Don Bruns: Stuff to spy for

A man with graying hair stuck his head in the door. From the shoulders up I could see a loosened tie, a stiff collared shirt, and tanned face with just the slightest hint of a five o’clock shadow. I took a quick guess. Sandler Conroy.

“Sarah. Can I see you for a moment?”

She gave me a quick look, almost like a girlfriend would give her boyfriend before going off with another man. Or maybe it was just my imagination. She stood up and walked out to greet him. We could hear her heels click down the hallway.

We were both quiet for a moment, the only two people in the room. I could hear a very small buzz and traced it to a clock that hung above the sink.

“Skip, we’ve stepped into it before, but-”

“But.”

We didn’t talk for several minutes. James sipped his coffee, and I pretty much stared at the table. I was trying to work out everything that had happened in the last week.

“There’s still a good side to this, my friend.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Look, you’re still making good money. I mean, this shouldn’t shut down the installation. Am I right?”

“You’re right, James.”

“So we’ve got that going for us.”

Us? It was always us. James had been my best friend since grade school and we shared about everything. Even Ginger Stevens in the seventh grade. Of course, I think she pretty much kissed every guy in

“You think that was her guy?”

“Sandler Conroy? Yeah, I’d bet. He’s got to be a little shook up right now.”

“Yeah. And you?”

“I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Nothing. Don’t make anything of it, pard.”

“This thing with Sarah. I mean, I can get past the part that she’s a high-class hooker, but-”

“No you can’t.”

“You’re right. I can’t. It’s very weird.”

“Very.”

“James, how does a girl, a woman, how does she decide to do that?”

“Skip, let’s say you meet some great looking girl at a bar.”

“I know where this is going.”

“Humor me.”

I humored him too much as it was.

“You buy her a couple of drinks, offer to take her out for a nice dinner, and you end up at your place. Or, her place.”

“It’s still not the same thing, James.”

“It’s a one-night stand, amigo. And you paid for it.”

“But a woman? How does she make the conscious decision to do this for a living?” I just couldn’t picture it.

James cleared his throat and stood up. He walked to the doorway and peered out into the hall. “No one around.” He turned and came back inside, put his hands on the back of his chair and stared intently at me. “This little scenario I cooked up. It was a one-night stand for both of you. She didn’t fall in love with you, you didn’t fall in love with her. It was sex, Skip. Sex.”

“And?”

“And she starts thinking. Maybe there’s more than just a couple of cosmos and a steak dinner in this little game. She gets dollar signs in her eyes, Skip. She thinks, maybe, just maybe, I can fall into a compromising situation and do better than a couple of drinks and dinner.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Come on? That’s the way it happens. You know it does. It’s like the old question, why does a dog lick his privates? Because he can! The woman finally figures out she can make some serious money charging for it. You’re just mad because you can’t do it. Excuse me, compadre, but you are just an ordinary, halfway good-looking guy.” He stepped back from the chair and gave me a hard look. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, amigo. Listen. It ain’t gonna happen for you. But, if you could have one-night stands and get paid five hundred, a thousand dollars, wouldn’t you do it? If you could have sex whenever you wanted and get paid big bucks, you’d do it. We’d all do it. Every man on the planet. What’s the difference, Skip?”

I couldn’t tell him. Because maybe there wasn’t any difference. Except I’d never picked up a girl at a bar, bought her two cosmos, taken her out for an elegant steak dinner, and fallen into bed with her. Nice dream, but it had never happened. Not to me anyway. That never seemed to be the Lord’s or anyone else’s will. But it seemed pretty real to James. Maybe there was something about my friend I didn’t know.

“But this pretend boyfriend stuff. I mean, that’s pretty strange.” It was. I was feeling used, but paid well at the same time. Taking a bonus for being a pretend lover. I had this fleeting thought. Did that make me a male prostitute?

James shook his head and walked to the sink, pouring himself another cup of the bitter brew. “Everything about this is strange. What does she want you to do?”

“Walk her to her car after work.”

“That’s it?”

“A couple nights a week I’m supposed to park my car outside of her condo, just in case Carol Conroy drives by.”

“So far this sounds pretty innocent.”

Yeah. It was innocent. I wasn’t a male prostitute. I didn’t want to think of what I was. I just wanted the bonus. Ten grand. Pretty sweet.

“So that’s it? Park the car outside her place?”

“Hey, James, it’s not like I’m going to be sleeping with her. And we’re not going to the movies or holding hands. After all, she does have a boyfriend.”

“Ah, yes. The head honcho. The much talked about, seldom seen, Sandy.”

I could hear the heels clicking in the hall. “Cool it.”

She walked back into the room, Sandler Conroy nowhere in sight. “Sandy says he’s sorry you had to see what happened.”

James nodded. “He’s sorry?”

“He feels bad that you guys were here to see it. That’s all.”

“What else?”

I could see tears welling in her eyes. “There is nothing else. Okay? The installation will start Wednesday and whatever you need, get in touch with me.”

She turned and hurried out of the room. I could hear gentle sobbing as she walked away.

“She and Sandy must have had words.” James pointed in the direction she’d gone.

“It would seem.”

“Something a good boyfriend would have picked up on.”

“Drop it, James.”

He didn’t say another word as we left the building. If he had, I might have decked him.

A t seven the next morning I was in Michael’s office. Michael, director of Jaystone Security’s Carol City office. The lowest of the low, and a far cry from the splendor of Ralph Walters’s office. Michael’s tiny, closet-sized office was drab, sparsely furnished, and dreary. No artwork on the walls, cheap wallpaper that was peeling in the corners, a gray metal desk, and a ratty cloth office chair that showed major signs of wear. But at least he had an office. I, on the other hand, got to file my paperwork in the room that doubled as the reception area. As if we had customers who walked in and needed to be recepted. As if. Worn, soiled carpeting, a build-it-yourself desk that was falling apart, a big computer that was built during the Dark Ages, and a desk chair with wheels that had frozen probably ten years ago.

“A suicide?”

“You saw it on the news, Michael.”

“But, Skip. You found the body. That can’t be good.” He sat behind his tiny desk and shuddered.

“For me. For the company, for the situation it means nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, as long as we still have the order.” Mr. Bottom Line. As long as we still had the order. Maybe the company was going to buy him a new desk chair with the profits.

“We do. We still have the order.” I prayed we did. I needed that order worse than Michael did.

“Skip, you have one supervisor for the project.”

“James Lessor.”