both her cheeks. "Am I fat?" he asked her.
"In a good way," she said.
My father grunted.
"See, I told you so." I wanted to order another drink but didn't want to have to borrow money. I asked for water instead.
"You're Italian," Ana said, as if this explained everything
from chubbiness to the Darwin Theory. She then leaned across the bar top and said to me, "Did you find him?"
"Him who?" my father asked.
"Jean-Claude," Ana said to him.
"Who's Jean-Claude?" he asked.
I picked up another napkin, kept dabbing. "He works for me, remember?"
My father shook his head, the weird toupee flapping.
I dabbed harder.
"Well, Nina thought he might have been a prostitute."
"A gigolo," I corrected. I looked up at Jake, who was hovering. "That's right, right? Girls are prostitutes, men are gigolos?"
"I think both prefer 'escorts' these days," he said.
My father made the sign of the cross.
"Well, we're not sure he's any of those," Ana said. "He's moonlighting but we don't know where."
"Do we care?" my father asked.
Ana ordered something I'd never heard of before. "He could be violating his probation."
"Ah."
I told Ana about my trip to Bump. She laughed about the fifteen dollars. "I'm surprised you got any information about Jean-Claude with only fifteen bucks."
Jake set Ana's drink down. It was pink with a little umbrella. "Oh, is this about JC again?" he asked, looking at Ana's copy of Jean-Claude's mug shot.
"Who's JC?" Ana asked.
"Jean-Claude," I explained.
"Since when does he go by JC?" she asked.
"I've only known him as JC." Jake swiped the countertop. "His real name is Jean-Claude?"
"Does anyone, perchance, have an aspirin?" my father asked.
I fished in my backpack and pulled out a tin of Advil.
"Jean-Claude Reaux."
Jake put another stack of napkins in front of me. "I know him as JC Rock."
"JC Rock?" Ana laughed, tossing her head back. The curls of her red wig flounced.
"Do I want to ask about the wigs?" my father asked.
I gave up on my shirt. "Only if you want us to ask about yours."
He pressed his lips together, signaled for a refill to his Jim Beam.
"Do you know where he works?" Ana asked Jake, switching back to the topic of Jean-Claude.
"No, but he comes in almost every Saturday night." He looked at his watch. "Usually around three."
"Three? A.M.?"
"What?" Ana said to me, "too late for you?"
"Don't give me that." I slid my water glass in circles, wishing it were something pink with an umbrella in it. "It's past your bedtime too."
My father said, "Don't look at me. One o'clock is my limit."
Ana and I looked at Jake. "Want to do a little recon?" I asked.
He set the bar rag over his shoulder. "Like a Tom Clancy novel?"
"Exactly," Ana said.
We explained what we wanted to know, and Jake promised he'd try to get the information for us in exchange for a date with Ana.
My ego was bruised, but I was glad we were finally going to find out what Jean-Claude was up to.
"Speaking of Tom Clancy," Ana said to Jake, "who do you think was better in those movies? Harrison Ford or Ben Affleck?"
Someone sang "A Little Less Conversation" as Jake said, "Harrison Ford. Everyone knows that."
I woke up the next morning to a ringing sound and Ana thumping my head like it was the snooze button of her alarm clock.
I lifted a heavy eyelid and searched for a clock. It was ten in the morning. The ringing continued, and I wondered if I had a hangover.
Then I remembered I'd only had one drink—barely.
"Phone," Ana mumbled, pulling a pillow over her head.
My cell phone, I realized with a start. I rolled out of Ana's bed, stumbled toward my backpack, which was still buzzing. I found my phone, flipped it open, and mumbled something in the way of a greeting. I think it might have been "Hello" but may have come out as "Yo."
"Sleeping late, are we?"
I padded into Ana's living room, flopped onto her sofa, and drew a chenille throw over my bare legs. I'd borrowed one of Ana's T-shirts and a pair of boxer shorts—I didn't
"In a good way," she said.
My father grunted.
"See, I told you so." I wanted to order another drink but didn't want to have to borrow money. I asked for water instead.
"You're Italian," Ana said, as if this explained everything
from chubbiness to the Darwin Theory. She then leaned across the bar top and said to me, "Did you find him?"
"Him who?" my father asked.
"Jean-Claude," Ana said to him.
"Who's Jean-Claude?" he asked.
I picked up another napkin, kept dabbing. "He works for me, remember?"
My father shook his head, the weird toupee flapping.
I dabbed harder.
"Well, Nina thought he might have been a prostitute."
"A gigolo," I corrected. I looked up at Jake, who was hovering. "That's right, right? Girls are prostitutes, men are gigolos?"
"I think both prefer 'escorts' these days," he said.
My father made the sign of the cross.
"Well, we're not sure he's any of those," Ana said. "He's moonlighting but we don't know where."
"Do we care?" my father asked.
Ana ordered something I'd never heard of before. "He could be violating his probation."
"Ah."
I told Ana about my trip to Bump. She laughed about the fifteen dollars. "I'm surprised you got any information about Jean-Claude with only fifteen bucks."
Jake set Ana's drink down. It was pink with a little umbrella. "Oh, is this about JC again?" he asked, looking at Ana's copy of Jean-Claude's mug shot.
"Who's JC?" Ana asked.
"Jean-Claude," I explained.
"Since when does he go by JC?" she asked.
"I've only known him as JC." Jake swiped the countertop. "His real name is Jean-Claude?"
"Does anyone, perchance, have an aspirin?" my father asked.
I fished in my backpack and pulled out a tin of Advil.
"Jean-Claude Reaux."
Jake put another stack of napkins in front of me. "I know him as JC Rock."
"JC Rock?" Ana laughed, tossing her head back. The curls of her red wig flounced.
"Do I want to ask about the wigs?" my father asked.
I gave up on my shirt. "Only if you want us to ask about yours."
He pressed his lips together, signaled for a refill to his Jim Beam.
"Do you know where he works?" Ana asked Jake, switching back to the topic of Jean-Claude.
"No, but he comes in almost every Saturday night." He looked at his watch. "Usually around three."
"Three? A.M.?"
"What?" Ana said to me, "too late for you?"
"Don't give me that." I slid my water glass in circles, wishing it were something pink with an umbrella in it. "It's past your bedtime too."
My father said, "Don't look at me. One o'clock is my limit."
Ana and I looked at Jake. "Want to do a little recon?" I asked.
He set the bar rag over his shoulder. "Like a Tom Clancy novel?"
"Exactly," Ana said.
We explained what we wanted to know, and Jake promised he'd try to get the information for us in exchange for a date with Ana.
My ego was bruised, but I was glad we were finally going to find out what Jean-Claude was up to.
"Speaking of Tom Clancy," Ana said to Jake, "who do you think was better in those movies? Harrison Ford or Ben Affleck?"
Someone sang "A Little Less Conversation" as Jake said, "Harrison Ford. Everyone knows that."
I woke up the next morning to a ringing sound and Ana thumping my head like it was the snooze button of her alarm clock.
I lifted a heavy eyelid and searched for a clock. It was ten in the morning. The ringing continued, and I wondered if I had a hangover.
Then I remembered I'd only had one drink—barely.
"Phone," Ana mumbled, pulling a pillow over her head.
My cell phone, I realized with a start. I rolled out of Ana's bed, stumbled toward my backpack, which was still buzzing. I found my phone, flipped it open, and mumbled something in the way of a greeting. I think it might have been "Hello" but may have come out as "Yo."
"Sleeping late, are we?"
I padded into Ana's living room, flopped onto her sofa, and drew a chenille throw over my bare legs. I'd borrowed one of Ana's T-shirts and a pair of boxer shorts—I didn't
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