making a living. The cans are nearly empty. Itâs a photo finish every month, getting everything paid. And I have to admit, this private detective is just about all I can handle.â
âCatherine, I didnât ask you to hire this private detectiveâ.
âHeâs the only legitimate expense I have. Donât start diminishing that. â
âHeâs useless.â I was shouting.
âI donât believe that.â
âHeâs absolutely useless.â
âI bet heâs already told you something you didnât know.â
That kiboshed my replies good.
Catherine said, âOh, please, Iâm sorry. Why do I attack you? You havenât got a chance.â
And then she slept dreamlessly while I watched her. I got up quietly and slipped into the house to dress. I walked down to Juan Maegâs store and bought a handful of tin rings with plastic jewels; and I bought a few dozen washable tattoos. I went back to the house, fished almost three dollars out of the wishing well under the disapproving gaze of fat Mrs. Dean next door, and walked around to the beach. Catherine was sound asleep. I havenât got a chance? I slipped the rings over each finger, licking them so theyâd slide on without waking her. Then I got a dish of water and began tattooing her: Donald Duck, Spider Man, anchors, hearts, Dodge, Chevrolet, a nice Virgin of Guadalupe, the Fonz, an American eagle, the Silver Streak, Bruce Lee. I covered her and went inside.
When she came in a while later, I was conscious of what a spectacle she was; the tattoos were startling. I smiled a question and she said, âLetâs eat.â Then she started toward the door. The tide was turning.
âDonât you want to scrub up?â
âNo, Iâm fine.â
She insisted on eating at the Pier House, which is a nice place, full at lunch, a professional clientele. We asked for a table, me in my huaraches and housepainterâs baggy pants, Catherine in a bathing suit, twelve paste rings, and twenty-five loud tattoos. It was the last month of hurricane season.
Catherine wanted to discuss local Cuban politics. She didnât know anything about them and I couldnât get past how peculiar she looked. I asked her, âHow can you do this to me?â The whole god damned restaurant was gaping. I felt like a fool.
We went back to my place and Don the detective was waiting for me. I found this distressing, since Iâd already picked some songs to play for her on the mandolin. But then, it seemed she was waiting for a reason to slip off; and suddenly she was gone. Don got out his notes. I said, âI donât want to know.â
âDonât waste her money. She works hard for it.â
âNo she doesnât. Itâs all in a can. What does she pay you?â
âClassified.â
âYouâre not supposed to be here now.â
âI wonât be regular. That would only start your memory loping. Iâll just pop up.â
âI hate popping up. Thatâs against everything Iâve ever fought for. Donât you fucking pop up on me. â
Then he recited each thing I had done from bandaging my foot to tattooing Catherine. There were no surprises; but I didnât like the feeling I was getting. I didnât like it at all. I looked at Don. Today he was wearing mesh shoes and a banlon sport shirt. I could not fail to notice that he had moved his part from one side of his head to the other since the morning.
âIâm going to give you a little extra time,â he said, âlet you get in a little trouble with your memory. âSee ya.â
As he darted off, I sensed the air pouring into the tops of his shoes, his purely professional curiosity, the shifting part of his hair, and the utter menace of being up against someone who had a real memory heâd use on you.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
It wasnât long before I began having a problem
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