Jane.
“Why are you drunk?” she asked pleasantly, but with a little edge.
I pointed at the screen and let her watch. I got her a glass and she had a shot of arak with me, even though she hated the stuff. That way, I wouldn’t be drinking alone. We held each other on the couch for a while and watched the news, while Skippy snoozed on the floor, his giant head warming my feet.
“So, when you went out with Skippy this afternoon, you covered that?” Jane asked, pointing at the
Daily Press
website HARDSTEIN HEART ATTACK DEATH headline, displayed on CNN.
“Not really. I saw the girls sneak in and I told Sparky and this other reporter. I tipped them off and they nailed it and ran with it. I left.”
“What girls?”
“They haven’t used that part yet. Hardstein was having sex with two young ladies when he died.”
“Oh, my God! Why isn’t your paper going berserk with that juicy morsel?”
“They’re trying to get more, trying to talk to the women, saving it for a big splash in the morning paper.”
“Oh. Of course.”
I told Jane what else had happened.
“Was it the Viagra?” she asked. “Did it cause his heart attack?”
“Maybe. I’m not on the story.”
“Okay. So, tomorrow is your first day as a private eye?” Jane asked.
“Looks that way. Sounds more like a security guard job.”
“If you don’t like it, you can quit.”
When a commercial came on, we got up and made dinner together. Jane carefully sautéed a small fish while I made a salad and drizzled on some virgin olive oil with herbs and Trader Joe’s Balsamic Glaze. I served Skippy some of his favorite canned wet food, Straw Dogs.
“Something else is bothering you,” Jane said when we were done.
“I just sublet my apartment,” I explained. “Actually I sub-sublet it. For free. I’m celebrating.”
“For free? To who?”
“Total strangers.”
She waited.
“Total strangers who are related to me.”
I told her about the TV show and my mother’s call, while pouring myself another glass of arak. When I told her my parents were staying for only a week, I detected relief. I tried not to take it personally. We had only been dating a month.
“Your parents make mine seem wonderful,” Jane said. “Yours sound somewhat abusive.”
“Sort of.”
I served with guys, some real psycho killers, whose parents had beat the shit out of them. My parents never used anything except words.
“Did they…”
“Never laid a hand on me,” I said, truthfully. “Always remembered my birthday. But they… told me terrible things… dangerous lies.”
“Like what?”
“That if I was a good person and worked hard, I would be rewarded,” I told her. “That people were the most important thing in this world—not money. That I was personally responsible for Justice for everyone, everywhere, every day of my life.”
“The bastards,” Jane laughed.
“Exactly.”
13
The folded front page of the
Daily Press
was lying in wait for me on the front porch at seven the next morning, a brisk, sunny day. I was showered, dressed, clean and feeling good. The last thing I wanted to do was read the paper. I unfolded it cautiously, as Skippy sniffed the fresh air. He was getting his information and I was getting mine. The entire front page was one of Sparky’s drone shots of Senator Hardstein, naked and dead on his bed, a lopsided smile on his handsome face. For modesty, a black rectangle had been placed over his aroused crotch, akimbo at a forty-five degree angle—hiding, yet highlighting the spot. The paper had gone for the gusto—the headline in huge bold type, in fire-engine red ink:
HARD-OFF!
Oh, man. I was horrified to see my boldface byline as the first of three names on the EXCLUSIVE! story below, even though I had not filed anything. There was even a postage-stamp-sized photo of me. I cursed under my breath as I scanned the sub-headline and read on.
FATAL ERECTION?
Sex-scandal Senator Richard “Hard-On” Hardstein suffered
“Why are you drunk?” she asked pleasantly, but with a little edge.
I pointed at the screen and let her watch. I got her a glass and she had a shot of arak with me, even though she hated the stuff. That way, I wouldn’t be drinking alone. We held each other on the couch for a while and watched the news, while Skippy snoozed on the floor, his giant head warming my feet.
“So, when you went out with Skippy this afternoon, you covered that?” Jane asked, pointing at the
Daily Press
website HARDSTEIN HEART ATTACK DEATH headline, displayed on CNN.
“Not really. I saw the girls sneak in and I told Sparky and this other reporter. I tipped them off and they nailed it and ran with it. I left.”
“What girls?”
“They haven’t used that part yet. Hardstein was having sex with two young ladies when he died.”
“Oh, my God! Why isn’t your paper going berserk with that juicy morsel?”
“They’re trying to get more, trying to talk to the women, saving it for a big splash in the morning paper.”
“Oh. Of course.”
I told Jane what else had happened.
“Was it the Viagra?” she asked. “Did it cause his heart attack?”
“Maybe. I’m not on the story.”
“Okay. So, tomorrow is your first day as a private eye?” Jane asked.
“Looks that way. Sounds more like a security guard job.”
“If you don’t like it, you can quit.”
When a commercial came on, we got up and made dinner together. Jane carefully sautéed a small fish while I made a salad and drizzled on some virgin olive oil with herbs and Trader Joe’s Balsamic Glaze. I served Skippy some of his favorite canned wet food, Straw Dogs.
“Something else is bothering you,” Jane said when we were done.
“I just sublet my apartment,” I explained. “Actually I sub-sublet it. For free. I’m celebrating.”
“For free? To who?”
“Total strangers.”
She waited.
“Total strangers who are related to me.”
I told her about the TV show and my mother’s call, while pouring myself another glass of arak. When I told her my parents were staying for only a week, I detected relief. I tried not to take it personally. We had only been dating a month.
“Your parents make mine seem wonderful,” Jane said. “Yours sound somewhat abusive.”
“Sort of.”
I served with guys, some real psycho killers, whose parents had beat the shit out of them. My parents never used anything except words.
“Did they…”
“Never laid a hand on me,” I said, truthfully. “Always remembered my birthday. But they… told me terrible things… dangerous lies.”
“Like what?”
“That if I was a good person and worked hard, I would be rewarded,” I told her. “That people were the most important thing in this world—not money. That I was personally responsible for Justice for everyone, everywhere, every day of my life.”
“The bastards,” Jane laughed.
“Exactly.”
13
The folded front page of the
Daily Press
was lying in wait for me on the front porch at seven the next morning, a brisk, sunny day. I was showered, dressed, clean and feeling good. The last thing I wanted to do was read the paper. I unfolded it cautiously, as Skippy sniffed the fresh air. He was getting his information and I was getting mine. The entire front page was one of Sparky’s drone shots of Senator Hardstein, naked and dead on his bed, a lopsided smile on his handsome face. For modesty, a black rectangle had been placed over his aroused crotch, akimbo at a forty-five degree angle—hiding, yet highlighting the spot. The paper had gone for the gusto—the headline in huge bold type, in fire-engine red ink:
HARD-OFF!
Oh, man. I was horrified to see my boldface byline as the first of three names on the EXCLUSIVE! story below, even though I had not filed anything. There was even a postage-stamp-sized photo of me. I cursed under my breath as I scanned the sub-headline and read on.
FATAL ERECTION?
Sex-scandal Senator Richard “Hard-On” Hardstein suffered
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