“Oh, you know,” I said, “don’t wanna get it all sweaty and stuff.”
“Right,” she said. “Don’t want people thinking we’re some kinda yuppie wuss, either, do we?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Cheryl,” I said.
“Hmm-mm,” she said. “And if this thing rings, I suppose you’ll want me to answer it for you or bring it out here to you or something like that, right?”
“That would be very nice,” I agreed. “And I promise you that I will be sure to let all my friends know about the level of service provided by this establishment.”
She started walking away but stopped for a minute and turned back and smiled at me.
“You know, JB, the yuppie wusses don’t set the pins at the heaviest weights on these machines and then do three sets of fifteen.”
“Good to know I’m maintaining some kind of distance there,” I said.
She smiled again and left for her office. Cheryl was about thirteen or fourteen years younger than me, and she’d hinted on more than one occasion that a date wouldn’t be out of the question. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered the possibility, but when you got right down to it, she was still a twenty-something and I wasn’t. Hadn’t been for quite a while. Maybe it was my job. I’ve been a private detective for almost a decade now, but at times it seems much longer, especially when I think about some of the harder cases, the ones involving missing children or disappearing spouses or people who, for one reason or another, have had their lives turned upside down. Fortunately, most of the time, I’ve been able to help, but not always. Just before he retired and left for Florida, Uncle Leo warned me about what he called the creepers, the cases that, as he put it, “creep into your mind and start bouncing around in there, seein’ what mischief they can do.” He said when that happened . . . “and it will, kiddo, it will, unless you got a heart that’s been freeze-dried and we both know better’n that with you, boy, don’t we?” . . . when that happened, he said I should concentrate on all the people I’ve been able to help.
Sometimes I can, sometimes I can’t.
About twenty minutes later, I’d just finished working my biceps to exhaustion, which had taken a while, so I was happy to see Cheryl walking towards me with my cell phone in her hand.
“Phone call for Mr. Barnes,” she said. “Are you available, sir, or shall I take a message? Incidentally, it’s a cop.”
Getting up from the curl machine, I said I’d take the call. Cheryl smiled, handed me the phone, smiled again and left. There might have been a little something extra to the sway in her hips as she returned to her office. Not that I noticed or anything.
“This is Jeremy Barnes,” I said into the phone.
“Mr. Barnes, this is Detective Soloman. Dennis Wilcox asked me to call. Said you wanted some information about gangs.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I do. Listen, detective, by any chance, are you free for lunch today?”
“Sure,” he said. His voice was very deep and full. Reminded me of James Earl Jones. “Where are you?”
“At the Y in Shadyside,” I told him.
“How ‘bout Max & Erma’s, around noon?”
I said that would be fine, but before I could hang up, he said, “What’s Yuppies-R-Us?”
“Huh?”
“That’s what whoever answered your phone said.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, you know how hard it is to get good help these days.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Right. See you at noon. I’ll get us a table.” And he clicked off.
On my way out a while later, I passed by Cheryl and a guy in a business suit. The guy was holding a clipboard and taking notes on it as they spoke. As I walked by, I thanked Cheryl for her help and mentioned that I had decided against Yuppies-R-Us as the new name for my firm. She raised her eyebrows and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, JB.”
* * *
Max & Erma’s is on the second floor of a building in the heart of Shadyside. I’ve been there lots of times, especially when Matt and Abby are staying over with me to give Angie and Simon a break from the joys of parenthood. The kids like the place because they have an old bathtub set up where you can make your own sundaes. Anytime we go there, I always make a sundae for myself, too. The kids expect me to do it. I mean, they’ve never expressed that thought in actual words, but I’m really good at reading body language, and I can tell that’s what they want. Honest.
I got to the place at noon and told the attractive young hostess that I was meeting a man named Soloman. She nodded and led me back to a booth that looked out over the street below. For a minute, I wondered how Soloman had managed to get a reservation on such short notice, since the restaurant was packed. Then I remembered that he was a cop. Silly me.
Paris Soloman didn’t just sound like James Earl Jones;
