couldn't. I didn't feel I'd earned what she'd already advanced me. Damn. If only ethics paid my rent. Damn, damn, damn. I'd have to avoid my landlord, Ira Grouch, er, Couch. Again. I could picture Ira stalking my apartment even as I drove through downtown Renton toward it.
Life was not good.
Rain slapped the windshield. The storm that had been blowing in earlier had arrived full force. The gloom of the downpour matched my mood, fed my desperation to get something on Frankie that Dinah would pay for. I needed a new approach. A new plan. But what?
Hell, I was resourceful. I was clever. I could think of something. Something really good. With the help of chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
I live above a strip mall four blocks from the Clip and Flip . Far enough to maintain privacy. Close enough for those times when I feel the urge for the kind of maternal Ya Ya Sisterhood stuff that only my mom and aunts can provide.
The building, two stories of old used brick, has ten one bedroom apartments upstairs, seven on each side of the hall. Mine is an end unit with one and a half bedrooms, an open living and kitchen area, a large bathroom and a small walk-in closet. Five businesses make up the ground level, including Sharkey's Tattoo Den and Cathy's Candy Corner . I stood outside the latter, digging into my wallet, but I'd spent the last of my cash on the ferry. I delved the bottom of my purse. No loose change.
Didn't I have a candy bar in my other purse?
The more I thought about it, the more certain I was of it.
I collected my mail, bills and junk of course, and tiptoed to the top of the stairs, stealing a glance into the hallway. No sign of Ira Couch. Relief poured through me, even though I hadn't really expected to find him prowling this late in the day. He didn't like missing supper.
All the same, I hurried down the hall to number seven. Lucky number seven. Were we feeling lucky tonight? Well, were we? I took a quick assessment. I hadn't gotten a rejection from the New York editor. I hadn't run into my landlord. Two positives in a negative day were enough blessings to get me through. And maybe I would have a phone call from that editor.
"Ken, I'm home," I called as I entered and re-locked the door. Ken is my roommate. He still sat at the living room window where I'd left him, a deterrent to potential burglars and rapists, still wore jeans and a polo shirt, castoffs of Stone's. "If you were human," I told Ken. "I'd make you cough up your share of this month's rent."
He is, however, a life-size Ken-doll, a male mannequin one of my "grateful" Cheatin' Hearts clients, a seamstress, considered payment in full. Perhaps this explained why I struggled to meet my monthly bills.
"I should really start insisting my clients pay me in actual cash," I groused to Ken. "In fact, considering I've been waiting for weeks for a couple of "checks in the mail" I should also get that cash up front."
Yeah, I saw that happening sometime soon.
I headed to my answering machine. It was blinking. One call. My heart gave a hopeful leap that it might be the call . My hand even shook a little as I touched the play button. Lars.
A soft rapping at the door interrupted my string of curses and my heartbeat. I froze. God, don't let it be Lars. Or worse... my landlord. I crept over, silently lifted the chain — I wished I'd put on the second I'd come in — and peeked through the peep hole.
This was no gorgeous gay caballero. This was no cross-eyed grouch. This was a little old lady who looked as though she'd just come from the Clip and Flip , her hair freshly blued and waved. One of my neighbors, Mrs. Hurtz.
Fearing our landlord could have sent her, I debated whether or not to answer.
"Jack B, are you in there?" She rapped harder. "The mailman left something for you, dear."
The mailman? Perhaps one of those checks I was expecting? I yanked the door open with the expectation of someone saved by the skin of her teeth. Mrs. Hurtz startled back, her
Life was not good.
Rain slapped the windshield. The storm that had been blowing in earlier had arrived full force. The gloom of the downpour matched my mood, fed my desperation to get something on Frankie that Dinah would pay for. I needed a new approach. A new plan. But what?
Hell, I was resourceful. I was clever. I could think of something. Something really good. With the help of chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
I live above a strip mall four blocks from the Clip and Flip . Far enough to maintain privacy. Close enough for those times when I feel the urge for the kind of maternal Ya Ya Sisterhood stuff that only my mom and aunts can provide.
The building, two stories of old used brick, has ten one bedroom apartments upstairs, seven on each side of the hall. Mine is an end unit with one and a half bedrooms, an open living and kitchen area, a large bathroom and a small walk-in closet. Five businesses make up the ground level, including Sharkey's Tattoo Den and Cathy's Candy Corner . I stood outside the latter, digging into my wallet, but I'd spent the last of my cash on the ferry. I delved the bottom of my purse. No loose change.
Didn't I have a candy bar in my other purse?
The more I thought about it, the more certain I was of it.
I collected my mail, bills and junk of course, and tiptoed to the top of the stairs, stealing a glance into the hallway. No sign of Ira Couch. Relief poured through me, even though I hadn't really expected to find him prowling this late in the day. He didn't like missing supper.
All the same, I hurried down the hall to number seven. Lucky number seven. Were we feeling lucky tonight? Well, were we? I took a quick assessment. I hadn't gotten a rejection from the New York editor. I hadn't run into my landlord. Two positives in a negative day were enough blessings to get me through. And maybe I would have a phone call from that editor.
"Ken, I'm home," I called as I entered and re-locked the door. Ken is my roommate. He still sat at the living room window where I'd left him, a deterrent to potential burglars and rapists, still wore jeans and a polo shirt, castoffs of Stone's. "If you were human," I told Ken. "I'd make you cough up your share of this month's rent."
He is, however, a life-size Ken-doll, a male mannequin one of my "grateful" Cheatin' Hearts clients, a seamstress, considered payment in full. Perhaps this explained why I struggled to meet my monthly bills.
"I should really start insisting my clients pay me in actual cash," I groused to Ken. "In fact, considering I've been waiting for weeks for a couple of "checks in the mail" I should also get that cash up front."
Yeah, I saw that happening sometime soon.
I headed to my answering machine. It was blinking. One call. My heart gave a hopeful leap that it might be the call . My hand even shook a little as I touched the play button. Lars.
A soft rapping at the door interrupted my string of curses and my heartbeat. I froze. God, don't let it be Lars. Or worse... my landlord. I crept over, silently lifted the chain — I wished I'd put on the second I'd come in — and peeked through the peep hole.
This was no gorgeous gay caballero. This was no cross-eyed grouch. This was a little old lady who looked as though she'd just come from the Clip and Flip , her hair freshly blued and waved. One of my neighbors, Mrs. Hurtz.
Fearing our landlord could have sent her, I debated whether or not to answer.
"Jack B, are you in there?" She rapped harder. "The mailman left something for you, dear."
The mailman? Perhaps one of those checks I was expecting? I yanked the door open with the expectation of someone saved by the skin of her teeth. Mrs. Hurtz startled back, her
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