An excerpt from THE REPAIRMAN: Mr. Reardon? she asks, pausing in front of the bench, one leg slightly bent, one shoulder slightly lower than the other, chin down, eyes raised to my height, lips pouted…and me taking way to much notice of the whole delectable package. Guilty, I respond, and she starts to sit next to me. But please call me Mike. Mike, then. Please call me Carol. Let’s walk, I say, rising. It’s much more difficult to use a hyperbolic microphone on a moving target, particularly if it’s moving among a lot of yelling kids on the beach, squawking gulls, or squeaking bicycles and strollers on the beach front walkway. One thing M-2, Marine Intelligence, taught me, and that was the capability of someone wanting to drop in on a conversation, and yes, I’m paranoid. And I don’t know this lady, although at first glance, I’d like to know her better. Then again, a coral snake is beautiful, in its deadly way. We stroll out onto the beach, dodging squawking seabirds, walking south away from most who hang out near the pier, and are soon dodging kelp strewn on the beach from the last spring storm. She glances over at me. Skip says you’re very good at what you do? I can jitterbug with the best of them, play a mean harmonica, spit shine my shoes and brass, but other than that, I kind of just stumble along. This time she gives me a long stare, then adds, And he says you’re tough as hell? Like cheap sirloin, but even the cheapest can be chewed up. Skip’s a wussy, so how would he know tough. Skip’s the toughest guy I know. You don’t instill confidence. That makes me smile. Not my job, however, Skip used to be the toughest guy you knew. I get my work done, whatever it takes, but it seldom takes tough. It usually takes don’t-give-a-damn. And oft times clients don’t like what it takes. I like whatever it takes to get the job done. I want my daughter. Her eyes, gleaming as if tearing up, cut around the beach, she seems to be searching for a place to start, so I ask, I understand your kid has been abducted, and you’d like help getting her back? She sets her jaw before continuing. Exactly. She’s only five, and doesn’t understand the falling out her father and I have had. Does he have legal custody? We have shared custody, but the first time he had her for the weekend, two weeks ago, he didn’t show up when he was supposed to bring her back. She stops and looks up at me, and liquid gold eyes fill with tears, this time to the point of rolling down her smooth cheeks. But I encourage her. Let’s keep ambling along here. So, you’ve contacted the police? And the FBI, and gone on every missing child website I can find, and called his family here in California and in Las Vegas. The police have refused to put out an Amber alert as he has joint custody...until I get a court order or warrant or something.... Vegas? Yes, his family is in the gaming business in Vegas. In a modest way, if you can call a two-acre gaming floor modest. Modest compared to Trump or Wynn. Skip said your last name is Janson? Skip’s a good guy. She’s unbuttoning the cover up, a little disconcerting. Do you mind? I’d like to take advantage of the sun. I shrug, however my mouth is going dry, and I wouldn’t complain no matter. She could easily be the Victoria’s Secret model I mentioned earlier. The bikini consists of less material than my hanky. The solid red bottoms are cut low enough to reveal that shes well groomed. And yes, it’s sunny, but the cool ocean breeze has her nipples straining against the red polka-dot top, obviously made of some stretchy material. If she’s playing me, she’s doing a spectacular stupendous job. She is not flawless, as when the high collar of the cover-up is removed, a small mole on the left side of her neck, just above the collarbone, is revealed. It would be heart-shaped, but it’s upside down, so it’s a spade. It would be considered a blemish on some; on her I decide it’s a beauty mark. She continues, rolling the cover-up and slipping it into her rather large canvas tote bag. It is Janson, but that’s my maiden name I’ve taken back. My married name was Zamudio. So, Mexican? Spanish they say, but they’re here from Hermosillo, Mexico…but they do have relatives in Spain, and are of light complexion with sandy hair. I was afraid we might be dealing with the bent nose boys from Vegas…not that that particularly bothers me. She’s silent for a moment, cutting her eyes away which indicates my supposition is probably correct, then glances up and I realize her eyes are not brown, but golden. Her skin is flawless except for a half dozen freckles under each eye, and her teeth are perfect, probably a twenty grand cap job, but perfect. Which brings rise to the question…of money. You look like a lady who’d be hard to leave. So who left who? Thank you. For the first time she flashes a smile at me. She’s beautiful without it, and even more beautiful with it, then turns serious again. He left me. I have no idea why. How come he skipped with the kid? She tears up again, and both golden eyes well and they stream across those freckles in abundance. I have no idea, I thought we were happy and he left me, I thought he was happy with the shared custody, but obviously not. I stop her and turn back. Let’s head back. Okay. She has fished a tissue out of her bag and daps at her eyes. I said you look like a woman who’d be hard to leave-- Thanks, Mike. You probably have to beat the ladies off yourself. Six foot…what…four or five, and three or four percent body fat. I’ll bet you have beautiful hair, if you’d ditch the military cut. Prime of your life…what are you, forty or so? The Marine cut stays, but thanks. Good guess as to age, a little older actually, but you’re close on all counts, except I’m only six two and a half. But back to the subject…you also look like a woman who might be hit on by every guy passing...particularly by those in a Mercedes or Maserati. You weren’t caught with some ol’ boys hand in your cookie jar? She keeps her eyes on the walkway, and sounds hurt. That’s a rude thing to say, Mike. You may be asking me to do some rude things, Mrs. Zamudio, so I have to have the truth. Janson, please. You can read the transcripts of the divorce if you’d like. Tells me nothing. This is a no fault state. No, no one had their hand, or anything else, in my cookie jar. I’m not convinced, but she does look me straight in the eye with her response. amzn.to/IfErql
Posted on: Tue, 26 Nov 2013 13:58:50 +0000
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