My father grunted.
“See, I told you so.” I wanted to order another drink but didn’t want to have to borrow money. I asked for water instead.
“You’re Italian,” Ana said, as if this explained everything
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from chubbiness to the Darwin Theory. She then leaned across the bar top and said to me, “Did you find him?”
“Him who?” my father asked.
“Jean-Claude,” Ana said to him.
“Who’s Jean-Claude?” he asked.
I picked up another napkin, kept dabbing. “He works for me, remember?”
My father shook his head, the weird toupee flapping.
I dabbed harder.
“Well, Nina thought he might have been a prostitute.”
“A gigolo,” I corrected. I looked up at Jake, who was hovering. “That’s right, right? Girls are prostitutes, men are gigolos?”
“I think both prefer ‘escorts’ these days,” he said.
My father made the sign of the cross.
“Well, we’re not sure he’s any of those,” Ana said. “He’s moonlighting but we don’t know where.”
“Do we care?” my father asked.
Ana ordered something I’d never heard of before. “He could be violating his probation.”
“Ah.”
I told Ana about my trip to Bump. She laughed about the fifteen dollars. “I’m surprised you got any information about Jean-Claude with only fifteen bucks.”
Jake set Ana’s drink down. It was pink with a little umbrella. “Oh, is this about JC again?” he asked, looking at Ana’s copy of Jean-Claude’s mug shot.
“Who’s JC?” Ana asked.
“Jean-Claude,” I explained.
“Since when does he go by JC?” she asked.
“I’ve only known him as JC.” Jake swiped the countertop.
“His real name is Jean-Claude?”
“Does anyone, perchance, have an aspirin?” my father asked.
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Heather Webber
I fished in my backpack and pulled out a tin of Advil.
“Jean-Claude Reaux.”
Jake put another stack of napkins in front of me. “I know him as JC Rock.”
“JC Rock?” Ana laughed, tossing her head back. The curls of her red wig flounced.
“Do I want to ask about the wigs?” my father asked.
I gave up on my shirt. “Only if you want us to ask about yours.”
He pressed his lips together, signaled for a refill to his Jim Beam.
“Do you know where he works?” Ana asked Jake, switch-ing back to the topic of Jean-Claude.
“No, but he comes in almost every Saturday night.” He looked at his watch. “Usually around three.”
“Three? A.M.?”
“What?” Ana said to me, “too late for you?”
“Don’t give me that.” I slid my water glass in circles, wishing it were something pink with an umbrella in it. “It’s past your bedtime too.”
My father said, “Don’t look at me. One o’clock is my limit.”
Ana and I looked at Jake. “Want to do a little recon?” I asked.
He set the bar rag over his shoulder. “Like a Tom Clancy novel?”
“Exactly,” Ana said.
We explained what we wanted to know, and Jake promised he’d try to get the information for us in exchange for a date with Ana.
