Stuff to Spy For (8 page)

“It’s always James. When you get in trouble and—”

“Hey. I explained it to you. Carol Conroy is willing to pay a minimum of ten thousand dollars if I just keep my eyes open.”

“Skip, have you considered why people, and especially attractive women, are suddenly throwing money at you?” Her eyes were wide and she had this surreal smile on her face.

Considered it? I was consumed with it. Selling my services for cash. Now it was more than just Sarah doing it. I cleared my throat. “I hadn’t really thought about it like that.”

“Bull. You expect me to believe that?” Em took a sip of her mojito, never making eye contact. Wearing shorts and a halter top, her feet were up on a wicker footstool, and I admired her smooth, tan legs. We’d spent the last hour inside with nothing on, but she looked great, clothes or no clothes.

Inside I could hear her printer chattering away. She worked at home most of the time, helping daddy run his construction business. The slip in the housing market hadn’t affected the old man much. He worked for the upper-upper end of the rich and famous, and those people never seem to suffer an economic downturn.

Finally she spoke. “And this thing with Sarah? She’s not coming on to you at all?”

I finished my bottle of Heineken, Em’s treat. “Are you kidding? Like I told James, she’s out of my—” I’d already said most of it.

“Oh?” She spun around and looked at me with a frown. I wasn’t scoring points here at all. Em got up and walked to the railing. “But I m not?”

“What I meant was—”

“I heard you, Skip. She’s out of your league. Which must mean you think she’s really hot, and,” she paused, “I’m not.”

“If it makes you feel any better—”

She looked away. “It probably won’t.”

“James says you’re out of my league as well. I tend to agree with him.”

I could see the corners of her mouth start to turn up. I hadn’t told Em about the hooker connection. The escort. The prostitute angle. I was afraid she’d go ballistic.

“Skip, why are you even telling me about all of this?”

“Because you’re my girlfriend.”

“Oh yeah? But you’re taking money to be someone else’s boyfriend.”

“Pretend, Em. Pretend.”

“But what do you want? From me?”

“Your advice.”

“Oh. Well then, let me give it to you. Don’t do any of this. Stop. Right now. Get out while you can. And blow off your loony roommate.”

“Your support?” I certainly didn’t want that advice.

“Do you want to do this?”

“I want the money, Em.”

She didn’t look at me, just stood by the railing gazing into the distance. “Then you’ve got my support.”

“Really?”

She kept looking out at the cruise ships that anchor just beyond the causeway. I’d thought about the faraway places they go. The Caribbean, Alaska, Europe, places I could only dream of. And now, it seemed extremely important to be able to afford to
take Em on one of these ships. First-class accommodations. Could you do that for $10,000?

Em walked back over and picked up her drink, the pale mint leaves floating in the clear liquid. “Really. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

She’d raised her concerns, told me how she felt, and realized I was dead serious about proceeding. “Em, I—”

“Skip. Up front. I’m not happy about Sarah Crumbly. I want to make that perfectly clear. Not happy at all.”

I had a lump in my throat. “I understand. But it’s not a deal breaker, right?”

“No. It should be.”

We were both quiet. It was as if a line had been erased. I saw more box trucks driving over the causeway. Plumbers, caterers, pool service trucks, carpenters, but no spy trucks. None that I could see.

Finally she broke the silence. “So when do we visit Jody and see some of this spy equipment?”

I couldn’t sleep that night. We were to start the big project with Synco Systems day after next, and I was keyed up. Way too many things were going on in my life, and they were all tied up with the job. I tossed and turned, working the sheets into a knot, fading in and out, sweating while I had bouts with the heat and humidity. Finally I climbed out of bed and walked out to our living room, the dingy little rectangle of carpeted space that held one chair, one small couch, a coffee table, lamp, and TV.

James was snoring on the sofa and Conan was signing off on our small screen. I pulled on a pair of torn, faded jeans that I’d thrown over the chair and unlatched the door. Why we even lock it I have no idea.

Outside the moon was shining over the stadium across the way and our pathetic parking lot was dimly lit with fading bulbs from the two pole lights that hadn’t been broken by thrown rocks. James’s truck was parked directly in front of our apartment. Even in the faint light, the basketball-sized flaking orange rust spots stood out along the bottom of the cab. Jim Job’s van was parked two doors down, and my Cavalier was three doors down.
Someone had parked a gray Honda Accord in my spot beside James when I came home so I parked my car down the way where no one lived. The strange gray Honda was still there, the tires nuzzled up against the sidewalk. I should have put up a sign. Parking Spot Property of Skip Moore.

Shirtless and barefoot, I walked into the parking lot and gazed around the shabby, rundown complex. I shared the dream that James had, and the dream that Em lived. Enough money so that I didn’t have to worry about where the next buck or hundred bucks or thousand dollars were coming from. Enough money that I could leave this crappy apartment, leave Carol City, maybe even leave Florida and get a start somewhere else. Enough money that I could take Em on a cruise. I shared the dream. Not the reality.

Deep down I knew that this job wasn’t going to get that done. The money issue was still just a dream. But I started seeing the big picture, something James has been looking at for some time. There’s more to life than a twenty- or thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year job. And that’s a good thing. Especially with the price of gas. Putting yourself out there, I mean just exploring everything that comes your way, could have all kinds of monetary benefits. James wanted the truck idea to work. So maybe his spy-mobile wasn’t a bad idea.

My eyes adjusted to the dim light, and when I turned back to look at the apartments on our row, I noticed the iron gates that fronted several doors. I figured that it couldn’t be too difficult to pry the gates open and break into those apartments. It’s just that, like our place, there would be nothing worth stealing. I made a mental note to talk to those people and try to sell them a security system. Should have thought of that a year ago. Wasn’t it P. T. Barnum who said, “There’s a sucker born every minute”? It was probably true.

The movement caught my eye. Three doors down. Subtle motion, something close to the ground. A cat. Dog. Maybe a snake, or possibly a rat. I stared and didn’t see any motion this time. Snakes and rats lived in palm trees and orange trees, and there were five scraggly palms planted around the perimeter of the parking lot. I was scared to death of snakes and rats.

A cloud drifted over the moon and the lights from the parking lot barely cut through the nighttime gloom. I slowly walked toward my car, hoping there was no broken glass in the lot to cut my bare feet. No glass, and God, please don’t let there be a snake. Or a rat.

Soft steps. I should have worn shoes.

Something had moved. Now everything was quiet. The hot, muggy, Carol City night was oppressive. Our small room air conditioner in the apartment didn’t do much except make a lot of noise, but it cut a little of the humidity. Outside, the moisture clung to me like a net.

I stared at the spot where I’d seen the rapid movement. Probably a neighbor’s cat. There were a lot of them in the complex.

As I got close to my car I said it under my breath. “Anybody there?”

Silence.

I was a little louder next time. “Anybody there?”

I stepped up onto the sidewalk and walked down toward James’s vehicle. Jesus. Now there was a flash of movement under the bed of his run-down truck. I believed it might be my imagination. A movement under my car? A movement under James’s truck? I stopped still, waiting for something else to happen.

There it was again. Bigger than a rat, bigger than a cat. I could feel the humidity and the perspiration on my face and arms. Now I wished I’d stayed inside and just tried to go back to
sleep. Something was between me and the door to my apartment. Something, or somebody. It had to be just an animal or a figment of my imagination. If I yelled and it was just a large dog, I’d wake people up and be embarrassed. If I—it moved again and I could hear some scurrying.

“Who’s there? Come out where I can see you.” I was surprised at the volume of my voice. “Move. Now.”

The cloud moved off the moon’s smiling face and the parking lot was brighter. Cracks and holes. Large pieces of asphalt were missing like a jigsaw puzzle and the holes were large enough to swallow a car. Well, maybe a small motor scooter.

“Who’s out there?”

What could they do to me?

I stepped closer, my eyes aching from staring. Nothing. Now I was about ten feet from the truck, and I thought about waking James. Open the door and ask him to get his lazy ass off the couch, wake up from his deep sleep, and help me out. And then I thought about how pitiful that might be.

I knelt down on the blacktop and peered under the truck. Now I couldn’t make out anything. I stood up and backed my way up the small stoop in front of our door. I froze right there, trying to blend in with the cheap stucco wall.

A night bird called with a mournful howl. Maybe a loon. No motion. I waited about two minutes, the sweat beading on my face and running down my bare chest. When the bird was quiet, there was a deathly stillness in the early morning air. Finally, I turned and went back into our apartment.

“Amigo, where were you?” James was sitting up, watching some car commercial where girls in bikinis were dancing around the dealership. Now he wakes up.

“I took a walk. Thought I saw something in the parking lot.”

“There is something out there.” His voice was low and sinister.

“You saw it, too?”

“Yeah. Cars. Trucks. Vans. That’s what parking lots are for.”

“Funny.”

An engine started nearby, kicking over on the first turn of the key. I hesitated, then stepped back outside. The car parked next to James’s truck, the one in my spot, was gone.

“It’s a GPS.” The gray block was a little bigger than a brick. “You put a plastic binder on it, like this, with the magnets attached.” Jody was wrapping the plastic binder around the gray contraption lying on his countertop.

“One on each end, right?” James was so excited I expected to see drool run down his chin.

“Right, James. These magnets are really strong.”

“And to install it?” Em was skeptical. We stood in a tight group as Jody put on his show.

He smiled at her. Maybe a little flirting. Em is a good-looking girl, and Jody is a good-looking guy. “You reach under the car, set it on top of the gas tank, and you’re good to go.”

“It’s that simple?” James had a glassy-eyed look, with a big smile on his face.

“You still have to load the software onto your computer. Desktop, like this, or a laptop. You can be portable if need be. Once that’s done, you can check the location of that vehicle twenty-four-seven.”

“Anywhere, right?” James had told me we could use a laptop in the almighty truck.

“Anywhere.” Jody walked behind the counter and flipped on a countertop monitor. “Here. Emily, why don’t you come over here where you can see—”

I wondered what about James and me? Since we were setting this all up, it would be nice if we could see too.

“Now, here’s a map of South Florida, and here are the seven cars I’m tracking today.” He pointed to the screen, and we all crowded in.

Seven dots appeared on the roads, four apparently moving on highways and byways. Three were stationary.

“This one,” he pointed to the third car up on the map, “she’s supposed to be at the mall.”

Em nodded. “That’s not a mall?”

“Most definitely not.”

James chimed in. “Maybe a drugstore? Laundromat?”

Jody laughed out loud. “This isn’t guesswork, my friend.”

“No?”

“No. This is,” he paused scrolling down a subscreen on his monitor, “this is 2867 Briar Lane. Just north of Miami.”

“And?”

“Home to Mr. Fernando López.”

We all watched, marveling at the technology.

“Guys,” he smiled, looking into Em’s eyes, “this is nothing. I mean, this is easy stuff.”

Em watched the computer, ignoring Jody’s probing eyes.

“So this López, he’s what?”

“The guy my client’s wife is supposedly screwing around with.”

Outside the showroom people were walking down the sidewalk. The town of Delray Beach was hot, in the low nineties, and
through the large windows I could see men with sleeves rolled up and ties loosened. A couple of women walked by in sundresses, but the window wasn’t low enough to see their legs.

“Wow.” James wasn’t paying any attention to the sights outside. He was staring at the stationary number three car. “You monitor this lady all the time?”

“I can. But her husband has the same software. He can watch her wherever she goes. It’s part of the package. You can join in the action.” Jody laughed, a low, throaty chuckle.

I stepped back and looked around the room. Gadgets of every kind. I’m sure Jody would have been upset to hear me refer to them as gadgets, but that’s what they appeared to be. Hidden cameras, motion detectors, secret audio devices, and an assortment of items that defied description.

“What kind of spy work are you doing?”

He looked straight at me. I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t have any right to confide in him. The job I was doing was strictly confidential. I couldn’t possibly tell him anything about the delicate position I was in. If I told him anything, I could put myself and my friends in serious jeopardy. I wasn’t about to do that.

“The daughter of the owner of the company Skip’s working for thinks she might be the target of a murderer. Skip’s installing a security system for this company called Synco Systems, and they’re designing a software program for the United States Department of Defense. There have been some strange things happening at this company.”