I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool

by Lisa Scottoline

  The Bottom Line on the Bottom-of-the-Line

  Lisa

  Having said how empowering it is to drive a truck, I neglected to mention how disempowering it is to bargain for one.

  Is there anybody in the world who likes haggling over price?

  Not me.

  I hate it.

  Why?

  Because I usually want what I’m bargaining for.

  Plus I want to be liked.

  This would be the double whammy for negotiators.

  Let me remind you that I was a lawyer in a former life, and I negotiated all the time. I was a badass negotiator, back then. Because I wasn’t fighting for myself. I was fighting for you.

  It brought out the mama bear in me.

  But when I’m fighting for myself, I’m a kitten. And not one of those kittens that scratches your hand. One of those kittens that hooks its flimsy nails into your sweater and won’t let go.

  You have to declaw me to free yourself from my love attack.

  So what happened was I went to my Ford dealership, because I liked my old bottom-of-the-line truck and I wanted to replace it with another bottom-of-the-line truck. By the way, don’t think I’m being cheap. The truck is my second car, and I use it mostly to plow snow, pull horses, and tool around the block when I need self-esteem.

  But the Ford dealership didn’t have a bottom-of-the-line truck for me to test-drive. They offered to order one for me, but only if I promised to buy it first, without seeing or even driving it.

  That struck me as a pig in a poke, truck-wise.

  So I went home and started comfort-eating in front of the TV—and lo and behold, I saw a commercial for a Toyota truck, which was a bright blue like an M&M.

  And I thought, why not?

  I like that color and I love M&Ms.

  Also, maybe I’m in a Ford rut?

  I get that way with cars, food, and clothes.

  The only thing I don’t get that way with is husbands.

  I have no problem changing things up in the Marriage Department.

  But chocolate cake and I will be together forever.

  To return to point, I used to think that way about Ford and I couldn’t give it up easily, so I went to another Ford dealership, where they happened to have one bottom-of-the line truck, in white. I drove it around, and the Ford guys were super nice and I liked the truck okay, but I kept thinking about the blue Toyota in the commercial.

  My head had been turned.

  Then I did some research into Toyota trucks and I learned that they’re built in the USA, which matters to me.

  So on a lark, I went to a Toyota dealership, but they didn’t have the bottom-of-the-line. The only truck they had was middle-of-the-line—in the M&M blue.

  I test-drove it and fell in love.

  And I wanted it, even though it was nicer than I needed.

  Let the bargaining begin!

  I never know how to start haggling, so I asked simply, “Isn’t there anything better you can do on the price?”

  “I have to talk to my manager,” the salesman said, then went away and came back. He had taken something off the price, but it wasn’t very much, and since the truck was the nicer model, it made sense that it cost more than the bottom-of-the-line Ford.

  But I didn’t want to give up.

  I told myself to haggle like a grown-ass woman.

  So I asked, “Can you sharpen your pencil?” which is something I heard someone say once. It sounds a lot better than, “Can you give it to me cheaper, please?”

  The salesman went away again and when he came back, his pencil was sharper, but not sharp enough. The truck was still too expensive.

  I came to my senses, and my inner monologue kicked in:

  I didn’t need the nicer truck. It was right that the nicer truck cost more than I wanted to pay. You can’t get middle-of-the-line for a bottom-of-the-line price, especially not if you’re a lousy negotiator like me.

  “Thank you, but no.” I picked up my purse, rose to go, and started walking toward the door.

  At which point all hell broke loose.

  The salesman started running toward me, and so did another guy in a tie, and both men called my name, so I turned around.

  “I’m the manager,” said the guy in the tie. “Please, come back and sit down. Let me give you our blowout price.”

  BLOWOUT PRICE?!

  “Okay,” I said calmly, knowing that it probably would not be anywhere near what I was willing to pay.

  So we sat down.

  And very dramatically, the manager took out a piece of paper and actually wrote BLOWOUT PRICE in a Sharpie, and next to that, he wrote a blowout price. It wasn’t as low as I wanted, but it wasn’t as high as before.

  It was the Goldilocks of truck prices.

  By the way, did I mention that the truck was M&M blue?

  And made in the USA?

  Dear Reader, I bought my dream truck!

  My new blue truck sits in my driveway, right underneath my red American flag.

  Red, white, and blowout price.

  I realized later that I didn’t have to say anything to get the better deal.

  I just had to leave.

  So what is the moral of the story—or even of this book?

  Sometimes you do the right thing, even when you have no idea what you’re doing.

  Even though your brain is saying: YOU CAN’T NEGOTIATE. YOU CAN’T EVEN SWIM. YOU NEED A LIFEGUARD.

  We really are our own lifeguard, in the end.

  Our feet will walk us right out the door.

  Or wherever we want to go.

  May you get the truck of your dreams.

  May you get whatever you wish for.

  You deserve nothing less.

  Because you are top-of-the-line.

  Acknowledgments

  Lisa and Francesca

  Time for thank-yous! We love and thank St. Martin’s Press for supporting this entire series from day one to bestsellerdom. The biggest thanks go to Coach Jen Enderlin, our terrific editor, and major thanks to the brilliant John Sargent, Don Weisberg, Sally Richardson, Jeff Dodes, Jeff Capshew, Lisa Senz, Brant Janeway, Erica Martirano, George Witt, John Edwards, Jeanette Zwart, Dori Weintraub, Tracey Guest, John Karle, Stephanie Davis, Brian Heller, Michael Storrings, Anne-Marie Tallberg, Sara Goodman, Kerry Nordling, Elizabeth Wildman, Caitlin Dareff, Talia Sherer, Kim Ludlum, and all the wonderful sales reps. We appreciate you all!

  We’d also like to thank St. Martin’s audiobook division for letting us record our own audiobook of this volume, which we love doing. Thanks to the terrific Mary Beth Roche, our director Laura Wilson, and Samantha Edelson. We love audiobooks!

  Huge thanks and love to Lisa’s amazing agent, Robert Gottlieb of the Trident Media Group, and his awesome digital team: Nicole Robson, Emily Ross, Caitlin O’Beirne, and Alicia Granstein. Equally huge thanks and love to Francesca’s terrific agents, Andrea Cirillo, Amy Tannenbaum, and Rebecca Scherer of the Jane Rotrosen Agency—you are guiding lights. Thanks to The Philadelphia Inquirer, which carries our “Chick Wit” column, and to our new editor Reid Tuvim.

  One of the best people in the whole entire world is our bestie/honorary aunt/resident therapist/genius assistant Laura Leonard. Laura, thank you so much for all of your great comments and suggestions to these stories. We owe you and love you, forever.

  Love to our girlfriends! Lisa would like to thank Nan Daley, Paula Menghetti, Sandy Steingard, and Franca Palumbo. Francesca would like to thank Rebecca Harrington, Katy Andersen, Courtney Yip, Lauren Donahoe, Janie Stolar, and right-hand man, Ryder Kessler. We’re blessed in all of you.

  Family is the heart of this book, because family is the heart of everything. Special thanks and love to Brother Frank. We still miss Mother Mary and Father Frank Scottoline, though they are with us always.

  Finally, a massive thank-you to our readers. You have taken this series to your heart, and so touched ours. Nothing makes us happier.

  We are truly
honored.

  Read on for an excerpt from Lisa Scottoline’s next novel

  EXPOSED

  Copyright © 2017 by Smart Blonde, LLC.

  Chapter One

  Mary DiNunzio stepped off the elevator, worried. Her father and his friends looked over from the reception area, their lined faces stricken. They’d called her to say they needed a lawyer but until now, she hadn’t been overly concerned. Their last lawsuit was against the Frank Sinatra Social Society of South Philly on behalf of the Dean Martin Fan Club of South Philly. Luckily Mary had been able to settle the matter without involving Tony Bennett.

  “Hi, Pop.” Mary crossed the lobby, which was otherwise empty. Marshall, their receptionist, wasn’t at her desk, though she must’ve already gotten in. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, since Marshall knew that Mary’s father and his fellow octogenarians ran on caffeine and Coumadin.

  “HIYA, HONEY!” her father shouted, despite his hearing aids. Everyone was used to Mariano “Matty” DiNunzio talking loudly, which came off as enthusiastic rather than angry. On the table next to him sat a white box of pastries, as the DiNunzios didn’t go anywhere empty-handed, even to a law firm. The box hadn’t been opened, so whatever was bothering him was something even saturated fats couldn’t cure.

  “Hey, Mare!” “Hi, Mary!” “Buongiorno, Maria!” said his friends The Three Tonys, like a Greek—or more accurately Roman—chorus. They got up to greet her, rising slowly on replacement knees, like hammers on a piano with sticky keys. Her father had grown up with The Tonys; Tony “From-Down-The-Block” LoMonaco, “Pigeon” Tony Lucia, and Tony “Two Feet” Pensiera, which got shortened to “Feet,” so even his nickname had a nickname. It went without saying that naming traditions in South Philly were sui generis, which was Latin for completely insane. The Tonys went everywhere with her father and sometimes helped her on her cases, which was like having a secret weapon or a traveling nightmare.

  “Good morning, Pop.” Mary reached her father and gave him a big hug. He smelled the way he always did, of hard soap from a morning shave and the mothballs that clung to his clothes. He and The Tonys were dressed in basically the same outfit—a white short-sleeved shirt, baggy Bermuda shorts, and black-socks-with-sandals—like a barbershop quartet gone horribly wrong.

  “THANKS FOR SEEIN’ US, HONEY.” Her father hugged her back, and Mary loved the solidity of his chubby belly. She would move mountains for him, but it still wouldn’t be enough to thank him for being such a wonderful father. Both of her parents loved her to the marrow, though her mother could be as protective as a mother bear, if not a mother Tyrannosaurus rex.

  “No problem.” Mary released him, but he looked away, which was unlike him. “You okay, Pop?”

  “SURE, SURE.” Her father waved her off with an arthritic hand, but Mary was concerned. His eyes were a milky brown behind his bifocals, but troubled.

  “What is it?”

  “YOU’LL SEE. YOUR MOTHER SAYS HI.”

  Just then Feet raised his slack arms, pulled Mary close to his chest, and hugged her so hard that he jostled his Mr. Potatohead glasses. He, too, seemed agitated, if affectionate. “Mare, thank you for making the time for us.”

  “Of course, I’m happy to see you.”

  “I appreciate it. You’re such a good kid.” Feet righted his thick trifocals, repaired with Scotch tape at one corner. His round eyes were hooded, his nose was bulbous, and he was completely bald, with worry lines that began at his eyebrows and looked more worried than usual.

  “Mary!” Tony-From-Down-The-Block reached for her with typical vigor, the youngest of the group, at eighty-three. He worked out, doing a chair-exercise class at the senior center, and was dating again, as evidenced by his hair’s suspicious shade of reddish-brown, like oxblood shoe polish. He gave her a hug, and Mary breathed in his Paco Rabanne and BenGay, a surprisingly fragrant combination.

  “Good to see you.” Mary let him go and moved on to hug Pigeon Tony, an Italian immigrant with a stringy neck, who not only raised homing pigeons but looked like one. Pigeon Tony was barely five feet tall and bird-thin, with a smooth bald head and round brown-black eyes divided by a nose shaped like a beak. In other words, adorable.

  “Come stai, Maria?” Pigeon Tony released her with a sad smile, and Mary tried to remember her Italian.

  “Va bene, grazie. E tu?”

  “Cosi, cosi,” Pigeon Tony answered, though he’d never before said anything but bene. You didn’t have to speak Italian to know there was a problem, and Mary turned to address the foursome.

  “So what’s going on, guys? How can I help you?”

  “IT’S NOT ABOUT US,” her father answered gravely.

  Feet nodded, downcast. “It’s about Simon.”

  “Oh no, what’s up?” Mary loved Feet’s son Simon, who was her unofficial cousin, since The Tonys were her unofficial uncles.

  “He’s not so good.”

  “What’s the matter? Is it Rachel?” Mary felt a pang of fear. Simon’s wife Ellen died four years ago of an aneurysm, and Simon had become a single father of an infant, Rachel. When Rachel turned three, she was diagnosed with leukemia but was in remission.

  “Simon will explain it. Oh, here he comes now!” Feet turned to the elevator just as the doors opened and Simon stepped out, looking around to orient himself.

  “Hey, honey!” Mary called to him, hiding her dismay. He looked tired, with premature gray threaded through his dark curly hair, and though he had his father’s stocky build, he’d lost weight. His navy sport jacket hung on him and his jeans were too big. She hadn’t seen him in a while, since he was busy with Rachel, though they’d kept in touch by email.

  “Hi, Mary!” Simon strode toward her, and Mary reached him with a hug, since she could only imagine what he’d been going through, not only with the baby, but losing Ellen. Mary herself had been widowed young, after the murder of her first husband Mike. Even though she was happily remarried, Mike was a part of her and always would be, which suited her and her new husband Anthony just fine.

  “It’s so good to see you, honey.” Mary released him, and Simon brightened.

  “This office is so nice, with your name on the sign.”

  “Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.” Mary could see Simon was happy for her and felt a new rush of affection for him. “How’s the baby?”

  “I’ll fill you in later.” Simon’s smile stiffened. “I just moved her to CHOP.”

  Mary wondered why Rachel had been moved, but it wasn’t the time to ask. CHOP was the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, one of the best in the country. Mary’s heart went out to him. “I’m praying for her, and so is my mother. She’s got the novenas on overdrive.”

  “I know, and she sends me Mass cards, God bless her.” Simon’s smile returned. “I tell our rabbi, I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  “Exactly. She prayed for me to make partner.”

  “Ha! Anyway, thanks for seeing me on such short notice. Are you sure you have the time?”

  “Totally. My first appointment isn’t until ten thirty.” Mary motioned him out of the reception area. “Let’s go to the conference room.”

  “Okay.” Simon fell into step beside her, followed by her father, The Tonys, and the pastry box, which gave Mary pause. Simon was a potential client, and she wouldn’t ordinarily have a client consultation with an audience, blood-related or not.

  “Simon, did you want to talk alone?” she asked him, stopping in the hallway. “What we say is confidential, and it’s your call whether your dad or anybody else comes in with us. They can wait in—”

  Feet interrupted, “No, I wanna be there, Mare. I know what he’s gonna tell you, we all do.”

  Tony-From-Down-The-Block snorted. “Of course we’ll be there. Feet’s his father, and I taught him how to ride a bike.”

  “I CHANGED HIS DIAPERS!”

  Mary looked over, skeptically. “When, Pop?”

  “THAT ONE TIME, I FORGET.” Her fathe
r held up the pastry box by its cotton string. “PLUS I GOT BREAKFAST.”

  Pigeon Tony kept his own counsel, his dark gaze darting from Simon to Mary, and she suspected that he understood more than he let on, regardless of the language.

  Simon smiled crookedly. “Mary, you didn’t think we were going to shake them, did you? It’s okay. They can come with.”

  “THIS WAY, I KNOW WHERE IT IS!” Her father lumbered off, down the hallway.

  “Of course, we’re all going!” Feet said, at his heels. “We’re family. We’re all family!”

  “Andiamo!” said Pigeon Tony.

  Mary led them down the hallway and into the conference room, where Thomas Eakins’s rowing prints lined the warm white walls and fresh coffee had been set up on the credenza. The far side of the room was glass, showing an impressive view of the Philadelphia skyline thick with humidity. July was a bad-hair month in Philly, and Mary was already damp under her linen dress.

  She closed the conference-room door, glancing at Simon, who perched unhappily on the edge of his chair. He’d always been one of the smartest and nicest kids in the neighborhood, affable enough to make friends even though he was one of the few that didn’t go to parochial school. He’d gone to Central High, and the Pensieras were Italian Jews, but the religious distinction made no difference as far as the neighborhood was concerned. The common denominator was homemade tomato sauce.

  “Simon, would you like coffee?” Mary set down her purse and messenger bag while her father and The Tonys surged to the credenza.

  “No, thanks. Let’s get started.” Simon sat down catty-corner to the head of the table.

  “Agree.” Mary took the seat, slid her laptop from her bag, and powered it up while her father and The Tonys yakked away, pouring coffee and digging into the pastry box.

  “MARE, YOU TWO START WITHOUT US. DON’T WAIT ON US.”

  Mary pulled her laptop from her bag, fired it up, and opened a file, turning to Simon. “So, tell me what’s going on.”

  “Okay.” Simon paused, collecting his thoughts. “Well, you remember, I’m in sales at OpenSpace, and we make office cubicles. We have different designs and price points, though we also customize. We did $9 million in sales last fiscal year and we have forty-five employees, including manufacturing and administrative, in Horsham.”