Stuff to Spy For (7 page)

“I accepted a third position.”

“Pard! What are you doing?”

And I told him. I told him how Carol Conroy thought that Walters’s death may not have been suicide. I told him about Tony Quatman and his secretary. I told him that she didn’t feel close to her father, and she didn’t seem to care about her husband. Actually said that she didn’t give a rat’s ass about Sandler Conroy. And finally I told him that Mrs. Conroy thought she might be in line to be murdered.

We swung off the highway by the Miami Dolphin stadium and headed to our apartment complex.

“You still haven’t told me how much.”

“After all that, and you want to know how much? Aren’t you worried about a woman who thinks she’s going to be murdered?”

James tossed his cigarette out the window, the sparks scattering
brightly in the air. “Maybe I should be more worried that she trusts you to prevent the murder. I’m not sure I’d even trust you when it comes to that.”

“I told you. I may have gone too far.”

“How much?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Have you noticed that I have no idea what I’m looking for? She didn’t give me a clue what I should expect.”

He was quiet again.

“Okay. She didn’t give me a clue as to what we should expect.”

James gave me a wry smile. “Whatever the lady wants us to look for, that’s what we’ll look for. It sounds like she’s going to make it up as she goes.”

“I had my first assignment today.”

“You’re just gung-ho about making all this money, compadre. I’m proud of you.”

“James, someone was messing around with her Lexus.”

“Lexus?” His eyes were bright. The fact that someone was messing around wasn’t important. The fact that the lady owned an expensive luxury car—well—

“Lexus. It looked like maybe he was doing something to the tires.”

“And?”

“I tried to chase him down, but somebody picked him up in a Honda Civic.”

“What did he look like?”

“Short, Asian, maybe in his thirties, but I didn’t get that close.”

“Skip?”

“What?”

“How much?”

“James, I’m not sure this is a good idea. Something else I didn’t mention.”

My partner shook his head. “How much have you kept from me, amigo? If you don’t want me involved, just say so.”

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself. I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

“So spill.”

“Sarah said this involved a contract with the federal government.”

“This guy who invented the security system for the computers. Tony Quatman. He invented this for the government?”

“Department of Defense.”

“Heavy stuff.”

“Yeah.”

We were both quiet as James drove. This was way over our heads. Way.

“And he’s disappeared?”

“Gone. No trace.”

“His secretary?”

“Gone.”

“Mmmm.”

“That’s it? Mmmm?”

“How much?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, James.”

“How much?”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out Carol Conroy’s yellow pencil, and wrote the figure on a discarded candy wrapper between our seats. I turned the figure toward James. The dashboard lights were bright enough for him to see the numbers.

“Ten thousand dollars? Dude.”

“If we do the job. And she’s throwing in another five thousand if we get any hard information.”

“Fifteen grand?”

“Fifteen grand.” I studied the pencil. Printed on the side in bold black letters were the words Tiny Tots Academy.

“Listen to me, compadre. It’s not a good idea.”

I couldn’t believe it. James, of all people, was saying it wasn’t a good idea. “So now you’re the voice of reason?”

“It’s not a good idea, Skip. For fifteen grand? It’s a great idea.”

Early the next morning James drove me back to my car. I made about five sales calls, till early afternoon. My heart wasn’t in it. Hell, my heart was never in it. I was like a machine, walking into a home and trying to convince these residents of Carol City that they needed a security system. A lot of these people were unemployed and those that actually worked for a living didn’t make as much as I did. We live in a pretty depressed area.

My thoughts were all about Synco Systems. Why couldn’t I find one of those companies about once a week? Once a month? Once every six months?

The last couple I met with actually lived in an apartment two blocks from where James and I slept. They were both home in the middle of the afternoon so it was obvious they didn’t have day jobs. And then the two admitted they were about ready to be thrown out of their living quarters and the only reason they’d signed up for an interview was that they wanted to win the free cruise to the Bahamas that Michael was advertising. The winner had to pay a security deposit, food deposit, sailing deposit, and all taxes and tips. Then, voilà, the trip was free.

“So, if we buy this system—”

I stared at the big guy, locking eyes with him. “Look, Mr. Whitman, you don’t need this system.”

Mrs. Whitman, an overweight lady who pushed the limits on the waistband of her jeans, spoke up. “But if we put a down payment on the system, what are our odds? What kind of a chance do we get on winning the Bahama cruise?”

I couldn’t do it. I figured they’d call Michael and tell him how bad my social skills were, but it didn’t matter. I shoved my sales manuals, the book, and flyers into my case and stood up.

“You don’t need this. Your chance of winning a free trip are zip, and even if you did, it would cost you more than it’s worth. Seriously, you don’t need a security system. Take the money and pay an extra month’s rent on your apartment.” I walked out of their humble abode and didn’t look back.

I drove the Cavalier home and walked into our little corner of the universe. James was hunched over the kitchen table, staring at the computer screen.

“Hey, Skip, do you remember Jody Stacy?”

“Jody? Macho Jody?”

“Yeah. From high school into the Marines.” James sipped one of my Yeungling beers.

“What brings his name up?”

“He went into the Marines, got out a couple of years ago, and was a cop up in Delray Beach.”

The idea of someone we graduated with saving our country, then enforcing the law was beyond me. I wasn’t old enough to know which end was up. How did people like Jody Stacy have enough presence to save the world? “James, are we going to do this with everybody we graduated with?”

“What?”

“Go through their backgrounds?”

“No.”

“Good. Because if you’re going to explore the history of two hundred fifty kids—”

“Stay with me compadre. Jody owns his own business.”

“Well, good for him.” James was always interested in people who owned their own businesses. Especially people he knew. “I never knew him that well, and I really don’t care.”

“Ahhh. I think you’ll find this interesting, pard. Jody owns an investigation company.”

“Investigating what?”

“Whatever needs investigating. If you think your office is being bugged by a competitor, Jody is your guy. If you think that your spouse is cheating on you, Jody is your guy. If you think your business partner is stealing you blind, Jody is your guy.”

I dropped my sales case on the floor, pulled off the old worn green tie that was looped around my neck, and tossed my faded blue sport coat on one of the two kitchen chairs. Em would have scolded me for having no fashion sense today. And probably for not hanging up my coat.

“Good for Jody.”

“Good for us.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Not only does Jody do his own investigations, but he sells stuff.”

I flopped down on the stained couch, thinking about closing my eyes for about fifteen minutes. I was tired, grumpy. The cold beer bottle dropped down beside me.

“Drink it, amigo. You’ll feel better.” He stood above me, waiting until I pulled a swallow or two from the bottle.

I twisted the top off and took a long drink. James was right. I felt better. “All right, I’ll bite. What kind of stuff does Jody sell?”

“Spy stuff, Skip.”

“What the heck is spy stuff?”

“Have another sip.”

I did.

“I made some printouts.”

Which meant he’d used toner and paper. With our limited budget, we usually avoided printing.

“Check it out, Skip.” He handed me the first sheet. There was a simple picture of a metal box with GPS-4 printed beside it.

“GPS box. You stick it to the gas tank of a car with magnets, and you can trace the vehicle on your computer. Sit right here at the table, or,” I looked up and his eyes were lit up like Christmas lights, “or from a laptop in the back of the truck.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Check this out, Skip.”

The next sheet of paper featured a laser-beam machine.

“You point this at a window, pard.”

“And?”

“You can pick up any conversation. Bedroom talk, secret meetings—”

“Help me, James. What are we going to do with this stuff?”

“Have another sip, amigo.”

I took a long swallow. James wasn’t the only one who could drain a bottle of beer in three gulps. “Okay, now tell me.”

“We’re going into the spy business.”

“Oh, no.”

“Skip. You’ve already been hired.”

“James. Dude. We were asked to keep our eyes open. That’s it.”

He walked around the couch and I heard him open the refrigerator door. Two more beers. James plopped down on the couch beside me. “Check this out, Skip.” He handed me a picture of a sprinkler head for a sprinkler system.

“Two hundred bucks for a—”

“Camera. Yeah. It’s a great little camera. Look.” Another printout showed a household smoke detector. The price—$171.

“Another camera?”

“And this.” A desk-sized picture frame with a digital temperature readout and a digital clock.

“A camera?”

“Mrs. Conroy said to keep your eyes open.”

“James—”

“These are our eyes. They’ll be easy to install. I mean, you guys are installing security stuff. A couple more things like this won’t even be noticed.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Let’s talk to Jody.”

“Let’s not.”

“You’re making some good money on this gig, compadre. Invest a little in some equipment, and it makes the job easier. We’re working for the owner’s daughter. She’d probably think this stuff was a good idea.” There was a little hint of pleading in his voice. I’ve heard it since we were both ten years old. “Come on Skip. It takes money to make money.”

“But we’re not going to tell her about this stuff.” I took a pull on the new bottle of beer. Never make important decisions when drinking. How many people have learned that lesson over time?

“She’d love it.” He took a swallow.

“James, she’s also the president’s wife. And the conversation I had with her led me to believe that she’s not too fond of her husband. And with the Sarah situation—Sarah pretending to be my girlfriend, and being Sandler Conroy’s lover or whore or whatever—”

“Okay. I know it’s a little messed up.”

“A little?”

“All I’m asking is that you consider it, Skip.”

“James—” I was intrigued. I wasn’t going to okay it, but I was intrigued. Ever since I was a little kid and used to read the Hardy Boys mysteries, I’d had a real fascination with detectives and spy stuff. And I loved to watch the old James Bond movies with Sean Connery and watch Q and all the gadgets he used to invent.

“We don’t need all of this stuff just to keep an eye out.”

“Think big, Skip. It’s not just this job. We could do this, dude. We could get our P.I. licenses and do this spy thing on the side. Maybe turn it into a full-time business.”

“Do you ever listen to yourself? You’re a lunatic. We know nothing about being P.I.s.” I loved the idea.

“We’ll work with Jody. Skip, pardner, you just got offered fifteen thousand dollars to do a job that will last two or three days. If you could get, maybe twenty of those jobs a year, we’d make—”

James had studied to be a chef. His ability to do math in his head, or anywhere else for that matter, left a lot to be desired. Three hundred thousand dollars, James.”

“No kidding.”

“No kidding.”

“Spy stuff, Skip. And we can use the truck. People will think it’s a service truck, but we can stock it with the spy stuff.”

“You’re crazy. Do you remember the Bond movie where Q was showing Bond some missiles that shot from the headlights on his car?”

“Come on, man. You’re talking to the king of movie quotes. Q looks at Bond and says, ‘Need I remind you, 007, you’re licensed to kill, not to break traffic laws.’ ” His British accent was almost perfect.

“I’m telling you, James, this is not a good idea.”

“Skip, can we talk to Jody? It’s your gig, I know. But I think you’re missing the boat if you don’t at least—”

“We’ll talk to him.” It was a mistake. I knew it. I always know it. I figured if I lived long enough, I’d eventually learn not to listen to James Lessor. As it happened, as I pointed out at the beginning of this story, I didn’t. I didn’t live long enough.

Em was amazed. Not good amazed

“You constantly surprise me, Skip.” Her eyes shifted to the water, where South Beach lay past Star Island and Palm Island. Twenty-three stories up, sitting on her balcony, we watched the sun bouncing off the green saltwater, glinting off of the boats in the marina below.

“I don’t want to be predictable.”

“You’re not.”

“You don’t like surprises?” I’d read in Men’s Health or some guy magazine that girls like surprises. And, they like men who are full of surprises. Men’s Health seemed to know what they were talking about. I mentioned this to her.

“There are girls who like bad boys too. I don’t happen to be one of them.” I guess this was a good thing to know.

I changed the subject. “Do you think James has a bad-boy image?” I’d always wondered what attraction James had to women. They always seemed very intrigued by him.

She rolled her eyes. “James is an idiot. He has an idiot image. Wanting to be a spy?”

“Em, I can’t let James take the rap for that.” The causeway traffic that went to South Beach was slowed down. Half the vehicles going over and coming back were white box trucks, servicing the wealthy residents of the islands, and the fancy hotels and restaurants that catered to the flocks of tourists who visited for the sun, the sand, and the crazy nightlife. Em could watch it anytime she wanted. And, she could visit South Beach anytime she saw fit. She had the location. She had the means.