In Dog We Trust (Golden Retriever Mysteries) by Neil S. Plakcy Page B

beer trying to move the mug out of her way.  I couldn’t seem to get control of my nerves. After we’d messed with ketchup, napkins, and so on, I asked, “Does it matter to you—my trouble?”
    He took a bite of his burger, and said, “Should it?”
    I shrugged. “You’re a cop. Maybe you’re not supposed to hang out with criminals.”
    He raised his eyebrow at me. “Hanging out with a parolee doesn’t bother me, if hanging out with a cop doesn’t bother you.”
    “How’d you know?” I asked. “You look me up in your system or something? The state of California send out a be-on-the-lookout?”
    “Santiago and I work out at the same gym,” he said.  “He tells me about all his clients in Stewart’s Crossing, and in return, I keep an eye on them.”
    “That what this is—keeping an eye on me?”
    “You can call it that if you want,” he said. “I prefer to think of it as hanging out with an old high school friend.”
    There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute or so, while both Rick and I sipped our beers and I thought about what to say. He spoke first. “Listen, I am your friend, Steve. If you’re running into any problems, I hope you’ll talk to me about them.”
    I took a deep breath. I had to redirect the conversation, because I didn’t want to lie to Rick and I didn’t want to tell him what I’d been doing, especially now that I knew he worked out with my parole officer. “Santos is on my back about a business plan, and I don’t know how to go about it,” I said. “He wants me to show him how I’m going to get new clients, but so far, I’ve only been working for people I already know, former coworkers who’ve gone on to other jobs.”
    I played with a packet of sugar. “But will anybody who doesn’t know me want to hire me? Do I have to tell them about – you know?”
    “What does Santos say?”
    “He said I can’t lie, but I don’t have to volunteer the information, either. But what if they ask one of my references? What if they Google me? There were a couple of articles in local papers about my arrest.  The information’s out there.”
    “You could look for guys who got a second chance of their own,” Rick said. “They might be sympathetic to your situation.”
    “Or they could be super-careful, worried that I might bring them fresh trouble.”
    “Why don’t you start out looking for small jobs,” Rick said.  “Somebody who’s going to pay you fifty or a hundred bucks isn’t going to waste time Googling you. Then you’ll be there if they have bigger jobs.”
    “That’s a great idea.  There are a lot of websites out there that advertise little freelance jobs.  I could build up my portfolio that way. And Santos would see that I’m making progress.”
    Though I was glad of the advice, the exchange with Rick left me feeling uncomfortable all weekend. Sunday morning, I took Rochester for a nice long walk, then retired to bed to work my way through the paper and the New York Times crossword. I’d always loved puzzles, and in jail I’d begun satisfying my curiosity by crosswords, word searches, acrostics, and anything else that kept my brain working and my fingers away from the keyboard. Kind of like a nicotine patch for hackers. By noon, though, I had no more excuses to avoid my business plan.
    I went online, looking for sample business plans, and found a few. The first question they all asked was where the market was for my product or service.  That was easy; I knew a lot of companies had been downsizing, cutting back their staff of technical writers and outsourcing projects on a freelance basis. 
    I started making a list of websites where freelance work was offered.  I found a few jobs I could bid on, and every so often I had to stop working on my plan to put together a proposal.  By the time I closed the laptop on Sunday evening to take Rochester for his walk, I felt I’d made some progress. I hoped that Santiago Santos would agree, and that he’d