Panama by Thomas McGuane

making a living. The cans are nearly empty. It’s a photo finish every month, getting everything paid. And I have to admit, this private detective is just about all I can handle.”
    â€œCatherine, I didn’t ask you to hire this private detective”.
    â€œHe’s the only legitimate expense I have. Don’t start diminishing that. ”
    â€œHe’s useless.” I was shouting.
    â€œI don’t believe that.”
    â€œHe’s absolutely useless.”
    â€œI bet he’s already told you something you didn’t know.”
    That kiboshed my replies good.
    Catherine said, “Oh, please, I’m sorry. Why do I attack you? You haven’t got a chance.”
    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 Maeg’s 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 haven’t got a chance? I slipped the rings over each finger, licking them so they’d 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, “Let’s eat.” Then she started toward the door. The tide was turning.
    â€œDon’t you want to scrub up?”
    â€œNo, I’m fine.”
    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 housepainter’s 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 didn’t know anything about them and I couldn’t get past how peculiar she looked. I asked her, “How can you do this to me?” 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 I’d 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, “I don’t want to know.”
    â€œDon’t waste her money. She works hard for it.”
    â€œNo she doesn’t. It’s all in a can. What does she pay you?”
    â€œClassified.”
    â€œYou’re not supposed to be here now.”
    â€œI won’t be regular. That would only start your memory loping. I’ll just pop up.”
    â€œI hate popping up. That’s against everything I’ve ever fought for. Don’t you fucking pop up on me. ”
    Then he recited each thing I had done from bandaging my foot to tattooing Catherine. There were no surprises; but I didn’t like the feeling I was getting. I didn’t 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.
    â€œI’m going to give you a little extra time,” he said, “let you get in a little trouble with your memory. —See ya.”
    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 he’d use on you.
    *   *   *
    It wasn’t long before I began having a problem