by Ali Brandon
He paused and snorted. “He was old—at least, like, thirty—and he had this underage girl with him. A lot of the girls that hang with guys like that dress like kids on purpose, but I recognized her. She was one of Sunny’s friends. Fifteen, sixteen, tops.”
He hesitated again, but this time his expression hardened, making him look more adult than teen. “So I’m like, bro, she’s a minor, you’ve got to leave. And he was like, pal, mind your business. Then he grabbed her arm and dragged her back toward where the video booths are.”
Darla flinched. Not that she’d ever been inside a porn shop before, but she was pretty sure she knew what went on in those booths. It wasn’t politely watching classic movies.
Robert, meanwhile, was continuing, “Anyhow, I went down one of the side aisles and, you know, jumped out to block the way. And I’m like, bro, I already told you she’s not allowed in the store. And he goes, yeah, well she’s my daughter, so F-you, pal. I knew he was lying, but we’re not supposed to argue with the customers. So I was going to let them go, but then the girl—her name is Fancy—did one of those things you see in the movies. You know, while he was busy being all tough guy with me, she mouthed the words, help me.”
“What did you do?” Darla asked, drawn into this drama despite herself.
The youth shrugged.
“I stood there and told him he had to get the hell out, but that Fancy was staying with me. He starts poking me in the chest”—Robert pantomimed fingers stabbing at an invisible sternum—“and cussing me out, and Fancy starts crying, like she’s real scared now. So I knock his hand away and tell him if he doesn’t leave, I’m going to make a call. And then he’s all, go ahead and call the cops, and I’ll tell them you assaulted me. And I’m like, I’m not going to call the cops. I’m going to call my friend, Alex Putin.”
Alex Putin? The name rang a faint bell, but Darla wasn’t sure where she’d heard it before. Maybe Jake or Reese had mentioned the man in passing. Whatever the source, however, she found herself recalling James’s comment about Russian gangs.
She didn’t have time to pursue that line of thought, however, for Robert was saying, “So the dude, he was all, no way a kid like you knows Alex Putin. And I go, yeah, I know him, and I also know Alex’s got a couple of daughters Fancy’s age. You should have seen Mr. Gold Chain Dude’s face when I said that. I thought he was going to puke right there.
“Anyhow, I grab my cell and start punching in numbers. He doesn’t stick around to find out if I’m telling the truth or not, he just runs out of the store. So I call Sunny, and she and some of her friends come to the store and take Fancy home to her parents. Fancy acted like I was some kind of hero, but I just told her I’d kick her butt if I ever saw her hanging with some old guy like that again.”
“Wow, some story,” Darla said, deliberately overlooking the fact that, in Robert’s world, she also fell into the old category. “But how did you end up getting fired?”
Robert’s smile faded.
“I guess Mr. Gold Chain Dude got a little braver since, you know, Alex didn’t stop by his house or anything. So he comes back to the store that next night before I get there and yells at Bill. He tells Bill that I cussed him out and hit him for no reason, and that he’s thinking of suing. So by the time I got to work later, he was boiling mad. He didn’t want to hear my side of the story or even look at the security tape.”
The youth glanced down at his hands again.
“Bill was always kind of a jerk to us guys who worked at the store, and he kinda looks like that big monkey in those dumb Clint Eastwood movies I watched when I was a kid. So when he wasn’t around, I started calling him the Not-So-Great Ape.” He paused and looked up at Darla, trying for a grin. “Get it?”
When Darla nodded that she did, indeed, get it, he went on, “Anyhow, Frankie—he’s one of the guys—told me I’d better not make fun of him, because Bill once attacked a guy with a hammer for making wisecracks like that. So I learned to keep my mouth shut. But this whole thing with the gold chain dude, it wasn’t, you know, fair. I tried to tell him that.”
“So what happened?” Darla urged him on.
Robert shrugged. “Not much. He just yelled at me that the customer is always right, and paid me out of the cash register for the week before, and that was it. No more job.”
“Wow,” Darla repeated, frowning as the youth subsided into silence again. Then, with another look at his resume, she told him, “That whole thing about the customer always being right? Well, it’s not true. But what is true is that they always think that they’re right. So no matter your personal opinion, you have to suck it up and pretend you agree. It’s the first law of retail. I can’t hire someone who doesn’t understand that.”
Robert gave a glum nod and had just started to rise when Darla put out a restraining hand.
“But, on the other hand, I can’t hire someone who won’t stand up for what’s morally right. I’d rather lose a sale any day than compromise my principles—or someone else’s safety—for a few dollars. And it sounds like you’re on that same page with me.”
“So, like, maybe you’ll consider giving me the job?” he asked, a look of hope momentarily lighting his features as he sat back down again. “I really would like to work here.”
“It’s only part-time,” she reminded him. She gave him a quick rundown of the expected duties and then told him the hourly rate. “Over the holidays, you might be able to go full-time for a while, but no guarantees that would be permanent.”
“Hey, it’s all good. I also do a little construction work on the side for Alex, er, Mr. Putin, so that’ll make up the difference. And I’d get an employee discount on books, right?”
“Twenty percent,” Darla confirmed with a nod, “but I thought all you kids preferred the electronic readers to the real thing.”
“No way,” he replied. “I mean, those things are sick and all, but a real book’s got, you know, a soul. It’s not the same, reading a bunch of electrons. Anyone knows that.”
“Hey, real books are what keep us in business,” she agreed, pleased to find a kindred spirit in that matter. “Of course, I have to do a background check first, but so long as you pass it . . .”
She trailed off, feeling her smile falter as she recalled the final requirement for employment at Pettistone’s Fine Books. “One more thing, Robert. Anyone who works here has to be able to get along with—Hamlet!”
That last word morphed into a shriek as Darla spied a large black furry shape racing in their direction. Before she could turn exclamation into action, the beast in question made a single graceful leap and landed on silent paws upon the table.
With the reflexes of youth, Robert had shoved back his chair from the table at the same instant Hamlet came in for his four-point landing. Now, seeing what appeared to be nothing more innocuous than a rather large black feline sitting there before him, he grinned.
“Hey, little goth cat bro,” he exclaimed, apparently appreciative of Hamlet’s inky coat. “Where did you come from?”
Normally, Darla would have given a snarky answer on Hamlet’s behalf—the bowels of Hell, for example, or Satan’s School for Cats—but with the feline only a paw’s length away from her potential new employee, she didn’t dare try for humor.
Instead, feeling like she was in one of those nature specials where the host unexpectedly stumbles into the path of a deadly beast, she said in a soft voice, “Just back away from the table slowly, Robert, and everything will be fine.”
But barely had the words left her lips than Hamlet raised a large black paw in the teen’s direction. Darla didn’t have time for a warning. She could only wait for the carnage she was sure would follow.
Don’t let Robert be like Mr. Gold Chain Dude and want to sue, was her one frantic thought as she watched the teen reach out a hand in return. But rather than trying to pet him, he lightly touched knuckles with Hamlet’s raised front foot.
“Yo, fist bump, little guy,” he said, still grinnin
g.
Darla held her breath and winced. To her astonishment, however, no claws ensued. Instead, Hamlet gave a quick meowrmph and, to her even greater amazement, appeared to return the gesture. Then the feline turned tail and hopped off the table, padding in the direction of the stairs.
“Epic cat,” Robert said. “Does he hang out here in the store all the time?”
“Y-yes,” Darla choked out, unable to believe what had just happened. Hamlet actually seemed to like someone she was considering hiring? Surely that had to be an indication that she was making the right choice . . . that, or a sign that the End Times were near.
Robert, meanwhile, was nodding his approval. “I like cats. If I lived in a place where they were allowed, I’d adopt one. So, what’s the one more thing you were talking about?”
“Actually, that was it. Just let me make sure I have your correct phone number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I check your references.”
“I can, you know, start right away.” His tone was neutral, but Darla could see the excitement in his eyes, and she abruptly hoped that everything would be okay. Despite his past rush to judgment about her, he had the makings of a reliable employee. And the fact that Hamlet seemingly agreed with that assessment was a miracle that she hadn’t expected.
“Let me walk you back downstairs,” she said with a smile, “and then I’ll get the paperwork going. Assuming everything checks out okay, you can expect to hear from me tomorrow sometime.”
She saw in approval that he gathered up his empty candy wrapper and stuffed it in his backpack before following her down the steps, his earlier sullen attitude long gone. As he passed the register, he gave James a comradely nod and called out, “Yo, hoss, see you later,” before heading out the door.
James waited until the door jangled shut behind the youth before turning to Darla.
“Yo, hoss?” he repeated in precise tones, his expression sharp as the crease in his trousers. “Please do not tell me that this young man will be working here at the store.”
“Actually, he will, assuming he passes the background check,” Darla replied, doing her best to suppress her amusement. James and Robert would make for an interesting pairing, indeed . . . though surely, during his career as a college professor, James must have dealt with more than his share of irreverent young men. In a conciliatory tone, she added, “But don’t worry, Hamlet actually likes him.”
“Hamlet approves?”
“You bet. He and Hamlet, they’re like bros. They fist bumped and everything.”
James’s peeved expression immediately settled into a look of genteel relief, and he gave his vest a tug back into place. “Well, then. If Hamlet has given his nod, so to speak, regarding this youth, I am content with your choice.”
With those words, the manager returned to the special order he was boxing up for one of their mail-order customers. Darla smiled. The relationship between James and Hamlet was also quite an interesting pairing. While James had been the one to insist that Hamlet remain as the bookstore mascot after Darla inherited the place, she rarely saw the two of them together. It was as if they had a gentleman’s—or gentlecat’s?—agreement to coexist peacefully without actually crossing paths.
Of course, there was that one time when neither of them knew she was watching that she’d actually seen James petting the ornery feline. Both had seemed to enjoy the interaction, though she suspected each would deny it should she mention the incident.
Then her smiled faded. From what she’d observed, Hamlet was indeed a capable judge of human character. But no way could she make a hiring decision based solely on the feline’s instincts. The only way to go these days was with a battery of references and drug-screening tests and Google searches . . . heck, even a look at a potential employee’s Facebook page was now considered de rigueur. Because when it came to an employee’s character, she’d already learned a valuable lesson as store owner: one never knew what lurked in a person’s past.
And, even more important, one never knew when that past might rear its ugly head and bite an unsuspecting bystander in the hindquarters. Which was why she intended to trot said hindquarters down to Jake’s place that minute and hire the newly minted private investigator to put Hamlet’s new buddy under a microscope.
* * *
JAKE HAD BEEN BUSY SINCE LUNCH, IT SEEMED. THE PROMISED SIGN for “Martelli Private Investigations” was now hung on the wrought iron railing outside the garden apartment. A discrete arrow pointed downward to Jake’s door, where a similar sign minus the arrow had been screwed on beneath the peephole. Feeling rather like a character in one of the thriller novels that she sold, Darla hurried down the steps and gave a quick knock.
“Come in,” came Jake’s shout in return.
Darla entered. The apartment had an open floor plan similar to Darla’s on the third floor, with a single large space serving as a combination living room, dining room, and galley kitchen . . . and now, apparently, as Jake’s detective agency office. She nodded approvingly as she found her friend seated at a rectangular 1950s-style chrome dinette table, a gleaming new laptop and a neat stack of paperwork before her.
Since Darla’s last visit, Jake had rearranged the furniture so that a folding screen blocked the kitchen from view, while what had been her dining table now was flanked by a file cabinet and bookshelf. The table’s matching set of chrome-framed, red vinyl-cushioned chairs had been replaced by the sort of oversized office chair that Mickey Spillane might have used, with two small tweed wing chairs for client seating. The laptop looked more out of place than the vintage furnishings, since Jake’s entire apartment was decorated with a distinct mid-twentieth-century vibe.
Some of the pieces, like the table, had come from the previous tenant; the rest, Jake had scrounged from various thrift shops and flea markets. Darla’s favorite of Jake’s finds was the mod floor-to-ceiling lamp with its three shades that looked like melted red plastic bowls, though the trio of gaudy plaster mermaids swimming across Jake’s bathroom wall came in a close second.
Darla settled in one of the wingbacks and gave her friend a mock-stern look. “I can’t believe you, of all people, would let someone waltz into your place like I just did. What if I’d been a mad killer or something?”
“Eh, I saw you through the window coming down the stairs. And don’t forget, I’m operating a business here. Can’t leave the clients standing out in the street.” Jake shook her curly head in amused dismay. “Besides, you’re the only one I know who does that old shave-and-a-haircut knock. Seriously, kid, you need to update your image.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my image,” Darla shot back, only slightly offended. Sure, she might dress a tad on the conservative side, but that didn’t mean she didn’t at least have a passing knowledge of the latest trends. With a meaningful look at her friend’s décor, she added, “Talk about being behind the times.”
“I’m retro, not old-fashioned. There’s a difference.”
“Well, maybe I can get a few pointers from my new employee,” Darla replied with a triumphant smile. Setting the folder on the table, she went on, “I’ll be your first client. I need a background check run on a Robert Gilmore, age eighteen. Lives in walking distance of the store. Last place of employment, Bill’s Books and Stuff.”
“The porn shop?” Before Darla could ask how Jake happened to know what Bill actually peddled, the ex-cop went on, “That was pretty quick. An hour ago you thought you’d never find anyone who wouldn’t end up as kibble for Hamlet.”
“He and Hamlet are officially BFFs,” Darla replied, glad for the chance to show off that she at least knew the texting term that meant best friends forever. “Besides, Mary Ann next door gave him a letter of recommendation.”
Jake flipped through the folder before nodding and tossing it on top of her stack. “I’ll have this back to you this afternoon. But sorry to disappoint you, kid. You’re not my first client. Hilda Aguilar is.”
“Hilda?”
“Right af
ter we got back from lunch, she called and said she wanted to hire me. She must have seen the business cards I left on the bulletin board at the deli.” Jake glanced at her watch. “She’ll be here in about half an hour to discuss her case.”
“What could she want with a private detective?”
“Beats me, but I’ll find out soon enough . . . not that I’m going to tell you anything once I do,” she added when Darla gave her an eager look. “Client confidentiality, and all that.”
“Yeah, right, I understand.” And she did; still, she was a bit disappointed to lose this hot source of gossip.
Jake paused and looked at her watch again. “Sorry, but I’d better kick you out. I need to print up some forms and contracts before Hilda gets here. I’ll bring you the results on your hire in a few hours.”
“Perfect,” Darla said as she rose. “Just try not to find out anything bad about him, okay? I really need a new part-timer, and so far our boy Robert is my best shot.”
FOUR
IT WAS ALMOST CLOSING TIME WHEN JAKE STROLLED INTO the bookstore, folder in hand. “Good news, kid,” she announced. “Your boy Robert is clean. Hire away.”
“Fantastic! I’ll give him a call and make him a formal offer.”
Darla took back her folder plus a second neatly bound sheaf of papers—the background check—from Jake, glancing as she did so at an invoice clipped to its front. She frowned as she saw the total.
“Jake, that’s way too cheap,” she declared, pointing to the dollar figure. “It would have cost me more for one of those online services, and I trust you a heck of a lot more.”
“Eh, just call it the introductory friend rate. I haven’t done backgrounds in a while, so this was good practice for me.”
Still, Darla felt a bit guilty as she unlocked the company checkbook from a drawer beneath the counter and paid the bill. As the owner of her own small business, she knew how hard it was to earn every penny. Which reminded her . . .
