Don't Sweat the Small Stuff Read Free Page B

coasted through a yellow light, checking the rearview mirror for cops. The ancient Ford Taurus had a busted taillight and a back window that was cracked so bad I couldn’t see through it. I’d already had two warnings to get the thing fixed or junk it. I glanced down at the dashboard and the oil light was flashing. Damn. I needed a new car—just to keep my job.
    “Skip. I really need that truck.
We
need it for the P.I. business. And with our P.I. license, we’re gonna make a boatload ofmoney, amigo. A boatload. Listen, all we’ve got to do is run a couple of rides, maybe work in a concession stand and just get a feel for the whole thing. I need you pal, because—”
    “James. You mean we actually have to operate the rides? We’d be carnies? How could you even think of asking me?” I was thinking about the liability too. Hopefully, the Moe Show had addressed the problem with their rides. I didn’t want any deaths on my watch or James’s watch.
    “Compadre, it’s important. I’m asking.”
    “What part does your girlfriend play in this scenario?” For some reason it was important to me.
    “I don’t know.”
    “James, you went out with her. She got you hired. Who is she?”
    “She works for Moe. She’s really into me. That’s all I know. Come on, pard.”
    “I want to know who she is. I need to know the players.”
    “She does odd jobs, fills in where she’s needed. I don’t know. I think she keeps his books. This is a small business. Everybody wears a lot of hats, okay? But help me out here. Spend the weekend.”
    “What about the sisters? How do they figure in?”
    “I told you. Schiller and Crouse, they’re straight shooters.”
    “After one meeting, one date, you’ve got the entire operation figured out, is that right?”
    “Dude, I’m pretty good at seeing the big picture.”
    He was so
not
good at seeing anything.
    I took a deep breath. The truth was, I had no plans. My girlfriend, Emily, had taken a break, I didn’t work Saturday and Sunday, and James tended to be my weekend entertainment. What was left?
    “Okay. I’ll go. But I won’t like it. I swear to you, James, I will not like it.”
    And I didn’t.

CHAPTER FIVE

    To be fair it was an Airstream. Something with a little quality. Maybe ten years old and run-down, but an Airstream trailer nevertheless, a silver-blob-shaped trailer that generations of campers had grown to love, and it had a small (very small) kitchen, one bed, and a couch. James suggested since I was just along for the ride, I sleep on the couch. I suggested otherwise.
    “That’s my car outside, James. I drove the two of us here. I’m here because? What? I work for this fleabag carnival? No. I don’t think so.” I threw my hands up. “I’m here because I love the smell of sweat and popcorn?” Actually, the aroma from the carnival, the cotton candy, popcorn, and fried meat was not unpleasant. The food vendors had parked their trailers, and even though the rides had yet to be assembled, the food operators were preparing their cuisine for the carnies and the early visitors who like to watch a carnival set up. But I couldn’t tell James that. “No. I’m here because I’m a friend. Actually, I’m the best friend you’ve got. Don’t mess with me, James. I’m taking the bed. Got it?”
    “Pard, it’s my gig.”
    “Then you work it,
pard,
and I’ll go back to my apartment and my own bed.”
    There was no more argument.
    The Bayview Mall wasn’t really a mall and had no bay. There was no view of the bay. I’m not sure that there was a bay anywhere nearby. The strip of stores consisted of typical Carol City low-end bargain-basement operations. Jenny’s Slightly Used Furniture, The Bauble Brigade, a novelty jewelry store, and one of the more popular stores in Carol City, The Money Man, where you could cash your check or get an early tax refund for only 25 percent interest. James had used them once.
    And then there was Harry’s Hideaway, a cheap, sleazy