a business suit with stubble-by-design on his face gave her a big smile. “Zach, this is Dr. Lamerino. Dr. Lamerino, Zach.”
“Hey,” Zach said, not making eye contact with me. He sported anonchalance that said I was one of a million clients he’d met in this office.
Dee Dee grabbed two pieces of candy, gave me a quick wave, then sped out of the office with Zach, her sweet perfume trailing. For some reason—their ages or their manner or recent events in my own life—I pictured an occasion in the near future with small white napkins bearing the words “Dee Dee and Zach Forever” in script lettering.
I fished through the candy dish, shaped like Santa’s boot, for something not peppermint and found a chocolate kiss wrapped in red foil. Not See’s chocolate Christmas balls, the California delight, but it would do.
I flipped through a brochure on the agency and its services. Testimonials from satisfied clients filled sidebars in the booklet: Words from CEOs and human resources directors lauded the Tina Miller Agency, claiming that it was “more efficient and effective than our company could have hoped for.”
One of Miller’s services was premarital screening. I wondered if this had anything in common with the old Pre-Cana conferences that were mandatory for Catholic couples when I was in school. Neither I nor any of my friends had been to Pre-Cana, but we’d heard rumors about the sessions—couples promising to have “as many children as God sent” and to bring them up in the strict Catholic tradition, and signing papers to that effect. Papers that were sent directly to the Holy Father in Rome, it was said.
The agency list included executive, corporate, and celebrity protection; preemployment verification; spousal surveillance; individual background profiles; assistance in civil liability and personal injury cases; missing persons cases; insurance claims and fraud; and child custody and protection cases. Tina Miller handled workers’ compensation, medical malpractice, automobile accidents, and slip and fall.
I thought it curious that “slip and fall” was its own category, unlike, say, tumbling down stairs or being hit by a test tube flying out of a centrifuge.
I was glad I had a trouble-free life. My only lab accident had been too much exposure to a germicide lamp, requiring hours of sitting in darkness to reverse the effect.
The walls of Tina’s outer office had the same neon glow as those of our hotel room. I imagined a widespread sale on yellow in Manhattan paint stores, which led me to wonder where Manhattanites bought their paint and home improvement supplies. A hardware store was the one business I hadn’t passed in the seven blocks between Coffee And and Tina’s building.
Ten minutes after I’d finished reading the brochure and browsing through the latest issue of
Technology Review,
which I’d brought along, I sat across from the PI herself.
At a glance, I guessed that Tina Miller was about my age and shopped in the men’s department. She wore a long-sleeved polo shirt and brown corduroy pants. An image of a cowboy astride an unruly horse sat at her waist on a large bronze belt buckle. Was she from Colorado? Montana? All the licenses and framed certificates on the walls bore the seal of the State of New York.
One more guess and I’d have said Tina had worked against her name all her life, trying to be a Maxine or a Sydney. She had a wide mouth, free of lipstick, and a loud voice.
“So, Dr. Lamerino, I’m glad this timing worked out. What is it? A malpractice case? I’ve done a few. Doesn’t usually take long to smoke out fake limps or whatever. You’d be amazed how quickly a guy will shed his back brace if you offer him a tee time at Mansion Ridge.”
I gave her a questioning look. “Mansion Ridge?”
She leaned back in an upholstered swivel chair that could have used a duct tape repair and opened her arms, as if to embrace my ignorance. “The Jack Nicklaus signature
“Hey,” Zach said, not making eye contact with me. He sported anonchalance that said I was one of a million clients he’d met in this office.
Dee Dee grabbed two pieces of candy, gave me a quick wave, then sped out of the office with Zach, her sweet perfume trailing. For some reason—their ages or their manner or recent events in my own life—I pictured an occasion in the near future with small white napkins bearing the words “Dee Dee and Zach Forever” in script lettering.
I fished through the candy dish, shaped like Santa’s boot, for something not peppermint and found a chocolate kiss wrapped in red foil. Not See’s chocolate Christmas balls, the California delight, but it would do.
I flipped through a brochure on the agency and its services. Testimonials from satisfied clients filled sidebars in the booklet: Words from CEOs and human resources directors lauded the Tina Miller Agency, claiming that it was “more efficient and effective than our company could have hoped for.”
One of Miller’s services was premarital screening. I wondered if this had anything in common with the old Pre-Cana conferences that were mandatory for Catholic couples when I was in school. Neither I nor any of my friends had been to Pre-Cana, but we’d heard rumors about the sessions—couples promising to have “as many children as God sent” and to bring them up in the strict Catholic tradition, and signing papers to that effect. Papers that were sent directly to the Holy Father in Rome, it was said.
The agency list included executive, corporate, and celebrity protection; preemployment verification; spousal surveillance; individual background profiles; assistance in civil liability and personal injury cases; missing persons cases; insurance claims and fraud; and child custody and protection cases. Tina Miller handled workers’ compensation, medical malpractice, automobile accidents, and slip and fall.
I thought it curious that “slip and fall” was its own category, unlike, say, tumbling down stairs or being hit by a test tube flying out of a centrifuge.
I was glad I had a trouble-free life. My only lab accident had been too much exposure to a germicide lamp, requiring hours of sitting in darkness to reverse the effect.
The walls of Tina’s outer office had the same neon glow as those of our hotel room. I imagined a widespread sale on yellow in Manhattan paint stores, which led me to wonder where Manhattanites bought their paint and home improvement supplies. A hardware store was the one business I hadn’t passed in the seven blocks between Coffee And and Tina’s building.
Ten minutes after I’d finished reading the brochure and browsing through the latest issue of
Technology Review,
which I’d brought along, I sat across from the PI herself.
At a glance, I guessed that Tina Miller was about my age and shopped in the men’s department. She wore a long-sleeved polo shirt and brown corduroy pants. An image of a cowboy astride an unruly horse sat at her waist on a large bronze belt buckle. Was she from Colorado? Montana? All the licenses and framed certificates on the walls bore the seal of the State of New York.
One more guess and I’d have said Tina had worked against her name all her life, trying to be a Maxine or a Sydney. She had a wide mouth, free of lipstick, and a loud voice.
“So, Dr. Lamerino, I’m glad this timing worked out. What is it? A malpractice case? I’ve done a few. Doesn’t usually take long to smoke out fake limps or whatever. You’d be amazed how quickly a guy will shed his back brace if you offer him a tee time at Mansion Ridge.”
I gave her a questioning look. “Mansion Ridge?”
She leaned back in an upholstered swivel chair that could have used a duct tape repair and opened her arms, as if to embrace my ignorance. “The Jack Nicklaus signature
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