Matryoshka Blues (The Average Joe Mysteries Book 1) Read Free Page A

loved every damn second of it.
    And then Tully went and painted it goddamned periwinkle blue, which incidentally were the only words I understood out of Brad Pitt in that movie where he played a homeless Irish boxer or whatever. Well, those and caravan , whatever the fuck that is.
    People. Go figure.
    “What do you think?” Tully’s words in my ear.
    Sandecker waves as he drives off. I mean it—like, out the window and everything. It kind of freaks me out. Who does this guy think he is?
    “Him, or the job?” I ask.
    “Both.”
    I give it some thought. “He’s older than he looks. It’s carried him this far, and he thinks it’ll make up for what he lacks—which is more than he’s able to admit. He comes from where a hard day’s work is the tip of the iceberg, and made it to the big league without ever really learning how to fit in. But he’s learned to fake the confidence and hopes no one notices.”
    “That all?”
    I know what she means, and she knows I know. “He’s lying to us,” I say. “Or at least holding back, though it’s hard to know what about. He could be in over his head, or he could be setting us up for failure. Maybe he has partners he doesn’t want us to know about, or perhaps things are just worse than he’s letting on. I don’t like not knowing, but it’s not something that’ll keep me up at night.”
    “Not the way you’ve been spending them.”
    Tully’s smiling, I can tell. She had to get one more dig in about my overnight guest to take her mind off Sandecker and his problem. She’s probably been thinking the same things I am ever since he showed up at her office. Needing someone she could count on naturally brought her to me, as it always does, and always will.
    “And the job?” she asks.
    I raise my eyes to take in the cloudless blue sky above. It’s barely lunchtime, and already it’s a gorgeous day.
    “Box retrieval? Sounds easy enough,” I reply. “If he’s being upfront about the details. But I’m sure it’s going to get messy.”
    “It usually does.”
    I look down at her, literally—I’m six-four and she’s five-two. “He said it was tonight, so give it twenty-four hours, tops.”
    She sniffs the air between us. “You plan on showering today?”
    I smile. Even I can smell the combined fragrances of sex, sweat, and melted cheese. I’d wear it proudly if all I had going on today was mowing the yard and binge-watching Gravity Falls on Hulu.
    “Fine, twenty-five hours.”
    The floral dress sways in the summer breeze as Tully walks to the fugly-blue Mustang. “You want cash or a transfer?”
    I have to think about that. “Two hundred cash. Transfer the rest.”
    “You’ll need to swing by the office and sign the contract.”
    Ah, yes. Contracts. The bane of the modern world. “I’ll bring lunch. Have the pen ready.”
    She starts the car. “Maggie Jane’s?” I barely hear her over the throaty roar of the most beautiful engine ever designed.
    Maggie Jane’s. Damn, haven’t had them in a while. “Combo?”
    “Not if I want to keep wearing pretty dresses.”
    We’re shouting to each other over the engine now. Yet another reason for the neighbors to keep right on loving me.
    “You could always go back to jock straps and wife beaters,” I tell her.
    “Why?” she asks. “I got rid of my balls, and they’re still bigger than yours.”
    That elicits a chuckle. “One of these days you’re going to stop reminding me of that.”
    “One of these days you’ll stop pretending it isn’t true.”
    The Mustang tears away from the curb, smoke from the tires and a wave from the window. I stand on the porch a long moment, taking in the sun and air and birds and all that happy-go-lucky shit.
    We have to take these moments as they come, because not only are they few and far between, but they never last as long as our rose-colored recollections eventually convince us they did, so it’s always best to draw them out like Stretch Armstrong in a tug-of-war