In the
car, cruising up I-95. Top down, sun
shining. My trench coat was hot as hell. Me and Jimmy were heading North to pick up
our third and final team member. The
engine on the old Impala wasn’t running in top form. That plus the three surfboards sticking out
of the trunk playing parachute were keeping us well under the speed limit.
In
addition to the surfboards, Jimmy’s “things”
consisted of spare ankle cords, a roll of sex wax, three bottles of
Hawaiian Tropic (SPF-2), two pairs of cutoff jeans, a couple of T-shirts, his
electric guitar and amp, and a Gameboy.
“Where
we going, Dick?” He remembered my name. I was touched.
“Going
to run up to Wilmington. Pick up Simon.”
“Prestwick?”
“Yeah. He’s going to be working with us.”
“Does he
know that?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” Jimmy looked out at the passing trees. “He’s not gonna like you volunteering him
again.”
“Don’t
worry about Simon. I’ll talk him into
it.”
“Yeah,
well. You know, Simon doesn’t like me
very much. Do we have to get him?”
“Yeah we
do. And don’t worry. Simon likes you just fine.”
“No he
don’t. He calls me that number thing.”
Jimmy
was right. Simon didn’t care for him
much. Simon was at one end of the
educational spectrum while Jimmy was at the other. A dollar says you can guess who was at which
end. ‘That number thing’ was Simon’s way
of poking fun at Jimmy. He sometimes
called him ‘Number 12’. It started when
we were eating at a Tai restaurant one night.
Jimmy had said something stupid (big surprise there) and Simon told him
that most of the food on the menu was more intelligent than he was. At this particular restaurant you ordered
your meals by number. Jimmy had ordered
number ‘12.’
“He
probably forgot all about that. Besides,” I said, trying cheer him up a little,
“Wilmington’s on the coast.”
“Yeah? Okay. That’s
cool.” He seemed a little better. “Yeah.
Okay,” he said again. Personal affirmation. “Can we go a little faster then?”
“We’re
topped out, Jimbo.”
“Really? I thought this big old thing had a V-8.”
“It
does, but one of the “V’s” isn’t working
real good at the moment.”
“Oh.” Jimmy the conversationalist. “That’s okay, I like riding in cars. I’m pretty good at it.”
“Yes you
are, my friend.”
“I like
watching things too,” he added.
“Lots of
good things to watch while you ride in a car.”
“Yeah.”
We rode
in silence for a while. Jimmy ate some
Fritos and then dozed off. Gave me some
time to think. Jimmy and Simon didn’t
get along too well but both were crucial to my plans. Okay, that’s a lie. Simon was crucial. Jimmy just needed something to do. But he was also my friend. Having him along would bring some balance to
Simon’s extremely intelligent but obnoxious personality. Jimmy would also be a good sounding board. And, if we ran into someone with a gun, he
would reduce my odds of getting shot by another 17% than if I had only one
partner. Cold reality. But it was a cold world. Well, except in Florida anyway.
We
crossed the South Carolina border and almost immediately passed what was
undoubtedly the best deal on fireworks ever offered. Made me think of Simon. Nothing to do with fireworks. Just that Simon had been wearing a yellow
shirt the last time I saw him. Bright
yellow. Just like the fireworks sign.
Simon
was a square peg. As I’ve said before, a
very smart man. Went to school up North
in one of those places covered with vines.
Harvard, or Yale, or Pepsodent; can’t
remember which. Maybe all four.
Maybe
I’ll grow a goatee. Give me an edgy look.
Anyway,
Simon was pretty level headed. He was an
asshole, but that was something I could live with since he won the intelligence
battle between me and Jimmy hands down. Had
an IQ that I figured had to be way up there in the double digits.
I met
Simon when I was working part time at a Dairy Queen a few years back. Investigation business hadn’t been exactly
brisk then either. I went into work one
night and Simon was in the back kitchen staring at the water as it washed down
the drain from the running tap. I asked
him what he was doing and he said he was “studying the effects of erosion in
order to develop a theory which may provide a possible alternative to carbon
dating”.
I told
him that I meant what was he doing here; in the back of the DQ. He didn’t work there. Anyway, to make a long story short, we got to
talking and before you know it we struck a bond. I also got fired for fucking off in the
kitchen for three hours. The breaks, I
guess. Simon apologized about getting me
fired but told me that if I ever got tired of being a private investigator I
had a promising career just waiting for me in the personal petroleum
distribution industry. It’s good to know
you have that kind of safety net.
Simon
always wore shoes because he had a couple of extra toes. This was the only thing that he was really
sensitive about and he tried hard to act like it wasn’t a handicap. Because he wanted to be treated like any
other person, I always did my best to respect his wishes, though in truth this
did create problems on occasion; especially when we performed certain field
operations (like sunbathing) which inevitable led to his being left to guard
some cheap hotel room, often for days at a time. Overall, Jimmy and I treated him just like
one of the guys, and, aside from some good natured ribbing from time to time,
made no mention of his abnormality (we did, however, occasionally laugh like
hell about it when he wasn’t around; we’re sensitive that way).
Although
he was a pain in the ass, Simon was helpful and we had worked well together in
the past. I don’t think he really liked
detective work and I know it rankled him to play second fiddle to myself. But he’d always accepted when I needed him in
the past. Partly because he was my
friend. Partly because he knew I’d beat
the shit out of him if he didn’t. Like I
said, cold reality. Ain’t had my ass
kicked by a pen yet.
We hit
Wilmington around 10 that night. Would’ve
made it sooner but we stopped at South of the Border to buy some authentic
Mexican souvenirs. Hey, who can resist
all those signs?
No comments:
Post a Comment