“A week, maybe two. Don’t worry. I got this.”
She moans. “Suds, you can’t tear apart our bathroom without telling me.”
“I did tell you.”What is it about women? You tell them important shit and because they ain’t listening, it’s your fault.
“Well, maybe you did but I didn’t understand the full implications.”
Covered in drywall dust and grime, I hug her to me and point out the rotten plywood. “I didn’t either, sugar. We’re lucky we didn’t drop into the tailor shop.”
Squatting, she picks at the wood. “What about the toilet?”
“Fully operational.”
“And our shower?”
“That might take a little longer. Sorry.”
Sam fingers the exposed bricks and pipes. “We could leave it this way. It’s very trendy.”
“Whatever you want. Let me get cleaned up and I’ll take you to lunch.”
At Petey’s Pizzeria, we sit at a table covered with a red checkered tablecloth. She waits until our waitress leaves to tell me what’s really freaking her out.
“I think our Rossini case is a dead-end.”
“Why’s that?” With an I-told-you-so busting to come out, I put on my poker face and sip my soda.
She rolls her eyes as she bites into a slice. “The ladies at the salon say she’s a nut job; sees crime everywhere. The only reason she came to us is the police won’t take her seriously. We can do a little investigating, then we should let her down easy.”
“No worries. I called Slate and he got us a new client, Dana Springfield.”
Her eyes widen and the first smile I’ve seen today blooms on her pretty lips. “Isn’t he the guy who hooked up with the reality-wives actress?
“You tell me, you’re the addict.” I chuckle and she punches me in the arm but not hard.
“Aunt Marion plays the show in the salon. I think she married him last season.”
“Slate said the millionaire thinks wife number three is cheating on him and wants pictures.”
Sam bounces up and down in her seat. “Great! I mean about having a new client, not his divorce. I’m sure that sucks for him.”
Opening her laptop, she types for a while before her eyes lift to meet mine. “Hmm. No kids. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“He gave us a password to login to her cell phone account. As soon as he sends a deposit, Slate suggests we get to work.
“Pretty careless of her to leave incriminating evidence hanging around where he can find it.”
“Most people are.” I almost tell her about the bodyguard job.
However, seeing how it may delay my bathroom work, it’s best we discuss it later, say after an hour or two of love-making.
Sam digs into her salad and points her fork in my direction. “I’ve been thinking...”
“I can smell the wood burning.” I grin and she throws a small tomato at me which I pluck out of the air with my hand and make a big point of placing into my mouth.
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Get serious. Part of what I messed up in my last relationship was the division of labor.”
Her ex was a leech who lived off her income, claimed to be the next Stephen King, and yet never contributed a dime.
