Don't Sweat the Small Stuff (2 page)

An
Ellen
rerun was on the tube and she was bopping up the steps to her audience. He was watching it without really paying attention.

“Got a date with her tonight. I’m not supposed to say anything. She’s afraid they’d have grounds to fire her.”

“And you might not even get a chance to start your new job.” I walked ten steps to our refrigerator and grabbed the last beer.

Nodding, James sipped his beer. “Need the job, Skip. Got to buy us a new truck.”

The last one had been blown up when I tossed a bomb meant for us into a parking lot. I’d saved both of our lives, but his
beat-up, run-down box truck had been parked in that very same parking lot. It’s a long story, but James’s old box truck was history, and he was determined to replace it with another truck. Not a new truck. There was no way he could afford new, but a used truck that we could put a couple thousand miles on. James had decided that we would make our fortune in the spy business—private detectives—and part of the business had us driving the box truck around Miami soliciting private eye work, disguising the truck as a plumber’s vehicle, a carpenter’s transportation, a pool maintenance truck, or whatever struck his fancy.

Prying off the bottle top, I took a long pull. It had been a tough day, and I’d made four calls, none of them amounting to anything. You spend two hours in someone’s home, explaining all of the details and benefits of your home security system, and at the end of the pitch, just as
you’re
asking for the order,
they
ask for their free gift and open the door for you, suggesting that you leave. So I gave them the cheap wine glasses and left. I hoped the glasses broke the first time they washed them. There were days when the job just wasn’t worth it. There were weeks—months—when it wasn’t worth it.

“So I start next week.”

“And you’re still going to work at Cap’n Crab?” James was a line cook for the fast food restaurant in Carol City, and I didn’t think they could exist without him.

“I am. For a while. Either this new job, or our P.I. firm will kick in soon, Skip, and I’ll say adios to C.C.”

I secretly wished him the best, but I was afraid it wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

“Speaking of the P.I. business, what’s in the mail?”

We’d filled out the forms: citizenship, education and all of that. Then, we’d lied. Well, Jody, our private eye connection in Delray Beach, Florida, lied for us. He had gone on record saying that we’d worked for two years as his apprentices. So we supposedly
knew all the rules. Right. I’m not certain that Jody knew all the rules. We’d never worked for Jody in our lives, but we had purchased some surveillance stuff from him. It didn’t matter. According to the rules regarding a P.I. license, we should have qualified. But so far, no confirmation.

I picked up the flyers, past-due notices, and bills, and sorted through them. “They’re going to shut off the cable in a week if we don’t pay.”

“Yeah, yeah.” James watched the TV and took another swallow of my beer.

“And what’s this? I thought you paid the electric bill last month.”

“I thought I did too. You gave me half?”

“I did.” I gave him a stern look. “You know I did.”

“Oh, we decided to use that to buy—”

“No,
you
decided to use that to buy an alternator for the truck.” The truck that we no longer had. The truck that had been destroyed in the fire. In the explosion. “Why didn’t you return it?”

“Got it on eBay, amigo. Saved some serious money. And you can’t return eBay stuff. Can you?”

“You never told me
we
saved some money.” I seemed to remember my share being full price.

“Oh. Well, it makes no diff. We’re gonna be rollin’ in the money soon, Skip. Trust me.”

I didn’t. I tossed the bartender school application to him, along with the going-out-of-business flyer from the adult novelty shop on Third Street. Ready Teddy’s was closing. Even the adult entertainment business was having hard times. Where would you get your next vibrator, your blow-up doll, sex swing, or glide gel?

“Nothing again, right?”

And there it was. The letter we’d been waiting for. As crazy
as the idea was, I got a jolt when I saw the return address: Florida Department of Agriculture. Don’t ask why the Department of Agriculture. This is Florida. They just do things a little differently here. The D.O.A. is the one that licenses private investigators. So I was excited. But then, maybe it was a rejection. The way our lives were going, it had to be a rejection. Had to be.

Ignoring James, I tore open the envelope.

Dear Mr. Moore and Mr. Leser
The spelling of James’s name had been massacred. It is our privilege to tell you that your application for a P.I. license for More or Less Investigations has been approved.

We had no business being approved. I knew it, but I’m not sure my roommate had a clue. “We’re in business, James.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Skip. We’re official. Damn. Buddy, pal, you and me—the state of Florida recognizes us as crime fighters.” He jumped off the couch, drained the bottle of beer, and took five giant steps to the refrigerator. Our apartment is very, very small. You can pretty much go anywhere in just a few steps.

I watched him, smiling, knowing what was coming next.

“Where the hell is the rest of the beer?”

“Well, it was your turn to buy.” Two times ago.

“We need to celebrate.” He grabbed my car keys from the counter. “Come on, Skip, let’s go get a drink. We’re P.I.s, right?”

I had to admit it. We were.

I listened to James go on and on about his date with Agent Hot Pants, then dropped him off at this ten-story modern Miami office building on Biscayne Boulevard the next morning, ten a.m. sharp. He wanted to make a good first impression with the new boss. It was probably the last time he’d be on time. I drove back into Carol City and halfheartedly called on three leads. All of them lived in small rundown cement-block houses.

I knew they didn’t need security systems. I’m sure they knew they didn’t need security systems. Two of them weren’t even home. They were the losers. No cheap wine glasses for them.

James was done at one p.m. Three hours for orientation, and I picked him up right outside the building.

“Gonna be a snap, Skip.”

Everything with James was a snap. Seriously, things came easily to him. “Explain exactly what it is you’re doing.”

“Okay. This guy who set up the Agent Hot Pants interview. His name is Moe Bradley. Moe Bradley and his two sisters own four traveling carnivals. You know them. The kind that play county fairs, mall openings, that kind of stuff.”

I nodded my head. The name Moe Bradley rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it. “And what do you know about carnivals?”

“Stay with me, brother. Moe and the two ladies own these four carnivals, and they need someone to market them.”

“Market them?” I hated carnivals. And I hated carnies. Carnies are the guys who run the rides, the ones who hand you the baseball and dare you to knock over the milk bottles. Carnies sell you the waffle cones that are fried in ten-day-old grease, and they’re the ones who leave you hanging at the top of the Ferris wheel while they take a smoke break. That’s what a carnie is. I suppose some of them were all right, but my father had always warned me about these traveling bums. They were gypsies who would just as soon shoot you as look at you. They’d steal a woman’s purse and her baby and never think anything of it. That’s what my alcoholic father said.

On second thought, maybe he didn’t know so much.

“Let’s say that one of the carnivals is playing in Jacksonville. I get on the Web and find a chain of grocery stores up there. Then I call those stores and offer them free kids’ tickets for the rides on Tuesday. They’re the good guys, giving away free tickets for all the kiddies.”

“Okay.” I pulled the ugly yellow Ford Taurus away from the curb and headed back toward the highway. “You give away free tickets. How does that make anyone any money?”

“Amigo,” I could hear the change in his voice, “you’re not going to do a drive-by at Em’s place? This is more serious than I thought.” Looking at me with squinted eyes, he motioned back over his shoulder toward Bayshore, where Emily’s condo looked out over the water at South Beach.

I shook my head. “No.”

Emily often played “She loves me, she loves me not.” I’d saved her life and she pledged undying love. Then she had second thoughts. This time she was going through one of those
phases where she thought I was too immature and she had to reevaluate our relationship. The trouble was, she was quite right. I was too immature. I was still hanging out with James, and that proved it. Anyway, it was better not to see her until she worked it out. So far, I always came out on top. I was praying.

James rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Your problem, amigo.”

And it was. My problem.

“So anyway, they give away the kids’ tickets, and we get a huge crowd of
paying
parents on Tuesday. You see? Kids get free admission, but the parents have to pay for all the extras. Cotton candy, slurpies, those big doughy elephant ears—you know. So we have a great Tuesday.”

Keeping my eyes on the road, I nodded. “Paying parents. That doesn’t sound like rocket science.”

“Moe wants me to...”

“Moe? Already it’s Moe?” What was it about that name? Something in the news recently?

“Down to earth guy, Skip. But very classy. I want to be him someday. Says ‘call me Moe.’ So I did. I do. Moe wants me to find new ways to promote the carnivals. I’ve got a list of all the rides, all the promotions they’ve done in the past, and I’ve just got to study them and find new ways for the man to get revenue.”

Actually, it sounded right up James’s alley. He was very creative and the little shtick with Agent Hot Pants proved it.

“Angie Clark, Skip. She is so hot. She’s part of the carnival so I’ll get a chance to see her on a regular basis.”

“You’ve had one date. One.”

“She wants to know all about me, man. Very interested. Very involved.”

“So you’ll see this Angie on a regular basis. And what’s a regular basis?”

“Three days a week. And I get paid a percentage of any increase in revenue. Pretty cool, uh?”

“This guy Moe. He’s going to show you the books?”

James studied me for a moment. “You think he’ll try to cheat me?”

“He’s a carnie, James.”

He was quiet, thinking it through. “Nah. His two sisters. They wouldn’t let it happen. I mean these ladies are all business. Tough. Shrewd. I met them up in the office, Judy Schiller and Virginia Crouse.”

“Schiller and Crouse?”

“Yeah. You nailed ’em already. I got the impression there’s no first names with these two.
Mrs.
Schiller and
Mrs.
Crouse. They’re dead serious.”

“Sounds like a legal firm. Schiller and Crouse.”

“Or a comedy team. But there’s nothing funny about them. I don’t think they’d let Moe cheat anybody, but you never know. I’ll deal with that later.”

“So your job is just to sit in the office and think? Come up with ideas?” What kind of a job was that?

Out of the corner of my eye I could see his sly smile.

“James?”

“There’s a little breaking-in time that I wanted to talk to you about. I think you’re going to like it.”

I knew I shouldn’t listen. But he is my best friend, so I waded in. “Breaking-in? What kind of breaking-in?”

“Well, it involves getting to know a little more about the operation. You see, there’s a Moe Show just about three miles from our apartment, and—”

“A what?” I took my eyes off the road for a minute, giving him a look of surprise. Then it hit me. Moe Show. The carnival had a string of accidents in just the past year, where rides jumped
the tracks, and in two or three instances riders were thrown from their seats. And I was pretty sure there had been at least one death. At least one. I’d read about it or seen it on TV. A dangerous carnival to say the least.

“A Moe Show. Moe’s carnival.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure James remembered or even knew about the accidents. The death. Maybe if I’d said something then, but I didn’t.

“We’ve been invited.”

“To what?”

“To the carnival. It’s in this lot beside a mall, and—”

“Why?”

“They want me to see it firsthand. Experience the rides, the concessions, and …” he hesitated. Whenever James hesitates, there’s trouble.

“What, James?”

“They want me—us—to spend three nights in a trailer. You know, mingle with the rest of the guys, so I get the feel of what’s going on.”

“Oh, jeez.” I almost stopped the car and threw him out. Sometimes I don’t think James has a brain in his head. “You’re going to camp out at a carnival? Do you think Angie Clark started that way? Do you think Agent Hot Pants had to spend three nights in a trailer to get her job?”

“Listen, Skip, I was hoping that you’d—”

“I’ll bet she didn’t.”

“All I’m asking is—”

“No.”

“It would mean a lot, man, and—”

“No.” Apparently he’d forgotten about our last “camp-out” at Reverend Preston Cashdollar’s revival meeting. Well, I hadn’t forgotten. “Come on, James. You do remember that we camped out in the truck when we had the fast-food concession at
Reverend Cashdollar’s revival tent meeting. You do remember that, don’t you? Almost got us killed.” That had been a surreal experience. “I’m not doing that again.”

“Compadre—”

“Tell me that Schiller and Crouse are staying for the weekend. Tell me that Angie—Agent Hot Pants is going to stay for the weekend.”

“I don’t know if she—”

“Who is she, James? A carnie? Like the rest of them, a high school dropout? Someone who shills for suckers like you?”

“When did I ever shill for suckers?”

“That sounds like what you’re doing to me.”

“Dude—”

“Come on, James. This is a carnival. A bunch of misfits who can’t do anything else. Run a ride, run a game, run a scam.”

James took a deep breath. “Skip, I’m trying to earn money for a new truck.” He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumbs. “A new truck to replace the truck that exploded when
you
threw that bomb into the parking lot.”