of my league as well. I tend to agree with him.”
I could see the corners of her mouth start to turn up. I hadn’t told Em about the hooker connection. The escort. The prostitute angle. I was afraid she’d go ballistic.
“Skip, why are you even telling me about all of this?”
“Because you’re my girlfriend.”
“Oh yeah? But you’re taking money to be someone else’s boyfriend.”
“Pretend, Em. Pretend.”
“But what do you want? From me?”
“Your advice.”
“Oh. Well then, let me give it to you. Don’t do any of this. Stop. Right now. Get out while you can. And blow off your loony roommate.”
“Your support?” I certainly didn’t want that advice.
“Do you want to do this?”
“I want the money, Em.”
She didn’t look at me, just stood by the railing gazing into the distance. “Then you’ve got my support.”
“Really?”
She kept looking out at the cruise ships that anchor just beyond the causeway. I’d thought about the faraway places they go. The Caribbean, Alaska, Europe, places I could only dream of. And now, it seemed extremely important to be able to afford to take Em on one of these ships. First-class accommodations. Could you do that for $10,000?
Em walked back over and picked up her drink, the pale mint leaves floating in the clear liquid. “Really. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”
She’d raised her concerns, told me how she felt, and realized I was dead serious about proceeding. “Em, I-”
“Skip. Up front. I’m not happy about Sarah Crumbly. I want to make that perfectly clear. Not happy at all.”
I had a lump in my throat. “I understand. But it’s not a deal breaker, right?”
“No. It should be.”
We were both quiet. It was as if a line had been erased. I saw more box trucks driving over the causeway. Plumbers, caterers, pool service trucks, carpenters, but no spy trucks. None that I could see.
Finally she broke the silence. “So when do we visit Jody and see some of this spy equipment?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I couldn’t sleep that night. We were to start the big project with Synco Systems day after next, and I was keyed up. Way too many things were going on in my life, and they were all tied up with the job. I tossed and turned, working the sheets into a knot, fading in and out, sweating while I had bouts with the heat and humidity. Finally I climbed out of bed and walked out to our living room, the dingy little rectangle of carpeted space that held one chair, one small couch, a coffee table, lamp, and TV.
James was snoring on the sofa and Conan was signing off on our small screen. I pulled on a pair of torn, faded jeans that I’d thrown over the chair and unlatched the door. Why we even lock it I have no idea.
Outside the moon was shining over the stadium across the way and our pathetic parking lot was dimly lit with fading bulbs from the two pole lights that hadn’t been broken by thrown rocks. James’s truck was parked directly in front of our apartment. Even in the faint light, the basketball-sized flaking orange rust spots stood out
