office by 9:00, happy to find a parking place out front. There was a period of time when I’d hired a service, the Mini-Maids, to clean my office once a week. There were usually four of them, though never the same four twice. They wore matching T-shirts and arrived toting mops, dust cloths, vacuums, and assorted janitorial products. The first time they cleaned for me they took an hour, their efforts thorough and conscientious. I’d been thrilled to pay the fifty bucks because the windows shone, all the surfaces gleamed, and the carpet was as clean as I’d ever seen it. Every visit thereafter, they accelerated the process until they became so efficient, they were in and out again in fifteen minutes, dashing off to the next job as though their very lives depended on it. Even then, much of their time on the premises was spent chatting among themselves. Once they departed, I’d find a dead fly on the windowsill, spider silk trailing from the ceiling, and coffee grounds (or were those ants?) littering the counter in my kitchenette. I figured fifty bucks for fifteen minutes (fraught with giggles and gossip) was the equivalent of two hundred bucks an hour, which was four times more than I earned myself. I fired them with a giddy sense of piety and thrift. Now I made a point of going in at intervals to do the job myself.
It wasn’t until I hauled my vacuum cleaner from the trunk of my car that I noticed the fellow sitting on my steps, smoking a cigarette. His blue jeans had faded to white at the knee and his brown boots were scuffed. He had wide shoulders, and his shirt was a royal blue satin, unbuttoned to the waist, the sleeves rolled up above his biceps. The name Dodie was scrawled in cursive along his right forearm. For a moment I drew a blank, and then his name popped to mind.
He grinned, gold incisors flashing in his weathered face. “You don’t recognize me,” he remarked as I came up the walk.
“I do too. You’re Pinky Ford. Last I heard, you were in jail.”
“I’ve been a free man since last May. I admit I was picked up Friday on a DUI, but I got sprung. That’s what friends are for is how I look at it. Anyways, I had business over at the jail this morning and seeing’s how I was in the neighborhood, I decided to stop by and see how you were doing. How you been?” His voice was raspy from a lifetime of smoking.
“Fine, thanks. And you?”
“Good enough,” he said. He didn’t seem to register the Hoover upright and I didn’t explain. It wasn’t any of his business if I was working as a part-time char. He flipped his cigarette onto the walkway and stood up, brushing off his jeans. He was my height, five six, wiry, bowlegged, and brown from too much sun. His arms and chest were muscular, veins running across like piping. He’d been a jockey in his youth until he got tossed one time too many and decided he’d better find another line of work. He’d started smoking when he was ten and continued the habit as an adult because it was the only way to keep his weight including tack under the 126 pounds required for the Kentucky Derby, which he’d ridden in twice. This was long before his personal fortunes had gone into reverse. He’d kept on smoking for much the same reason any habitual criminal does, to break up the time while he was in the joint.
I put down my vacuum cleaner and unlocked the door, talking to him over my shoulder. “You’re lucky you caught me. I don’t usually come in on Saturdays.”
I ushered him into the office ahead of me, noting that his limp was pronounced. I knew how he felt. Pinky was in his sixties, coal black hair, black brows, and deep lines around his mouth. He sported the ghost of a mustache and the shadow of a goatee. There was a band of white on his left wrist where he’d shed a watch.
“I’m about to put on a pot of coffee if you’d like a cup.”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
After his passion for racing was squelched, his second calling was a long, inglorious career as a nonresidential burglar. I did hear he’d eventually taken to burgling houses, but I hadn’t had that confirmed. He was the man who’d given me a set of key picks in a leather case years before, essential tools on those occasions when a locked door stands between me and something I want.
He’d hired me during one of his stints in prison when he’d been worried about his wife, the aforementioned Dodie, convinced she was dallying with the guy next door. She was actually being faithful (as far as I could tell), which I’d reported after sitting surveillance off and on for a month. He gave me the picks in lieu of payment, since his cash reserves were all illegally acquired and had to be returned.
“Why burglary?” I’d asked once.
He’d flashed me a modest smile. “I’m a natural. You know, because I’m a skinny guy and agile as a cat. I can squeeze in through places lot of other fellows can’t. Job’s more physical than you’d think. I can do a hundred one- arm push-ups, fifty either side.”
“Good for you,” I’d said.
“There’s actually a trick to it, something a fellow taught me up in Soledad.”
“You’ll have to show me sometime.”
I put on a pot of coffee and went to my desk, where I sat down in my swivel chair and propped my feet on the edge. Meanwhile, Pinky remained standing, scanning my office with an eye to where the valuables might be kept.
He shook his head. “This is a comedown. Last I saw, you had an office over on State Street. Nice location. Very nice. This-I don’t know so much. I guess I’m used to seeing you in classier digs.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I remarked. With Pinky, there wasn’t any point in taking offense. He might be a repeat offender but he was never guilty of subterfuge.
When the coffee was done I filled two mugs and handed him one before I returned to my swivel chair. Pinky finally settled into one of my two visitor’s chairs, sucking in hot coffee with a series of slurping sounds. “This is good. I like it strong.”
“Thanks. How’s Dodie?”
“Good. She’s great. She’s gone into direct sales, like an entrepreneur.”
“Selling what?”
“Nothing door-to-door. She’s a personal beauty consultant for a big national company, Glorious Womanhood. You probably heard of it.”
“Don’t think so,” I said.
“Well, it’s bigger than Mary Kay. It’s Christian-based. She sets up these home parties for bunches of women. Not our place but someone else’s, where they serve food. Then she’ll do makeovers, demonstrating products you can order on the spot. Last month, she edged out the regional manager for top sales.”
“Sounds like she’s doing well. I’m impressed.”
“Me too. I guess the regional manager was fit to be tied. Nobody ever beat her out before, but Dodie’s purpose-driven when she puts her mind to it. Used to be when I was gone, she’d get all mopey and depressed. I’d be doing hard time and she’d be laying around watching TV and eating fatty snacks. We’d talk on the phone and I’d try to get her motivated-you know, building up her self-esteem-but it never did much good. Then she hears about this business opportunity, similar to a franchise or something like that. I didn’t think much of it at the time because she never stuck to anything until this came along. This past year, she’s earned enough to buy a Cadillac and qualify for a free vacation cruise.”
“Where to?”
“The Caribbean… St. Thomas… and around in there. A flight to Fort Lauderdale and then onto the ship.”
“You going with her?”
“Sure. If I can get myself set. Two of us have never been on a vacation together. It’s tough to make plans when we never know if I’ll be in jail or out. Something like this, I don’t want to be dependent on her moneywise. The trip is all-expenses-paid, but there’s incidentals-on-shore excursions and the casino when you’re out at sea. Two of the six nights formal wear’s required so I’ll have to rent me a tux. Can you picture it? I always swore I’d have to be dead before you caught me in one, but she’s all excited about the dress she had made. Not that she’d show me. She says it’d be bad luck, like seeing a bride decked out in her wedding finery before you get to the church. It’s a knockoff of a gown Debbie Reynolds wore one year to the Academy Awards. There’s even a good possibility she’ll be crowned Glorious Woman of the Year.”
“Wouldn’t that be something,” I said. I let him go on telling the story his way. I knew he had a problem-why else would he be here?-but the faster I pushed him, the sooner I’d be in the bathroom, scrubbing the toilet bowl. I figured that could wait.
“Anyways, I’m giving you the background.”
“I assumed as much.”
