Chump Change by G. M. Ford

about him, except that he seemed like he was a nice guy, he had a bunch of money and real bad instincts for women.” I cut the air with the side of my hand. “And to tell you the truth, beyond that it’s absolutely none of my damn business.”
    He said he understood. He didn’t, but at least he was being a big boy about it.
    He thanked me for the hospitality again and started for the front door. I followed him out into the hall, turned off the security system, and opened the gate for him. Toodles.
    He gave me a desultory nod, hunched his shoulders, and started hoofing it out toward the road. I locked the door behind him.
    Ten minutes later, I was in a full froth, brushing my teeth like crazy, looking like a mad dog, when the doorbell rang. I sighed, decided that whatever sorry-ass salesman was out there deserved me au naturel, and headed for the door.
    I didn’t bother with the security cameras, I just yanked the door open and stood there, shirtless, with the toothbrush sticking out of my mouth at a jaunty angle.
    The kid, again. “Somebody stole my car,” he bleated.
    I swallowed half a gallon of toothpaste foam, pulled the toothbrush from my mouth, and said, “No, kid . . . you’ve been towed.”

     
    He got off easy. A mere three hundred and twenty-seven dollars to retrieve his five-year-old Honda Prelude from Lincoln Towing. They only allow the car’s registered owner inside the razor wire, so I waited outside the impound yard while he and his ride were tearfully reunited.
    The sky wanted to rain but couldn’t seem to muster the gumption, leaving the air still and sullen. Low clouds had swallowed the tops of the trees along the Burke-Gilman Trail as the chain-link gate clanked and then slowly slid back.
    He pulled up next to me and rolled down the window. “Thanks,” he said.
    “What are you gonna do?” I asked him.
    His neck visibly stiffened. “I’m gonna follow through with the hearing and stuff,” he said. “I’m gonna get my job back.”
    I’d already told him once; I wasn’t going to be the Grinch and say it again.
    “Well, good luck to you, ki . . . Keith. Hope things work out,” I said sincerely.
    I stuck my hands in my pockets and watched him drive off toward the Montlake Bridge and the freeway beyond.

     
    It’s just under four miles from the Montlake neighborhood to the Pike Place Market. Took me twenty-five minutes. Seemed like every highway, byway, avenue, street, lane, and boulevard was under construction simultaneously. One detour led you to another detour. Near as I could tell, there was no getting there from here.
    Rachel had commandeered her usual window table, overlooking the narrow cobblestone alley that fronted the market. Matt’s in the Market was where we always met for lunch. Good food, good drinks, nice view of the tourists shuffling back and forth past flying fish, flower stands, and every artsy-craftsy persuasion ever invented by man.
    She had her hair up, which was the way I liked it. During daylight hours anyway.
    “You look nice,” I said as I pulled up a chair.
    She pretended to be insulted. “Just nice?”
    “Scrumpulicious,” I amended. “I didn’t want to get carried away on a workday.”
    “Both my afternoons cancelled. I’m finished for the day.”
    “Your place or mine?”
    She smiled. “Wish I could, but I’m getting my hair done.”
    The waiter didn’t bother with introductions when he showed up with menus and ice water, which was another thing I liked about Matt’s. Color me with a crabby crayon, but I’m one of those tortured souls who doesn’t feel as if knowing the server’s name improves my dining experience. Rachel ordered a glass of the house cabernet. Still feeling a bit fuzzy from last night’s whiskey, I stuck with water.
    Rachel ordered what she always ordered, falafel and baba ghanoush, with a little flatbread on the side. I went for the lamb burger.
    The waiter took our orders, collected the menus, and disappeared, which