Palindrome

by E. Z. Rinsky

  Sadie rolls her eyes and sighs, like I’m the child.

  “You think you know everything, Dad. You know a lot, but not everything.”

  I’m probably not supposed to let my daughter speak to me like that, but then, I probably won’t be winning any parenting medals anytime soon either.

  It takes fifteen minutes to reach the pearly gates. Saint Peter is a slightly overweight redheaded boy wearing his corporate baseball cap backwards. His pitiful rebellion. He stands slouched behind his array of gourmet offerings, his vacant eyes not exactly conveying pride in his work.

  “Next customer,” he grunts wearily.

  Sadie takes a moment to scan the brightly colored flavors until she fixates on a bucket of pink.

  “Can I taste the strawberry oatmeal cookie?” Sadie nearly shrieks.

  Glassy eyed, the boy diligently scoops a tiny sample onto a plastic spoon and hands it to her. Her eyes go wide when she sticks it in her mouth.

  “I want that!” she declares.

  “Are you sure you don’t wanna try anything else?” I say. “We waited so long.”

  “Nope. I like that. That’s what I want.”

  “You heard the lady,” I instruct the employee. “A small strawberry oatmeal cookie in a cup.”

  “Cone!” insists Sadie.

  “No. You’ll drip it all over yourself. Cup,” I assure him.

  I stare at Sadie’s exuberant face as the boy readies her dessert. She looks like she’s gonna burst.

  “This is the best part,” I tell her. “The anticipation. It’s always better than the actual thing.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “Six bucks,” says the boy, the cup of pink ice cream visible beside him behind the glass display.

  “You take cards?”

  “Cash only.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter to myself and open my wallet, pantomiming surprise when I discover my four pathetic singles. How the hell is that not enough for a small cup of ice cream? I summon an exasperated look—­it doesn’t take much—­and hold out the four pitiful bills.

  “I have four,” I say. “I’m sorry. Is that alright? I’ll come back later and bring you another two.”

  The boy looks confused. “It’s six,” he states.

  “I understand. But I only have four. I’m sorry. I’ll come back later with another two.”

  Sadie is wearing a mask of horror as the possible implications of the situation become clear to her.

  “There’s an ATM across the street,” he says.

  “Alright. Can we just have the ice cream now though? I don’t want to wait in line again. Then I’ll run across the street and get the cash.”

  “Uhhhh . . .” The boy’s mouth is open slightly; this sort of decision tree analysis is way beyond his job description. “Sorry, it’s six bucks.”

  Sadie’s upper lip is trembling. Jesus. I bite my lip and lean in close to him. My daughter is not leaving here without her ice cream.

  “Listen to me carefully, you shit stain,” I whisper. “I want you to look down, through the glass, at my waist.”

  Confused, he obliges, and first squints, then recoils when he understands. The silver butt of a .38 Magnum is protruding from my belt line.

  The color drains from his face.

  “W-­w-­what the fuck, man?”

  He nearly shoves the cup of ice cream at me.

  “Take it, man. Fucking nut job.”

  I smile and hand him the four dollars.

  “Thanks, we’ll be back in a second.” I give the cup and a plastic spoon to Sadie and watch her face light up as she takes a monstrous bite. The boy is still staring blankly at me, terrified.

  “That’s fucked up, man,” I hear him mutter.

  Maybe I should write a parenting book.

  I take Sadie by the hand and pull her out of the ice cream shop into the busy sidewalk before the kid can gather his wits. It occurs to me that while I fully intended to bring him his money at the time, it would be really awkward at this point.

  We walk to Washington Square Park and find a park bench where Sadie can plow through her ice cream with abandon. I can’t help feeling a little satisfied.

  The case of Frank Lamb and the overpriced artisanal ice cream: closed.

  My phone starts vibrating. Must be the widow. Probably can’t accept the finality of last night’s revelation and wants me to play therapist.

  Nope. Blocked number.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Frank Lamb?” It’s a woman’s voice, but not the widow. Deep and silky.

  “Last time I checked.”

  “I’d like to hire you,” she says as Sadie scrapes the bottom of the cup.

  “Let’s talk. You’re in the city?”

  “Yes.”

  I try to imagine what the woman on the other end looks like and have a hard time even getting started.

  “Whereabouts? I could swing by your office or home or whatever.”

  “I’ll come to you.”

  I sigh. “That’s fine. I should caution you though, I work out of my apartment. But I assure you I’m the consummate professional when it comes to—­”

  “I’m actually calling because I hear you have a tendency to be unprofessional.”

  Oh boy.

  “Alright. 247 East Broadway. I can be back there by five. That work?”

  She’s already hung up.

  I’M A PRIVATE investigator, but that’s vague. My job is getting things for ­people. It never fails to surprise me how many ­people want things: A woman wants a gold watch—­an heirloom—­back from her estranged brother. An insurance company wants evidence of fraud. A dirtbag wants the money another dirtbag owes him, plus maybe the dirtbag himself. A lawyer wants a reason to disqualify a juror. A half-­senile man realizes he threw out papers with his Social Security information, pays me three grand to follow the trash, protecting an identity that’s not worth stealing.

  I never ask why they want it; I just get it for them and collect my bounty. This has nothing to do with professionalism. I’m simply not interested. I have my life with Sadie and my job as a retriever, crawling through the grease that lubricates the gears of society to recover ideas, objects, evidence, ­people. I usually loathe my clients, but it’s a loathing born of fear—­that if I crawl around in this muck too long, I’ll be absorbed by it, dragging Sadie down with me.

  I used to think more about how I ended up here—­examining Dumpster corpses, snapping pictures of adulterous trysts, manipulating the truth out of low-­ranking drug mules—­but it’s proven to be an exercise in masochism. Looking back, it feels like I never had a choice, like the river of fate just pushed me here and I never bothered resisting the current until I was in too deep. I went to law school because ­people always told me I’d be a good lawyer, but I took leave after a year and a half, when my mom got sick, and never went back. Worked as a bartender for a few years until someone offered me an entry-­level marketing job. Was promptly fired after deciding I was smarter than my boss and explaining my reasoning to her, sprinkling in some admittedly unnecessary commentary on her appearance for flavor. Went back to bartending and started taking night classes at cop academy, figuring at least I wouldn’t have to work in an office. I figured wrong and spent a miserable four years filling out paperwork and biting my tongue in the 21st Precinct. Then Sadie fell into my lap, and I saw an opportunity to make a move: private sector. Be my own boss, work my own hours, make a name for myself.

  It took three months before I got my first job, a referral from a detective I was friendly with. An insurance fraud investigation, fairly basic PI stuff. A Wall Street quant’s Upper West Side town house burned down two months after he took out a well-­above-­market policy on it. Smart guys think they can get away with anything.

  It didn’t take long for
things to get ugly. Turned out he stopped showing up at work shortly after the “accident,” and not even his wife knew where he went. Comes out he had a real bad coke problem. Burned through a six-­figure salary, then started buying blow on margin. Give the guy credit—­he had the foresight to see where this was headed, and the patience to wait two months before torching his home and ditching his wife and three kids.

  Took me a week to discover that the quant was still in touch with one of his coworkers, a weak-­willed man who broke down as soon as I asked if he knew about the fraud before it happened, which would make him complicit.

  I found the poor quant in a motel room upstate, shades drawn, shaking under the covers, thin streams of blood pouring from his nose. Just waiting for someone like me to put my shoulder through the door.

  When I told him I was a PI, he knew the gig was up. Blew his brains out, coating the still life behind the bed with what looked like Bolognese sauce. First time I’d seen anything like that. I fainted.

  That’s when I got the first inkling of what I’d gotten myself into. It was going to be an ugly life; that would be the price I’d pay for self-­employment. Didn’t have the prescience to just get out then. Insurance company recovered the claim and offered me another job, paying me double. I didn’t like snooping, but apparently I was pretty good at it.

  Most of the time—­assuming someone knows the location of the mark—­my job is comprised of two easy steps: Find the person who knows where it is, and then make them tell you. Sometimes they can’t wait to get it off their chest, and sometimes you gotta beat the piñata to get the candy. Every person holds their knowledge behind a combination lock, and in eight years of this shit, I have yet to meet a combo that doesn’t consist of some mix of fear, trust and greed.

  THE DOWNSTAIRS BUZZER goes off before I can get my place anywhere close to clean. The kitchen is strewn with evidence of last night’s culinary fiasco—­a “Mexican casserole” I whipped up after paying the babysitter, which Sadie correctly diagnosed as nothing but salsa, canned beans and cheddar poured over corn tortillas and microwaved.

  “It’s so bad that you’re not even eating it!” the little empress said, noting my untouched plate. I just shrugged, didn’t explain that the smell of trash-­soaked flesh was still in my nose, on my jacket and gloves.

  I buzz in my prospective client, then race to my room, rip off an ancient Rolling Stones T-­shirt and slap on a wrinkled blue button-­down. In the living room, Sadie is on the couch, swimming in one of my old wifebeaters, reading a library book and drinking instant hot cocoa. I should probably be more concerned about her sugar intake.

  “Sadie, could you read in your room? I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have a meeting in the kitchen.”

  “Okay,” she says, popping up. “How long? Are you working tonight?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, straightening my collar. “No open cases. We’ll watch a movie or something, alright? Your pick.”

  “Okay,” she says, ducking into her room: a section of the living room I paid someone to wall off a few years ago. She’s got enough room for a twin mattress and a dresser, that’s about it, but she probably won’t mind for a ­couple more years at least.

  A firm knock on the door. My guest scaled those steps pretty damn fast. I quickly assess the apartment as a prospective client might: the mess in the kitchen, clothes coating the carpeted living room floor, Sadie’s schoolwork all over the dinner table. If she wants unprofessional, she’s come to the right place.

  I begin my apology before the door is even open.

  “I’m sorry about the mess. Fridays are cleaning day, I swear we have a system—­”

  My sheepish grin freezes as I pull the door back to reveal a jarringly beautiful woman. I’m rendered momentarily speechless as I drink her in. Just south of six feet—­about two inches taller than me. Auburn hair trimmed to a length that only truly beautiful women can pull off. Wide green eyes, flawless, sharp cheeks. A body with the gentle hills and valleys of a rolling Scottish countryside, evident beneath a tight black turtleneck. She’s wearing black leather gloves and red silk pants that hug a breathtaking pair of hips. Her rigid expression reveals nothing more than the fact that she’s likely impervious to stupid flirtation, so don’t even try, hotshot.

  “Frank Lamb?” she says, her low voice immediately recognizable as the one I heard on the phone.

  “That’s what it says on the buzzer.” Jesus, Frank. Stupid, stupid. “Please come in. You don’t have a coat?”

  She ignores the question. I beckon her to the dinner table and bid her to sit down in the most comfortable chair I own: a plush art deco number that Sadie and I found on 5th Street. She sits stiffly upright as I sweep Sadie’s math homework to the side. There’s something almost robotic about this woman. If she notices the mess, she’s doing a great job of hiding it.

  “Hi.” Sadie has come out of her room to size up our visitor.

  “Sadie.” I turn and force some oomph into my voice. “I asked you to stay in your room and read until we’re done.”

  “It’s okay, she doesn’t mind, right?” Sadie beams a grin at our guest, the one that usually charms any woman within fifteen years of birthing age, but this target’s icy exterior is surprisingly impenetrable.

  “Actually, I think it’s best if I meet with Mr. Lamb in private,” she says.

  I give Sadie a glare like sorry, but you’re gonna have to scram, kid, and she reluctantly retreats back into her room.

  “Sorry,” I say. “That’s my daughter. Like I said, I don’t usually meet clients here.”

  “I love children,” she says emptily. “You’re married?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s her mother?” The question catches me off guard.

  “Not in the picture.”

  “Not in the picture?” Only her sharp gaze tells me it’s a question.

  “This is getting pretty personal, considering you haven’t even told me your name yet.”

  She frowns, as if she’s displeased with herself, like this is a mistake she makes often and is working to correct.

  “Of course. That was rude. My name is Greta Kanter.”

  She doesn’t offer me her hand. Her gloves are still on. She’s not showing a sliver of flesh below where the crest of her tight black turtleneck hugs her neck. I’m thinking, if she’s a leper, then sign me up for leprosy.

  “Nice to meet you, Greta. Well, first things first. If you don’t mind, I must insist on seeing some photo ID and knowing who gave you my name. Both are kind of standard.”

  She purses a pair of creamy lips and wordlessly plucks a green leather wallet from some fold of her pants, hands me a driver’s license. I copy down the info—­taking a little longer than I have to so I can admire a DMV photo that could pass for a glamour shot.

  She says, “I got your name from Orange.”

  Ugh.

  I was hired about eight months ago by a Columbia linguistics professor to gather proof that her loser husband was having an affair. She was all but sure he’d been cheating on her and didn’t want to give him a penny when she divorced him. It only took two days to figure out that whatever he was doing, he was doing it behind an incredibly sketchy-­looking metal grated door on West 59th Street, nestled between an old Polish restaurant and Laundromat. The husband stops a ­couple times a week in the early evening, buzzes in, then leaves four or five hours later. I figure, too much time for sex, plus I never see women coming or going. Must be drugs or gambling. Finally, after watching this guy for a week, I buzz in myself and wave to the little CC camera. A voice tells me to wait, and thirty seconds later a grotesque fat man in a tan suit materializes from the darkness, huffing from what must be some steep steps, followed by two dudes in sweatshirts, each about two heads taller than me and looking straight out of a Ukrainian mail-­order meathead catalogue.

  The fat g
uy is pale, with black eyes sunk deep into his rubbery face. He’s built like a 350-­pound teapot, and his face bulges and bloats in all the worst places. Gives me a greasy handshake, introduces himself as Matty Julius, but everyone calls him Orange. He’s doused in expensive cologne, and I catch the monogram on his silk pocket square. I think he puts in a lot of effort to draw attention from the parts of his appearance he can’t change. I also think he might be wearing a toupee.

  He explains he’s seen me out here taking pictures of his facade over the last few nights, and if I’d be so kind as to turn those photos over to him, he’d be happy to offer double whatever my current employer is paying me. I casually note the size of the rocks on his stubby fingers, think I could probably ask for triple and he wouldn’t blink, but explain that I already signed a contract—­I’m an investigator, not a mercenary. But he needn’t worry; the pictures will never be seen by anyone but my client.

  He nods, satisfied, impressed even. I can tell he’s one of these guys who takes a lot of pride in being a man of his word. Unbelievable how many dirtbags consider themselves men of honor. He’s about to sidle back into his nether-­lair when he stops and asks if I have a card, says he’s actually in need of a snooper. Especially one he knows won’t sell him down the river to a higher bidder.

  Matty “Orange” Julius calls me two weeks later. He and his goons pick me up in a black Escalade and drive me around town while he describes the job. He wants me to hunt down a pair of Italians who sold him what he claims is a fake Rembrandt. I say I don’t know jack about art, and he replies all I have to know is how to track down shitbags. Cuts me a check for the down payment right there in the car, catches my smirk when I see Midtown Fitness, DBA in the upper left-­hand corner, and then I’m off, Orange never clueing me in to the precise nature of his apparently very well-­decorated subterranean operation.

  It was two months before I busted in on the Italians in their recently acquired Miami penthouse, brandishing my Magnum and screaming to drop the prosecco and kiss the fucking carpet. Finding them had required less blurring than straight-­up mauling of certain laws. Notably: those against breaking and entering, aggressive interrogation techniques, and whichever amendment preserves an immigrant’s right to not be knocked unconscious, bound with duct tape, and hauled back to Manhattan in the trunk of a rented Hyundai with very bad shocks.