said that the woman would eat a dog-food billboard if she had to. She ate six thousand calories a day and never gained an ounce. It was one of the things he truly hated about her.
She chewed. The mess was unappetizing to look at, an ugly barbarian insult to her Oriental soul, but the ingredients were at least viable. Except for the hot dogs, which had wound up in her super-market bag one day through a checkout clerk’s mistake. She started to push the hot dogs aside on the plate and pick at the vegetables in cheese sauce.
She took another small bite.
Trace came back with a pair of Nike running shoes in his hand.
“What are those for?” she said.
“You’ve got to run if you’re going to be a detective. Detectives today run a lot.”
“Wouldn’t pistol lessons be better?” Chico asked. “You haven’t run since I caught you in my bed with that hatcheck girl.”
“I wasn’t running then,” he said. “I was regrouping. Anyway, you’ve got to run. And, God, you’ve got to lift weights. I’ll be pumping iron.”
“You’ll be pumping gas if you keep on this way,” she said. Absently, she took a large forkful of the food and popped it into her mouth.
“And another thing. If I’m going to be a big detective, I’ve got to sit around and be dull and think big thoughts about the meaning of courage. And duty.”
“How do you arrange to think big thoughts when you have such a little brain?” she asked. “Why not think little thoughts and be a little private detective?”
“Please, lady. You’re not the only smart one here. I tested out genius on my college boards. IQ 156.”
“Your entire family doesn’t have an IQ of 156. Cumulative. And that’s counting your mother twice,” Chico said. She pulled the plateful of food back to her. With her mouth full, she mumbled, “Speaking of which, you got my message?”
“Right. My mother’s coming to town. With her woman’s club. I think it’s the annual chicken-soup tournament.”
“And?”
“I’m leaving. I’m going to New York,” Trace said.
“You’re leaving me here alone? You know that woman’s going to be sniffing around, trying to sell our furniture and replace it with something pretty in real wood-grained vinyl.”
“Want to come to New York with me?” Trace asked. “Can you get off from the casino?”
“They owe me some time,” Chico said.
Trace didn’t bother to ask why, because he knew. Chico was a blackjack dealer at the Araby Casino, but she supplemented her income and her vacation time by occasionally “entertaining” high rollers as a favor to the casino. It was by her choice, and she and Trace did not talk about it.
“So you want to go with me?” he asked again.
“Yes.”
“Thank God,” Trace said.
“Why ‘thank God?’”
“That’s another thing about being a detective. You’ve got to have a funny-looking sidekick. Hopefully somebody who’s a homicidal maniac. I can do that. I’ve got you.”
“You’ll pay for that, barbarian,” she said. Her plate was empty and she pulled Trace’s plate over and started eating from it.
He got up and took another beer from the refrigerator. “Eat up,” he said. “There’s plenty more.”
Later they sat side by side on one of their sofas, listening to the intricate mathematical music of the Dave Brubeck quartet playing on their stereo.
Trace had abandoned the Polish beer but was sipping at a plain tonic water. Chico was drinking apple juice.
“So Sarge said that because he was a cop for twenty-five years, it was easy for him to get his p.i. license.”
“Private investigator?” Chico asked.
“Right. And now he wants me to get mine. He really wants me to be a detective with him. So what do I do, Chico?”
“What do you want to do, Trace?”
“I don’t want to do anything. I want to sit here with you and listen to music. I don’t want to have to cook or run or lift big weights or think big thoughts. I want to sit here, empty-headed,
She chewed. The mess was unappetizing to look at, an ugly barbarian insult to her Oriental soul, but the ingredients were at least viable. Except for the hot dogs, which had wound up in her super-market bag one day through a checkout clerk’s mistake. She started to push the hot dogs aside on the plate and pick at the vegetables in cheese sauce.
She took another small bite.
Trace came back with a pair of Nike running shoes in his hand.
“What are those for?” she said.
“You’ve got to run if you’re going to be a detective. Detectives today run a lot.”
“Wouldn’t pistol lessons be better?” Chico asked. “You haven’t run since I caught you in my bed with that hatcheck girl.”
“I wasn’t running then,” he said. “I was regrouping. Anyway, you’ve got to run. And, God, you’ve got to lift weights. I’ll be pumping iron.”
“You’ll be pumping gas if you keep on this way,” she said. Absently, she took a large forkful of the food and popped it into her mouth.
“And another thing. If I’m going to be a big detective, I’ve got to sit around and be dull and think big thoughts about the meaning of courage. And duty.”
“How do you arrange to think big thoughts when you have such a little brain?” she asked. “Why not think little thoughts and be a little private detective?”
“Please, lady. You’re not the only smart one here. I tested out genius on my college boards. IQ 156.”
“Your entire family doesn’t have an IQ of 156. Cumulative. And that’s counting your mother twice,” Chico said. She pulled the plateful of food back to her. With her mouth full, she mumbled, “Speaking of which, you got my message?”
“Right. My mother’s coming to town. With her woman’s club. I think it’s the annual chicken-soup tournament.”
“And?”
“I’m leaving. I’m going to New York,” Trace said.
“You’re leaving me here alone? You know that woman’s going to be sniffing around, trying to sell our furniture and replace it with something pretty in real wood-grained vinyl.”
“Want to come to New York with me?” Trace asked. “Can you get off from the casino?”
“They owe me some time,” Chico said.
Trace didn’t bother to ask why, because he knew. Chico was a blackjack dealer at the Araby Casino, but she supplemented her income and her vacation time by occasionally “entertaining” high rollers as a favor to the casino. It was by her choice, and she and Trace did not talk about it.
“So you want to go with me?” he asked again.
“Yes.”
“Thank God,” Trace said.
“Why ‘thank God?’”
“That’s another thing about being a detective. You’ve got to have a funny-looking sidekick. Hopefully somebody who’s a homicidal maniac. I can do that. I’ve got you.”
“You’ll pay for that, barbarian,” she said. Her plate was empty and she pulled Trace’s plate over and started eating from it.
He got up and took another beer from the refrigerator. “Eat up,” he said. “There’s plenty more.”
Later they sat side by side on one of their sofas, listening to the intricate mathematical music of the Dave Brubeck quartet playing on their stereo.
Trace had abandoned the Polish beer but was sipping at a plain tonic water. Chico was drinking apple juice.
“So Sarge said that because he was a cop for twenty-five years, it was easy for him to get his p.i. license.”
“Private investigator?” Chico asked.
“Right. And now he wants me to get mine. He really wants me to be a detective with him. So what do I do, Chico?”
“What do you want to do, Trace?”
“I don’t want to do anything. I want to sit here with you and listen to music. I don’t want to have to cook or run or lift big weights or think big thoughts. I want to sit here, empty-headed,
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