Eye Spy

by Jenna Mattison

  “May I be getting you anything else?” He asks politely, completely unaware of his chiseled jaw and bedroom eyes.

  “No, thanks.” I say breathless, still shell-shocked from my first gang fight.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  As I exit clutching my mega Slurpee, an old red T-bird cruises by ever so slowly with the menacing Poncho and the frizzy-haired boy inside. Poncho is in the passenger seat and makes a mock gun with his fingers, points them at me, and pulls the trigger. I drop the Slurpee with a dull thud and stand frozen, unable to move a single muscle. The parking lot feels like it just tilted to the right for a second.

  Great.

  Not only am I a greasy, pseudo-detective with a mild panic disorder but now I have a couple of gang bangers after me and Slurpee all over my shoes.

  I decide the only reasonable thing to do is get another Slurpee…and a hot dog…and most definitely a soft pretzel with that processed cheese-dipping sauce.

  When in doubt carbs and fake cheese to the rescue.

  12

  As I pull into the garage, I realize I’m still wearing the wig and that it’s likely cutting off oxygen to my brain. Which explains why I kicked Frizzy square in the nuts.

  Oh, well, what’s done is done. It’s not like they’re going to come looking for me…right?

  I bolt up the stairs, turn the shower on hot, and throw my grimy clothes towards the wicker hamper. At least I accomplished my mission of planting the tracking device today. It wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. Except for the gangbangers and the oil spill stuff. But all in all I’m feeling pretty good about the day.

  All things considered.

  I feel like I did something. And that’s a good feeling…I forgot how good it feels. That sense of accomplishment. Bernie always wanted me to stay at home. That was the plan. I work and put him thru school and he repays me by giving me a life of leisure once his practice takes off. It’s what I thought I always wanted but now I’m not so sure.

  I mean, there’s only so much leisure a gal can stomach.

  After the shower I wrap my hair in a towel then recline on the green canvas sofa with my overpriced Bernie monitoring gadgetry. The tracker is about four or five inches wide and has a small screen that displays a map with a red dot establishing the location of Bernie’s Porsche. I suppose this is the housewife version of Lo-Jack for husbands. Not a bad little invention, me thinks.

  Five minutes into it and I’m already looking for some distraction. There’s a pungent odor wafting from the overripe trash so I’m thinking I better tidy up since the place is starting to look and smell like a college dorm. Plus I’m restless.

  So I start with the dishes and work my way through the kitchen until I’m exhausted and every surface is gleaming. The only fleeting moments of excitement where when I discovered an entire colony of dead ants under an old sponge by the kitchen sink and a pearl earring I’d feared was lost forever was uncovered nestled in a pile of crumbs behind the toaster oven.

  Flopping on the couch for a well-deserved break, I stare at the tracking device display screen. The red flashing dot is still exactly where I’d left it.

  Phew. Maybe I’ll doze off for a spell…

  13

  ……And I awaken with the sound of my own snoring. Three hours have gone by and nothing. Not even a slight movement. So far so good.

  I watch some General Hospital and some other mind-numbing midday TV and decide that maybe I need some sort of handy dandy gadgetry to actually hear what Bernie is saying. I guess I’ll make another run to Eye Spy and deal with that creep of an owner. But this time I’m actually going to make an effort to look good so he can’t make any smart-alecky remarks about my hair or clothes. Mind you, I don’t give a flying fig what he thinks; it’s just to placate my own sense of vanity.

  I squeeze into my tightest low rider jeans (they help my pooch seem less obvious) and an effortlessly sexy, drapey sweater that seems to carelessly fall off the shoulder. That “oops, I’m accidentally sexy” look. I love that look.

  And as I finish dabbing on a bit of amber-tinted lip-gloss, I realize that it has been months, if not years, since I’ve remotely made any effort in this direction for Bernie. If he were cheating—which he’s not—that would probably have been part of the problem. I mean hypothetically, maybe he needed something outside of us to fulfill that part of his man needs. That place in all men’s minds where silky underwear and perfume lie. Maybe it’s the fact that my ovaries are faulty and we could never conceive. Maybe…okay, I’m getting carried away with the hypothetical maybes, because Bernie is absolutely, positively, not cheating. Enough with the speculating and on to the Bat Cave for the eavesdropping gadget. I grab the wig at the last moment to return it. Looks a little ratty, but it’s worth a shot.

  14

  I’m blessed with rock star parking across the street from Eye Spy.

  Nice.

  As I check my hair and lip-gloss in the mirror, I feel a bit of pride in spite of myself. I look kind of hot for an almost forty suburban housewife.

  The shop door has one of those bell thingies to alert when a customer has walked in. It’s not an electronic one but a regular old-fashioned bell.

  Cute.

  The place has old wood and glass display cases that look like they belong in a watch shop from a bygone era. Bookshelves line the walls and there’s a sliding wood ladder that looks like it came from a public library. I didn’t really notice during the frenzied first visit, but the place has a sort of vintage charm. A touch of nostalgia with a pinch of ragged. The style takes one back to a prewar days.

  Maybe that’s why Jack talks so funny.

  Speak of the devil, Mr. Cocky Parella himself saunters from the back room vigorously chomping, half a sub sandwich in hand. The moment he spots me a goofy grin crosses his face.

  “Of all the spy shops in the world she had to walk into mine.” He utters this with his mouth full so it’s even more ridiculous.

  I roll my eyes, of course, but I can’t help but let a small grin escape. He is a bit charming, I guess. And damn, can he fill out a pair of jeans.

  “What’s up, doll?”

  “I need some sort of listening device. Something small that I can put in a coat pocket or something.”

  He eyes the ratty wig dangling from my fingers and cocks a brow.

  “Oh, and I also want to return this.”As I drop the mangled black hairball on the counter, I immediately regret my decision. Jack lets out a chuckle. I quickly grab the unsightly wig and tuck it back into my satchel.“Umm, actually… never mind. I’m just going to keep it…for like Halloween or something.”

  “Yeah, you do that. Now I can definitely help you with the audio surveillance. How much you wanna spend?”

  “How much do I have to spend?” We lock eyes for a moment and he gives me that wry smirk again. Gulp.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll give you the hot broad discount.”

  I roll my eyes, feigning disgust.

  Hey, at least he noticed.

  15

  Twenty minutes later I’m a hundred bucks poorer, but I’m the proud new owner of a listening thingamajig. It’s actually a fully functional silver pen that also works as a microphone with a cordless baby monitor-looking thing as the receiver. I’ll just tell Bernie it’s an early anniversary gift and put it in his lab coat pocket. Oh, the guilt. But it’s all for the greater good. And what Bernie doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

  As I stroll across the street towards the car, I feel invigorated and optimistic…until I spot the two gang bangers propped on the stoop next to my bumper.

  Oh, crap.

  The frizzy-haired one spots me and nudges his friend Poncho, who pulls back his windbreaker, revealing a really big gun strapped to his side.

  Super crap.

  The sidewalk takes on the dreaded wavy quality. I start automatically reversing as if a magnetic force is drawing me back into the shop. Back to Jack for some freakin’ b
ack up. My instinctive fight or flight mechanism may be saving my butt here.

  I turn and run inside as fast as my out-of-shape legs will take me and push open the door. Jack’s busy cramming the last of the sub sandwich into his mouth. He looks up at me like a startled animal.

  Words spill from my mouth. “There are these two guys...and yesterday…with my car they… and I kicked him...and now they’re out there, with a gun!” I can feel my pulse in my throat.

  “Hold on, take a breath.” Jack ambles over and helps me to a deep-cushioned chair behind the counter.

  I slump down and put my head between my legs because I’m starting to feel real woozy. These little episodes that make the world feel like a teeter-totter, as if all the oxygen’s been sucked out of the atmosphere, can be mighty inconvenient.

  Jack approaches with a bottle of water. I take a sip, a deep breath, and slowly explain the sequence of events that got me here, with two gang bangers and one very large gun waiting outside for me.

  Jack springs into action. He grabs a firearm from under the counter, tucks it in the front of his jeans, and pulls down his shirt, covering the metal handle.

  “I’ll be back, sit tight.”

  Before I can object he’s out the door and briskly making his way toward the boys. A few words are exchanged and everyone does a concealed weapon show and tell, then Pancho and company leave without incident. Phew. My heart was about to pop out of my chest. As I watch Jack stagger back towards the shop, I feel oddly protective of the big Neanderthal.

  “It’s all taken care of doll face.”

  Wow, really manly.

  “Impressive, where’s your cape?”

  “At the cleaners.”

  “What did you say to them?”

  “I just told ’em my Dad was chief of police for twenty-some-odd years, that my brothers happen to be two of Boston’s finest and that I am a licensed detective in our the beautiful state of Massachusetts so I could take em in for questioning for whatever reason I saw fit. So if they knew what was good for them...and all that kind of blahblahblah posturing,” he exclaims with a shrug.

  “Is that all true?”

  “Yup.”

  “Cool. So that’s all it took?”

  “Well, yeah, that and showin’ them my canon of a Smith & Wesson,” he says, cocky as ever.

  “Ah… the whole ‘my gun is bigger than your gun’ thing. Why does it always come down to that with men?” I retort with an impish grin.

  Parella lets out a chuckle. “Wanna see it? It’s pretty impressive, mammoth really.” He says as he inches closer.

  Gulp.

  Okay, this is totally inappropriate—all these dirty undertones going on—but I have never seen a gun up close before. And I’m hoping that’s what he’s meaning to show me or else this is Johnny Wentworth in the attic all over again.

  He pulls his shirt up to reveal his big gun, and …wow, his stomach is so tan. And he has abs; you know those things that some people call a four pack.

  I think I’m staring.

  “Wow, that is a really big gun.”

  He inches in a bit closer. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  Oh my God. I’m all tingly and flirting and married.

  “What makes you think I want to get anywhere?”

  He’s really invading my personal space now-and I don’t seem to mind-though I should. I’m a very bad person. He edges in further. I need to put a stop to this before he kisses me with those really nice lips of his…

  CRASH!!

  Holy crap, glass is flying everywhere! Next thing I know I’m on the ground pinned under Jack with what feels like pellets hitting my face.

  “Damn it, those scoundrels got my gumball machine!” Jack shouts.

  There is a long beat of silence as more gumballs bounce to the ground. He grabs a couple, shoving them into his mouth.

  “Umm...I think you can get off me now,” I say, squirming uncomfortably.

  Jack smirks and chews his wad of gum with reckless abandon. “You never know, they could still be out there.”

  “How can you lay here chomping like an idiot when those guys just tried to kill us!!”

  “Meh, they weren’t tryin’ to kill us. Just scare us a little,” he proclaims dismissively.

  “Well, they did a pretty good job. I’ve never been shot at before; it’s not as fun one as one would think,” I say watching my hands tremble.

  “Popped your cherry.”

  “Pardon me?”

  He gives me an amused look and blows a bubble an inch from my face.

  “Okay, seriously, you need to get off me now. I can’t breathe.”

  Jack smirks. “You sure you want me to get off you? Cause a minute ago it seemed like all you wanted was to be pinned under me in a compromising position.”

  Oh, no, he didn’t.

  “How dare you…you…Neanderthal!”

  He finally lets me up and I feel an overwhelming compulsion to shove a bunch of gumballs into my mouth. I think I might be a little nervous...and excited. I haven’t felt those kind of tingles in quite a while. The forbidden, I’m-married-and-shouldn’t-be-feeling-these-with-another-man- tingles.

  Top that with the fact that I just got shot at and this ranks up there with my all time most exciting things that have ever happened. Neck and neck with winning my bet on Arabian Knight at the Kentucky Derby when I was twelve.

  I think I have eight to ten gumballs in my mouth now. And I may be drooling. “I am not some...trollop, I’m a married woman, remember? So I would appreciate if you would mind your manners when you are addressing me, and another thing...”

  Parella squints. “What?”

  Everything I’ve just said probably sounded like the teachers in the Peanuts cartoons. I remove my electric blue colored wad, dangle it daintily between my fingers, and repeat myself with as much dignity as one can muster with a blue tongue. Jack seems unfazed.

  “Oh, yeah, right, let’s discuss your virtue. But can it wait till after I call the cops since somebody just shot up my store?”

  I purse my blue lips primly, fighting the urge to stick out my tinted tongue at him. “By all means, Mr. Parella. By all means.”

  16

  It’s overcast this morning so I decide to skip my swim and take a long soak in the tub instead. I mean it is still water. That’s got to count for something. Okay, maybe it’s not really exercise, but I did move my legs around a bit while I was shaving them. And in my world that equals jogging a good half-mile. Plus the girls will be here around 10:00 so I need to hurry the heck up.

  Today is my day to gloat.

  A day to bask in the spoils of victory.

  I finally called them back and set this all up after they left about a hundred messages. The past few days have been spent listening to the eavesdropping monitor after planting the “bug” in Bernie’s lab coat pocket. He seemed surprised and sort of touched by the “gift,” which made me feel even guiltier.

  Sometimes I could hear him passing gas, scratching, urinating, and all sorts of other things usually reserved for private moments. But aside from that, what I heard was a whole lot of nothin’, which is exactly what I’d hoped for.

  I have to pick out the perfect gloating outfit. Something that subtly says, “Hey, yeah, I did prove all of you wrong and I could just rub it in all of your faces, but look how I’m handling this with such grace and aplomb.”

  After ransacking my closet, I decide on a Breakfast at Tiffany’s number I wore to Anne’s tenth anniversary party. I know it’s 9:48 in the morning, but this is “an occasion.” Think I’ll skip the stockings though ’cause that would just be overkill. And I suppose the three-inch suede heels would be a bit much too. So I compromise, dressing it down a notch with my handy dandy Uggs. (bar none the most comfortable shoe on the planet no matter how ugly they are).

  I appraise myself in the mirror. Not half bad. A little gloaty gloat lipstick and hair in a gloating bun and I’ll be all set. I have to rememb
er to be graceful and take the high road.

  Oh, goodie they’re here.

  As I scurry for the door, I trip on the second to last step and catch myself just in time.

  Phew.

  I take a deep breath and dramatically pull open the door, ready for my triumph.

  “Evvy, darling, so nice of you to come,” I say with an elegant flick of my wrist.

  She cocks a brow at my outfit and utters nonchalantly, “Laundry day?” in her clipped, dry, New England speech.

  I suddenly feel ridiculous.

  I shrug and attempt to cover quickly. “Yeah…whatcha got in the bag?”

  “Fixings for mimosas.”

  “Lush.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she replies with a self-satisfied grin.

  I leave the door propped open with the fake ceramic butler we got from my folks a few X-mas’s ago, and follow Evvy into the kitchen/great room area. This has always been my favorite part of the house from the moment we saw it with the realtor. It’s just one big, fat, high-ceilinged room with a joining kitchen, dining, and family room, and a big, red brick, two-story gas fireplace in the middle. It’s ample, yet cozy.

  She flicks on the push-button fireplace (instant ambience) and pops open the bottle of champagne. Perfect, nothing like a little bubbly to complement the thrill of victory.

  I watch her as she elegantly pours the drinks into coffee mugs. Evvy was my first real friend when I moved here. It was kind of like having the cool, head cheerleader take you under her wing, which was an entirely new experience for me, and one that frankly made me feel like I was sixteen all over again. Luckily this time without the acne.

  I met the girls at the annual Mock Hay Ride organized by the Rotary Club, and for the first time in my life, I felt like one of the cool girls, sans teased Aqua Net mall hair.

  I’m not quite sure what it is about Evvy that makes me feel like an awkward schoolgirl even now. But as I watch her glide to the couch and curl up all catlike and take a not so dainty slug of her mimosa, it hits me. She’s a knockout. Not in a dramatic sort of way, but in a Michelle Pfeiffer, small-Nordic-Barbie-features sort of way. The kind of pretty I never was. I was always called “unique” or “exotic,” and in my awkward stage one of Mamma’s friends exclaimed, “Don’t worry, darlin’, remember, the ugly ducking turned into a beautiful swan!” I guess that was her Southern, covertly hostile way of calling me homely.