Instead, I lay on the bed, trying to figure out how things had gone so wrong. Didn’t he see how much I could help? I couldn’t fathom that it wasn’t obvious to him.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. Not even my baby blanket helped.
What did I think would happen? That he’d embrace me and thank me for helping him. Then he’d school me in the detecting business and we’d become close—better than close—not just sharing everything with each other, but comfortable enough in each other’s presence that when there were silences they wouldn’t cause my stomach to churn with anxiety.
I would tell him everything. Stories about the boys I was interested in. How mad I was at Mama. And he’d do the same, opening up about that awful day at Pearl Harbor and his own grief when he found out Mama was dead.
Everything would change between us because of this one little photograph.
And maybe it still could.
I wasn’t going to go away without a fight. I knew he needed me, and if he was too stubborn to see it because of whatever danger he thought I was at risk for, that was his choice. I’d become the best detective I could be on my own, and then I’d show him exactly what he was missing out on.
“Do you want to go see a movie tonight?” Pop asked two days after he’d sold my photos and ended my detecting career.
“No, thank you.”
“It’s the new Ginger Rogers film.”
“I have homework.”
“I thought you already did it.”
“Then I guess you thought wrong.”
I could see the hurt in his eyes. And the truth was, I did want to go to the movies. But I thought my rejection of him would get me what I wanted, so I was determined to stand firm.
In the meantime I spent every waking moment learning to be a detective. When I wasn’t at school, I read detective comics, listened to the spy serials, and made sure I was always in earshot of Pop’s door during those times when clients came to meet with him. When he wasn’t home, I sneaked into the office and studied his notes from earlier cases, not just the ones he’d taken since coming home from Hawaii, but those he’d worked on with Uncle Adam years before, when they used to have an agency together. He filled folders with carefully typed descriptions of his environment and the people he observed. Like Mama, he found volumes of useful information in the clothes people wore, their behavior, and the places they chose to go. He could read guilt and suspicion in the choice of a hat or a misplaced verb. It was amazing stuff.
I went through his collection of props and tools: hats that hid his face in shadows, street and phone directories, city maps, picklocks, counterfeit IDs, and uniforms used by utility workers. Other things were more unusual and, I suspected, had come from his time in the Navy. For his camera, he had dozens of different parts that could improve an image under the worst of circumstances. He had tiny recorders that he could leave anywhere to capture a conversation. And there were other gadgets that I couldn’t even guess at the purpose of.
But you could only learn so much by observing fictional detectives and Pop’s collection of props. The best education would only come from watching Pop at work. The catch was, I had to do it without him knowing.
I’d already mastered the art of eavesdropping on him. Instead of just doing it when clients came by, I began to do it when he was the only one in the office. Much of his job was done by telephone. I had no idea what a good actor he was, how he seamlessly donned a new identity, complete with a new voice, and confidently asked for information that should’ve been denied him. He could be shockingly personable when he needed something.
“Good afternoon,” he began one call as I huddled on the other side of the door vent. “Is this Gloria Armour? I’m so glad I reached you. I know you probably don’t remember me, but this is Jack Gaviston. I met you through Bill.” There was a pause. “I’m
I didn’t sleep at all that night. Not even my baby blanket helped.
What did I think would happen? That he’d embrace me and thank me for helping him. Then he’d school me in the detecting business and we’d become close—better than close—not just sharing everything with each other, but comfortable enough in each other’s presence that when there were silences they wouldn’t cause my stomach to churn with anxiety.
I would tell him everything. Stories about the boys I was interested in. How mad I was at Mama. And he’d do the same, opening up about that awful day at Pearl Harbor and his own grief when he found out Mama was dead.
Everything would change between us because of this one little photograph.
And maybe it still could.
I wasn’t going to go away without a fight. I knew he needed me, and if he was too stubborn to see it because of whatever danger he thought I was at risk for, that was his choice. I’d become the best detective I could be on my own, and then I’d show him exactly what he was missing out on.
“Do you want to go see a movie tonight?” Pop asked two days after he’d sold my photos and ended my detecting career.
“No, thank you.”
“It’s the new Ginger Rogers film.”
“I have homework.”
“I thought you already did it.”
“Then I guess you thought wrong.”
I could see the hurt in his eyes. And the truth was, I did want to go to the movies. But I thought my rejection of him would get me what I wanted, so I was determined to stand firm.
In the meantime I spent every waking moment learning to be a detective. When I wasn’t at school, I read detective comics, listened to the spy serials, and made sure I was always in earshot of Pop’s door during those times when clients came to meet with him. When he wasn’t home, I sneaked into the office and studied his notes from earlier cases, not just the ones he’d taken since coming home from Hawaii, but those he’d worked on with Uncle Adam years before, when they used to have an agency together. He filled folders with carefully typed descriptions of his environment and the people he observed. Like Mama, he found volumes of useful information in the clothes people wore, their behavior, and the places they chose to go. He could read guilt and suspicion in the choice of a hat or a misplaced verb. It was amazing stuff.
I went through his collection of props and tools: hats that hid his face in shadows, street and phone directories, city maps, picklocks, counterfeit IDs, and uniforms used by utility workers. Other things were more unusual and, I suspected, had come from his time in the Navy. For his camera, he had dozens of different parts that could improve an image under the worst of circumstances. He had tiny recorders that he could leave anywhere to capture a conversation. And there were other gadgets that I couldn’t even guess at the purpose of.
But you could only learn so much by observing fictional detectives and Pop’s collection of props. The best education would only come from watching Pop at work. The catch was, I had to do it without him knowing.
I’d already mastered the art of eavesdropping on him. Instead of just doing it when clients came by, I began to do it when he was the only one in the office. Much of his job was done by telephone. I had no idea what a good actor he was, how he seamlessly donned a new identity, complete with a new voice, and confidently asked for information that should’ve been denied him. He could be shockingly personable when he needed something.
“Good afternoon,” he began one call as I huddled on the other side of the door vent. “Is this Gloria Armour? I’m so glad I reached you. I know you probably don’t remember me, but this is Jack Gaviston. I met you through Bill.” There was a pause. “I’m
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