FINGERS>I hope nothing there put you off.
PAULA1 >No! It was fascinating. Especially your detective work.
Jones’s heart thudded to the bottom of his chest. What have I done?
PAULA1>I think that sounds incredibly exciting! Cruising the mean streets, being your own boss, answering to no one and nothing but your own personal sense of justice. Is it as thrilling as it sounds?
FINGERS>It has its moments.
PAULA1>Tell me about some of your most exciting cases.
Jones’s mouth went dry. He’d asked for this, he supposed—pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Maybe if he came clean right now before it got any worse.
FINGERS>Look … I don’t want to mislead you in any way.
PAULA1>Oh, no. Don’t tell me you lied in your profile. I hate it when men do that. :(
Jones felt his head getting light. He’d been daydreaming about this chat all day, and now that it was finally here, it was slipping away from him. He couldn’t bear to blow it now. But he knew that as soon as she learned his profile was a portfolio of lies, she’d snap off her modem in a heartbeat.
FINGERS>No, nothing like that. I just didn’t mention—I don’t work alone.
PAULA1>You don’t?
FINGERS>Not exactly. I work with another private investigator. And with a lawyer. Sometimes we work on cases together.
PAULA1>That makes sense. I suppose they refer investigations to you. And you refer clients to them.
FINGERS>Yes, that’s it. Exactly.
PAULA1>But you’re still your own boss. That would be so wonderful! (swooning) Self-employment—that’s my dream. I’m a librarian, and unless I come into a fortune and buy my own library, I’m always going to be working for someone else.
FINGERS>You’re a librarian!
PAULA1>Very boring.
FINGERS>I love librarians. They’re my favorite people.
PAULA1>Really! :)
FINGERS>Yes. Always have been. Always will be.
PAULA1>You must love books, too. I know you’re very well read. That was what first caught my attention.
FINGERS>But how did you know?
PAULA1>Because you quoted both Lao-Tzu and Lord Byron when you were chatting with those morons on the Wild Side.
FINGERS>You noticed?
PAULA1>Of course I noticed. I noticed everything.
After that, there was no stopping them. They spent the next hour discussing their favorite books, poets, films. Paula favored Emily Dickinson and, after a brief childhood flirtation with Rod McKuen, W. H. Auden. Jones preferred Walt Whitman and, nowadays, W. S. Merwin. It seemed they had read all the same books, and loved or hated them in precise correspondence. They agreed on everything.
Around two A.M. Jones decided to take the plunge.
FINGERS>Paula … I want you to know how much I’ve really really enjoyed talking to you.
Almost a minute elapsed before her answer appeared. Jones felt the panic rippling up his back, felt the burning sensation under his collar. Had he pushed too hard? Gotten too forward too fast? His fingers trembled as he waited for her response.
PAULA1>I’ve really enjoyed talking to you too, Fingers.
He rapid-fired his response.
FINGERS>My friends call me Jones.
PAULA1>Oh! (touched and humbled) Thank you for trusting me with your true name. Thank you very much.
FINGERS>(confession)I was so worried when you didn’t log on at twelve.
PAULA1>I’m sorry, Jones. I got here as soon as I could. The most amazing thing happened to me tonight. You see, I was at this jazz club on the North Side …
Chapter 12
BEN PARKED HIS van across from his boardinghouse and stumbled across the street. It was after one in the morning and he was bushed. It had been an incredibly long night, despite the fact that the musicians had never actually played a note. But the police detained everyone in the club until well after midnight. Only after they had interrogated everyone and had secured all the names and addresses did they finally begin releasing people.
Ben had done his best to convince his mother to spend the night in Tulsa, but she declined. Places to go; people to meet. At times she could be as stubborn as—well, as he was, he supposed.
He tiptoed up the front porch steps and opened the screen door. Of course, the thing squeaked as if it hadn’t been lubricated since Prohibition, despite the fact that he had oiled it himself barely a month before. Ever since he had moved into this house, he had been Mrs. Marmelstein’s unofficial financial adviser and handyman—even though he was about the least handy person on God’s green earth. But she needed someone. With her husband gone and the insistent tendrils of senility tightening around her, she needed someone to maintain the property, to pay the bills and, on more than one occasion, to make undocumented contributions to the petty cash box.
He jammed his key into the lock and crept into his room. It was dark and quiet. Lonely. But what did he expect? It wasn’t as if anyone would be waiting for him. He lived alone.
Well, not totally alone. Giselle leaped off the sofa and inserted her claws firmly into his shoulder.
“Gaaah!” He tried to stifle himself, remembering that it was, after all, after one, and most sane people were in bed.
He took her firmly in his hands and air-lifted her off his shoulder. Well, what’s a little blood between master and cat, he thought. He thought again. Giselle was his master—er, mistress.
“Why can’t cats sleep at night?” he wondered aloud. Giselle wasn’t around to hear. She had scampered into the kitchen and made agonized mewling noises.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” He followed her into the kitchen. He took a can of Feline’s Fancy off the shelf, pried it open, and scooped the contents into her bowl.
She attacked her food ravenously. Ben grinned. Joey had been fascinated by the cat; he could watch her for hours. Maybe it was because he, at three feet, was more or less at her level. Some days, his nephew would follow Giselle all over the apartment, playing chase, sticking his hands in her water bowl …
Ben sighed. He wondered if Giselle missed Joey, too.
Probably not, actually. He could go only so far with this self-indulgent line of thought. Even in his most desperate hour, it would be hard to pretend that Giselle’s affections ran much deeper than her food dish.
He walked back into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. And what about his own affections? Where did they run? Or where were they running from?
One thing was certain. He’d had it with virtually everyone he knew surmising that they knew better than he who he was and what he should be doing—implying that he was wasting his life, that his interest in music was occasioned only by his retreat from the law. He had always loved music, always wanted to pursue a career in it. He had the time and the money now; that was all. It didn’t really have anything to do with … the other.
The other. What a bust that had been. Just when it appeared he was actually going to have some success, it all blew up in his face. Reality came along and gave him a bracing lesson in the true meaning of success. And the meaning of justice, too. Was it any wonder he didn’t care to practice law anymore?
And yet …
His mind drifted back to the early days. Law school, and just after. He had always told himself that his decision to go into law had nothing to do with money, nothing to do with career, nothing to do with choosing the profession his father most despised. He wanted to make a difference. He wanted to help other people.