said, “by rejecting me all these years.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, got to go back before someone tries to make a move on her.”
As he walked away, Chico said, “I love him. I really love him. He’s the quintessential male animal. You never have to wonder where he’s coming from ’cause he’s always coming from the same place. Love letters straight from the groin.”
Trace saw his father nod his head and stand up alongside his wife, and he thought they should take a picture of his parents and post it in every marriage-license bureau in America and force every applicant to look at it and initial it first. The marriage rate would drop 50 percent. You wanted zero population growth? That picture’d give you a minus expectation.
Sarge and his wife met them near the door.
“Well, it’s about that time,” Trace’s father said with a sigh. “Hilda’s getting tired.”
“What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?” Trace asked.
His mother answered. “I think we ought to keep trying those slot machines near the door. After all, you promised.”
“And probably Circus Circus,” Sarge said wearily.
“Not tomorrow,” Trace said suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“I need your help, Sarge,” he said. “I’ve got this case and there’s just too much legwork for me to do alone. I need you to help me. I know it’s imposing on you, you being on vacation and all—”
“It certainly is,” Trace’s mother said.
“Quiet, woman,” Sarge snapped. “What are you dealing with, son?”
“A murder and a million-dollar jewel heist. I think I’m in over my head. Can you help?”
His father stroked his square jaw. “Well, I hate to miss Circus Circus. I think they’re changing their trapeze act tomorrow. But, well, you’re my kid. What else could I do?”
“Thanks, Sarge. I appreciate it,” Trace said.
“And what will I do?” his mother whined.
Trace and his father looked at each other. Both had a good answer and neither wanted to say it, so they smiled.
“You’ll think of something,” Trace said. “Sarge, come on up to my place in the morning, maybe tennish, and we’ll go over what I’ve got so far.”
“I’ll be there. Come on, Hildie. I’ve got to get some sleep. If I’m going to be sharp tomorrow, I can’t party all night. ’Night, son. ’Night, Chico.”
“Good night, Sarge. Good night, Mrs. Tracy,” Chico said.
Mrs. Tracy sniffed and her husband pulled her through the door. After they were gone, Chico said, “Trace, I love you.”
“Aaaah, you’re just saying that to torment my aging body.”
“No. Really. Love you. You’re such an asshole most of the time and then you can do something like that. It’s the only reason I hang out with you, why I’ve turned down fame, fortune, and young men with good bodies. Just because, once in a while, you can do something really nice.”
“I guess I’m just my mother’s son, after all,” Trace said.
Trace and Chico were in bed and she said, “I’m extending your option for another month.” In the dimly lit bedroom, she lit a cigarette and handed it to him. “Here. A reward. For services rendered.”
“Oh, God, have I come to this? Tricking for cigarettes?”
“Quiet, I’m thinking.”
Trace smoked silently, blowing large billows of barely visible smoke up toward the ceiling. The ceiling of the room had started out like the walls, white, three years before, but a four-packs-a-day habit, only now being corrected, had coated the entire apartment with a thin, sticky yellow film. He was only aware of it when Chico took down a painting and he could see how white the wall was underneath it. It was one of the nice things about her. She didn’t smoke, but she didn’t squawk either. If she complained about his smoking, it was not because of its effect on the walls, ceiling, or furniture. Only about what it might be doing to his lungs.
“You know,” she said, “that insurance detective. Nobody knows
As he walked away, Chico said, “I love him. I really love him. He’s the quintessential male animal. You never have to wonder where he’s coming from ’cause he’s always coming from the same place. Love letters straight from the groin.”
Trace saw his father nod his head and stand up alongside his wife, and he thought they should take a picture of his parents and post it in every marriage-license bureau in America and force every applicant to look at it and initial it first. The marriage rate would drop 50 percent. You wanted zero population growth? That picture’d give you a minus expectation.
Sarge and his wife met them near the door.
“Well, it’s about that time,” Trace’s father said with a sigh. “Hilda’s getting tired.”
“What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?” Trace asked.
His mother answered. “I think we ought to keep trying those slot machines near the door. After all, you promised.”
“And probably Circus Circus,” Sarge said wearily.
“Not tomorrow,” Trace said suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“I need your help, Sarge,” he said. “I’ve got this case and there’s just too much legwork for me to do alone. I need you to help me. I know it’s imposing on you, you being on vacation and all—”
“It certainly is,” Trace’s mother said.
“Quiet, woman,” Sarge snapped. “What are you dealing with, son?”
“A murder and a million-dollar jewel heist. I think I’m in over my head. Can you help?”
His father stroked his square jaw. “Well, I hate to miss Circus Circus. I think they’re changing their trapeze act tomorrow. But, well, you’re my kid. What else could I do?”
“Thanks, Sarge. I appreciate it,” Trace said.
“And what will I do?” his mother whined.
Trace and his father looked at each other. Both had a good answer and neither wanted to say it, so they smiled.
“You’ll think of something,” Trace said. “Sarge, come on up to my place in the morning, maybe tennish, and we’ll go over what I’ve got so far.”
“I’ll be there. Come on, Hildie. I’ve got to get some sleep. If I’m going to be sharp tomorrow, I can’t party all night. ’Night, son. ’Night, Chico.”
“Good night, Sarge. Good night, Mrs. Tracy,” Chico said.
Mrs. Tracy sniffed and her husband pulled her through the door. After they were gone, Chico said, “Trace, I love you.”
“Aaaah, you’re just saying that to torment my aging body.”
“No. Really. Love you. You’re such an asshole most of the time and then you can do something like that. It’s the only reason I hang out with you, why I’ve turned down fame, fortune, and young men with good bodies. Just because, once in a while, you can do something really nice.”
“I guess I’m just my mother’s son, after all,” Trace said.
Trace and Chico were in bed and she said, “I’m extending your option for another month.” In the dimly lit bedroom, she lit a cigarette and handed it to him. “Here. A reward. For services rendered.”
“Oh, God, have I come to this? Tricking for cigarettes?”
“Quiet, I’m thinking.”
Trace smoked silently, blowing large billows of barely visible smoke up toward the ceiling. The ceiling of the room had started out like the walls, white, three years before, but a four-packs-a-day habit, only now being corrected, had coated the entire apartment with a thin, sticky yellow film. He was only aware of it when Chico took down a painting and he could see how white the wall was underneath it. It was one of the nice things about her. She didn’t smoke, but she didn’t squawk either. If she complained about his smoking, it was not because of its effect on the walls, ceiling, or furniture. Only about what it might be doing to his lungs.
“You know,” she said, “that insurance detective. Nobody knows
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