Stuff to Spy For

by Don Bruns

  “Fifteen grand.” I studied the pencil. Printed on the side in bold black letters were the words Tiny Tots Academy.

  “Listen to me, compadre. It’s not a good idea.”

  I couldn’t believe it. James, of all people, was saying it wasn’t a good idea. “So now you’re the voice of reason?”

  “It’s not a good idea, Skip. For fifteen grand? It’s a great idea.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Early the next morning James drove me back to my car. I made about five sales calls, till early afternoon. My heart wasn’t in it. Hell, my heart was never in it. I was like a machine, walking into a home and trying to convince these residents of Carol City that they needed a security system. A lot of these people were unemployed and those that actually worked for a living didn’t make as much as I did. We live in a pretty depressed area.

  My thoughts were all about Synco Systems. Why couldn’t I find one of those companies about once a week? Once a month? Once every six months?

  The last couple I met with actually lived in an apartment two blocks from where James and I slept. They were both home in the middle of the afternoon so it was obvious they didn’t have day jobs. And then the two admitted they were about ready to be thrown out of their living quarters and the only reason they’d signed up for an interview was that they wanted to win the free cruise to the Bahamas that Michael was advertising. The winner had to pay a security deposit, food deposit, sailing deposit, and all taxes and tips. Then, voilà, the trip was free.

  “So, if we buy this system—”

  I stared at the big guy, locking eyes with him. “Look, Mr. Whitman, you don’t need this system.”

  Mrs. Whitman, an overweight lady who pushed the limits on the waistband of her jeans, spoke up. “But if we put a down payment on the system, what are our odds? What kind of a chance do we get on winning the Bahama cruise?”

  I couldn’t do it. I figured they’d call Michael and tell him how bad my social skills were, but it didn’t matter. I shoved my sales manuals, the book, and flyers into my case and stood up.

  “You don’t need this. Your chance of winning a free trip are zip, and even if you did, it would cost you more than it’s worth. Seriously, you don’t need a security system. Take the money and pay an extra month’s rent on your apartment.” I walked out of their humble abode and didn’t look back.

  I drove the Cavalier home and walked into our little corner of the universe. James was hunched over the kitchen table, staring at the computer screen.

  “Hey, Skip, do you remember Jody Stacy?”

  “Jody? Macho Jody?”

  “Yeah. From high school into the Marines.” James sipped one of my Yeungling beers.

  “What brings his name up?”

  “He went into the Marines, got out a couple of years ago, and was a cop up in Delray Beach.”

  The idea of someone we graduated with saving our country, then enforcing the law was beyond me. I wasn’t old enough to know which end was up. How did people like Jody Stacy have enough presence to save the world? “James, are we going to do this with everybody we graduated with?”

  “What?”

  “Go through their backgrounds?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because if you’re going to explore the history of two hundred fifty kids—”

  “Stay with me compadre. Jody owns his own business.”

  “Well, good for him.” James was always interested in people who owned their own businesses. Especially people he knew. “I never knew him that well, and I really don’t care.”

  “Ahhh. I think you’ll find this interesting, pard. Jody owns an investigation company.”

  “Investigating what?”

  “Whatever needs investigating. If you think your office is being bugged by a competitor, Jody is your guy. If you think that your spouse is cheating on you, Jody is your guy. If you think your business partner is stealing you blind, Jody is your guy.”

  I dropped my sales case on the floor, pulled off the old worn green tie that was looped around my neck, and tossed my faded blue sport coat on one of the two kitchen chairs. Em would have scolded me for having no fashion sense today. And probably for not hanging up my coat.

  “Good for Jody.”

  “Good for us.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Not only does Jody do his own investigations, but he sells stuff.”

  I flopped down on the stained couch, thinking about closing my eyes for about fifteen minutes. I was tired, grumpy. The cold beer bottle dropped down beside me.

  “Drink it, amigo. You’ll feel better.” He stood above me, waiting until I pulled a swallow or two from the bottle.

  I twisted the top off and took a long drink. James was right. I felt better. “All right, I’ll bite. What kind of stuff does Jody sell?”

  “Spy stuff, Skip.”

  “What the heck is spy stuff?”

  “Have another sip.”

  I did.

  “I made some printouts.”

  Which meant he’d used toner and paper. With our limited budget, we usually avoided printing.

  “Check it out, Skip.” He handed me the first sheet. There was a simple picture of a metal box with GPS-4 printed beside it.

  “GPS box. You stick it to the gas tank of a car with magnets, and you can trace the vehicle on your computer. Sit right here at the table, or,” I looked up and his eyes were lit up like Christmas lights, “or from a laptop in the back of the truck.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Check this out, Skip.”

  The next sheet of paper featured a laser-beam machine.

  “You point this at a window, pard.”

  “And?”

  “You can pick up any conversation. Bedroom talk, secret meetings—”

  “Help me, James. What are we going to do with this stuff?”

  “Have another sip, amigo.”

  I took a long swallow. James wasn’t the only one who could drain a bottle of beer in three gulps. “Okay, now tell me.”

  “We’re going into the spy business.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Skip. You’ve already been hired.”

  “James. Dude. We were asked to keep our eyes open. That’s it.”

  He walked around the couch and I heard him open the refrigerator door. Two more beers. James plopped down on the couch beside me. “Check this out, Skip.” He handed me a picture of a sprinkler head for a sprinkler system.

  “Two hundred bucks for a—”

  “Camera. Yeah. It’s a great little camera. Look.” Another printout showed a household smoke detector. The price—$171.

  “Another camera?”

  “And this.” A desk-sized picture frame with a digital temperature readout and a digital clock.

  “A camera?”

  “Mrs. Conroy said to keep your eyes open.”

  “James—”

  “These are our eyes. They’ll be easy to install. I mean, you guys are installing security stuff. A couple more things like this won’t even be noticed.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Let’s talk to Jody.”

  “Let’s not.”

  “You’re making some good money on this gig, compadre. Invest a little in some equipment, and it makes the job easier. We’re working for the owner’s daughter. She’d probably think this stuff was a good idea.” There was a little hint of pleading in his voice. I’ve heard it since we were both ten years old. “Come on Skip. It takes money to make money.”

  “But we’re not going to tell her about this stuff.” I took a pull on the new bottle of beer. Never make important decisions when drinking. How many people have learned that lesson over time?

  “She’d love it.” He took a swallow.

  “James, she’s also the president’s wife. And the conversation I had with her led me to believe that she’s not too fond of her husband. And with the Sarah situation—Sarah pretending to be my girlfriend, and being Sandl
er Conroy’s lover or whore or whatever—”

  “Okay. I know it’s a little messed up.”

  “A little?”

  “All I’m asking is that you consider it, Skip.”

  “James—” I was intrigued. I wasn’t going to okay it, but I was intrigued. Ever since I was a little kid and used to read the Hardy Boys mysteries, I’d had a real fascination with detectives and spy stuff. And I loved to watch the old James Bond movies with Sean Connery and watch Q and all the gadgets he used to invent.

  “We don’t need all of this stuff just to keep an eye out.”

  “Think big, Skip. It’s not just this job. We could do this, dude. We could get our P.I. licenses and do this spy thing on the side. Maybe turn it into a full-time business.”

  “Do you ever listen to yourself? You’re a lunatic. We know nothing about being P.I.s.” I loved the idea.

  “We’ll work with Jody. Skip, pardner, you just got offered fifteen thousand dollars to do a job that will last two or three days. If you could get, maybe twenty of those jobs a year, we’d make—”

  James had studied to be a chef. His ability to do math in his head, or anywhere else for that matter, left a lot to be desired. Three hundred thousand dollars, James.”

  “No kidding.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Spy stuff, Skip. And we can use the truck. People will think it’s a service truck, but we can stock it with the spy stuff.”

  “You’re crazy. Do you remember the Bond movie where Q was showing Bond some missiles that shot from the headlights on his car?”

  “Come on, man. You’re talking to the king of movie quotes. Q looks at Bond and says, ‘Need I remind you, 007, you’re licensed to kill, not to break traffic laws.’ ” His British accent was almost perfect.

  “I’m telling you, James, this is not a good idea.”

  “Skip, can we talk to Jody? It’s your gig, I know. But I think you’re missing the boat if you don’t at least—”

  “We’ll talk to him.” It was a mistake. I knew it. I always know it. I figured if I lived long enough, I’d eventually learn not to listen to James Lessor. As it happened, as I pointed out at the beginning of this story, I didn’t. I didn’t live long enough.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Em was amazed. Not good amazed

  “You constantly surprise me, Skip.” Her eyes shifted to the water, where South Beach lay past Star Island and Palm Island. Twenty-three stories up, sitting on her balcony, we watched the sun bouncing off the green saltwater, glinting off of the boats in the marina below.

  “I don’t want to be predictable.”

  “You’re not.”

  “You don’t like surprises?” I’d read in Men’s Health or some guy magazine that girls like surprises. And, they like men who are full of surprises. Men’s Health seemed to know what they were talking about. I mentioned this to her.

  “There are girls who like bad boys too. I don’t happen to be one of them.” I guess this was a good thing to know.

  I changed the subject. “Do you think James has a bad-boy image?” I’d always wondered what attraction James had to women. They always seemed very intrigued by him.

  She rolled her eyes. “James is an idiot. He has an idiot image. Wanting to be a spy?”

  “Em, I can’t let James take the rap for that.” The causeway traffic that went to South Beach was slowed down. Half the vehicles going over and coming back were white box trucks, servicing the wealthy residents of the islands, and the fancy hotels and restaurants that catered to the flocks of tourists who visited for the sun, the sand, and the crazy nightlife. Em could watch it anytime she wanted. And, she could visit South Beach anytime she saw fit. She had the location. She had the means.

  “It’s always James. When you get in trouble and—”

  “Hey. I explained it to you. Carol Conroy is willing to pay a minimum of ten thousand dollars if I just keep my eyes open.”

  “Skip, have you considered why people, and especially attractive women, are suddenly throwing money at you?” Her eyes were wide and she had this surreal smile on her face.

  Considered it? I was consumed with it. Selling my services for cash. Now it was more than just Sarah doing it. I cleared my throat. “I hadn’t really thought about it like that.”

  “Bull. You expect me to believe that?” Em took a sip of her mojito, never making eye contact. Wearing shorts and a halter top, her feet were up on a wicker footstool, and I admired her smooth, tan legs. We’d spent the last hour inside with nothing on, but she looked great, clothes or no clothes.

  Inside I could hear her printer chattering away. She worked at home most of the time, helping daddy run his construction business. The slip in the housing market hadn’t affected the old man much. He worked for the upper-upper end of the rich and famous, and those people never seem to suffer an economic downturn.

  Finally she spoke. “And this thing with Sarah? She’s not coming on to you at all?”

  I finished my bottle of Heineken, Em’s treat. “Are you kidding? Like I told James, she’s out of my—” I’d already said most of it.

  “Oh?” She spun around and looked at me with a frown. I wasn’t scoring points here at all. Em got up and walked to the railing. “But I m not?”

  “What I meant was—”

  “I heard you, Skip. She’s out of your league. Which must mean you think she’s really hot, and,” she paused, “I’m not.”

  “If it makes you feel any better—”

  She looked away. “It probably won’t.”

  “James says you’re out of my league as well. I tend to agree with him.”

  I could see the corners of her mouth start to turn up. I hadn’t told Em about the hooker connection. The escort. The prostitute angle. I was afraid she’d go ballistic.

  “Skip, why are you even telling me about all of this?”

  “Because you’re my girlfriend.”

  “Oh yeah? But you’re taking money to be someone else’s boyfriend.”

  “Pretend, Em. Pretend.”

  “But what do you want? From me?”

  “Your advice.”

  “Oh. Well then, let me give it to you. Don’t do any of this. Stop. Right now. Get out while you can. And blow off your loony roommate.”

  “Your support?” I certainly didn’t want that advice.

  “Do you want to do this?”

  “I want the money, Em.”

  She didn’t look at me, just stood by the railing gazing into the distance. “Then you’ve got my support.”

  “Really?”

  She kept looking out at the cruise ships that anchor just beyond the causeway. I’d thought about the faraway places they go. The Caribbean, Alaska, Europe, places I could only dream of. And now, it seemed extremely important to be able to afford to take Em on one of these ships. First-class accommodations. Could you do that for $10,000?

  Em walked back over and picked up her drink, the pale mint leaves floating in the clear liquid. “Really. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

  She’d raised her concerns, told me how she felt, and realized I was dead serious about proceeding. “Em, I—”

  “Skip. Up front. I’m not happy about Sarah Crumbly. I want to make that perfectly clear. Not happy at all.”

  I had a lump in my throat. “I understand. But it’s not a deal breaker, right?”

  “No. It should be.”

  We were both quiet. It was as if a line had been erased. I saw more box trucks driving over the causeway. Plumbers, caterers, pool service trucks, carpenters, but no spy trucks. None that I could see.

  Finally she broke the silence. “So when do we visit Jody and see some of this spy equipment?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I couldn’t sleep that night. We were to start the big project with Synco Systems day after next, and I was keyed up. Way too many things were going on in my life, and they were all tied up with the job. I tossed and turned, working the sheets int
o a knot, fading in and out, sweating while I had bouts with the heat and humidity. Finally I climbed out of bed and walked out to our living room, the dingy little rectangle of carpeted space that held one chair, one small couch, a coffee table, lamp, and TV.

  James was snoring on the sofa and Conan was signing off on our small screen. I pulled on a pair of torn, faded jeans that I’d thrown over the chair and unlatched the door. Why we even lock it I have no idea.

  Outside the moon was shining over the stadium across the way and our pathetic parking lot was dimly lit with fading bulbs from the two pole lights that hadn’t been broken by thrown rocks. James’s truck was parked directly in front of our apartment. Even in the faint light, the basketball-sized flaking orange rust spots stood out along the bottom of the cab. Jim Job’s van was parked two doors down, and my Cavalier was three doors down. Someone had parked a gray Honda Accord in my spot beside James when I came home so I parked my car down the way where no one lived. The strange gray Honda was still there, the tires nuzzled up against the sidewalk. I should have put up a sign. Parking Spot Property of Skip Moore.

  Shirtless and barefoot, I walked into the parking lot and gazed around the shabby, rundown complex. I shared the dream that James had, and the dream that Em lived. Enough money so that I didn’t have to worry about where the next buck or hundred bucks or thousand dollars were coming from. Enough money that I could leave this crappy apartment, leave Carol City, maybe even leave Florida and get a start somewhere else. Enough money that I could take Em on a cruise. I shared the dream. Not the reality.

  Deep down I knew that this job wasn’t going to get that done. The money issue was still just a dream. But I started seeing the big picture, something James has been looking at for some time. There’s more to life than a twenty- or thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year job. And that’s a good thing. Especially with the price of gas. Putting yourself out there, I mean just exploring everything that comes your way, could have all kinds of monetary benefits. James wanted the truck idea to work. So maybe his spy-mobile wasn’t a bad idea.

  My eyes adjusted to the dim light, and when I turned back to look at the apartments on our row, I noticed the iron gates that fronted several doors. I figured that it couldn’t be too difficult to pry the gates open and break into those apartments. It’s just that, like our place, there would be nothing worth stealing. I made a mental note to talk to those people and try to sell them a security system. Should have thought of that a year ago. Wasn’t it P. T. Barnum who said, “There’s a sucker born every minute”? It was probably true.