
Foreword

This is another story written for my editor as (completely insufficient) payment for her services.  While this is not a promise, this story may be the beginning of a series, assuming the tiny, itsy bitsy piece of my brain that handles creativity can dream up any more episodes.  And assuming my muse cooperates, of course.   I'm saying this now, just in case, so that should there be another Holmes Files episode, or three or four, it will look like I planned the whole series thing and you'll be fooled into thinking I'm brilliant.


The Holmes Files - Roller Skate Roundup
By Lubrican

Chapter One

I was sitting at my desk, wishing that the AC worked and that the wheezing fan that was feebly wafting air in my direction wasn't as old as I felt.  It was hot, and it's always hotter when you don't have anything to do.

I'm Bob, I'm a private eye.  I'm a good one, too, but that doesn't mean lots of people know it.  The few who notice manage to pay the bills, but I'm not living the high life, if you know what I mean.  And, of course, I have this soft spot for good people in a bad fix.  I usually didn't get any money from those jobs.  I felt good...but good feelings don't pay the rent, if you know what I mean.

The faded brown paper on the walls of my ratty office seemed to press in on me, like in that play, The Haunting of Hill House.  It was kind of creepy, and I'd just decided to take a little walk and see if there was some breeze out in the twilight, when I saw a dark silhouette appear in the pebbled glass pane of the door.

I watched the latch turn and rested my hand on the .45 holstered on my right hip.

I've pissed off a lot of people in the past.

But it wasn't some husband I'd caught with his fingers in the wrong honey pot.  Nor was it a businessman I'd caught fleecing his customers, and put out of business.  Nor was it any number of people I'd arranged to get the goods on for a lawsuit of some kind.

It was a dame.

She was a strange one.  I could tell that immediately.  Her hairdo was the first obvious clue.  Young, maybe in her mid twenties, she was a mixture of conflicting signals.  Her hair was two shades of red.  The majority of it was maybe an eighth of an inch long and almost black, but there were long bangs and what my sister used to call dog ears that were a deep red tint.  The bangs were swept to one side and fell casually down across her right cheek.  Her features were elfin.  Her nose looked like it had been transplanted from an older woman, onto the face of a teenager in a world where acne just didn't exist.  The skin on her cheeks looked as soft and pale as a baby's butt, and it was obvious she didn't spend a lot of time in the sun.

Her body was all woman, though.  She didn't have so much up top, but it was all relative, since what she did have looked delicious in the thin tank top she was wearing.  She wasn't wearing a bra, and it was obvious, even in the heat.  A tattoo made up of blues and greens in some intricate designnot the sissy kind of small tattoo a college girl gets, thinking she's being adventurouscovered most of one shoulder.

Jeans, below the tank top, encased hips a guy could grab onto if he was in the middle of a wild, passionate ride.  Below the jeans I could see the tops of something that looked suspiciously like military style jump boots.  It didn't look like they'd stomped anybody recently, but she gave the impression of being able to take care of herself.  I just knew this woman owned a leather jacket.  She looked like a biker babe, or maybe a bull dyke...except that she didn't.

Lots of adjectives sprang to mind.  Oddstrange...even bizarre...but overlaying them all was the noun those words were helping to describe.  That noun was "stone fox," as crazy as that sounds, based on what I've described.

It was strange, and she was interesting before she ever said a word.

She came in and just stood there, looking at me.  Those bangs had fallen forward to cover one eye, and the other one looked a little wary, which made me want to laugh.  I wasn't tempted in any way, shape or form to fuck with this little beauty.  She had an air about her that said she should be wearing one of those t-shirts that says, Here comes trouble.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, my voice neutral.  For some reason I thought that coming on too strongly, or speaking too loudly, would make her leave.

"I'm not sure," she said.

Man...what a voice.  High...youthful...the kind of voice you want to have somebody read you something really long in.  Maybe something like War and Peace.

"That could make things difficult," I tossed off.  "Why don't you have a seat and we'll see if we can figure it out."

She looked around and her eye came back to me.  She looked...curious.

I'm not all that much to look at.  Not like back in the good old days, when I was a stud.  While in my mind I still FEEL young, the stud kind of wore off of the outside over the years.  I have a little gut these days.  All that working out I did in the past kept my muscles firm, but didn't do much to prevent some weight falling out of the sky and landing on me.  I grew a beard to cover up the double chin, and kept it when people said it made me look dangerous.

"I have a problem," she said softly.

"I'm in the problem solving business," I said.

"You're not what I expected," she said, still not sitting down.

"You either need a problem solver, or you don't," I said.  "Doesn't much matter what one looks like...you know?"

Only the decrepit fan made any noise for a few seconds, and then she finally sat down.

"Tell me about your problem," I suggested.

"Somebody has something of mine and won't give it to me," she said.

"And you want me to go get it?"

"Do you do that kind of thing?"

"Depends," I said.  I reached in the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out a bottle of Scotch.

"I don't drink," she said.

Now THAT was an eye opener.  She looked like she could drink just about any man under the table and then take on the women in the room.

"I don't believe I offered you a drink," I said, smiling.

"It would be rude for you to drink without offering me something too."

"You already said you don't drink."

"My father had...problems...with alcohol," she said.

That was something I would learn about her in the next days and weeks.  She had this way of asserting her own moral code on others.  It wasn't blatant, and she wasn't judgmental about it.  But even when you first met her you just wanted to make her happy.  It was almost spooky, later on, but I had my first experience of it within five minutes of meeting her.

I put the bottle back in the bottom drawer and closed it.  I looked up and saw something like satisfaction in her eye, though I don't think she was aware of it.

"What is this something someone has?" I asked.

She blushed then.  It was quick and it was obvious.  Her fair skin glowed like it was going to catch fire, but it didn't last long.

"It's a pair of roller skates," she said softly.

"Roller skates."  I'm sure my voice sounded flat.

"Yes.  They're special to me."

"You mean like clamped on?"  I was remembering what roller skates were like when I was growing up in the fifties.  They'd clamp on to a regular pair of shoes, and you tightened them with a roller skate key.

"No."  She looked confused for a second.  "They're white leather, with red wheels."

"Oh, OK," I said.  "Like you'd rent at a roller rink."

"Uh huh, except I've never seen skates at the rink that had red wheels."

I thought about that for a short minute.

"So let me get this straight," I said.  "You want me to get your roller skates back.  Who has them?"

She blushed again.  She was exceedingly cute when she blushed.

"My mother."

"Your mother."  My voice was flat.  I was beginning to think I was being made the butt of a practical joke.

"She's kind of a horrible woman," said my visitor.

"I can just imagine," I said, letting some sarcasm leach into my voice.  "I mean what kind of woman holds her little girl's roller skates hostage?  Maybe you should call her more often.  I hear mothers like that, and get testy when their kids neglect them."

Her face got tight and that flawless skin got a bit pinker.  

"If you won't help me, just say so!" she snapped.  She had a temper, this one did.

"Five hundred a day, plus expenses," I said.  I have to admit I said it somewhat smugly.  That ought to get rid of my little practical joker.

She stared at me and that pretty little jaw dropped.  She had good teeth.  I wondered what that dainty tongue of hers would feel like dueling with mine.  I'm a pervert.  I admit it.  She looked strange, but she was also cute in a pants-tightening kind of way.

"FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A DAY?!" she squealed.  "YOU'RE INSANE!"

"I'm not insane," I said calmly.  "That's my price.  I mean who knows how dangerous this could be.  I have to go up against a truly monstrous woman here.  That much is obvious.  Your mother is most certainly a diabolical miscreant to withhold something so important as...your freaking roller skates!"

Her jaw pulled back up, only to jut forward, and storm clouds gathered on her face.  She didn't blush this time, but her cheeks suddenly looked like a little girl who had gotten into her mother's rouge.

"Norm said you'd help me," she snorted.  "He said you were a good guy."  She looked at me like I was some kind of bug.  The effect of looking down her nose at me was marred by the fact that the nose was bent a little bit.  "Obviously he was deluded."

"Norm?"

"Norman Bidwell," she said, finally starting to turn.

"How the hell do you know Norman Bidwell?" I asked.  Norm was a professional photographer who had hired me to recover five thousand dollars worth of wedding photographs paid for with a check that bounced all the way to Milwaukee.  The groom thought he was special because he was a lower level mobster type.  He had no idea that I'd done some work for some of the heavyweights in his "company" and that I could arrange it for them to be embarrassed if the story got out to certain parties.  Somewhat ironically, the mob has a very strict code of ethics.  You can steal somebody blind, but you never welsh on a deal.  I hope he had a nice honeymoon, cause when he got back he owed his bosses five grand...with interest.  I figured Norm would rather have the money than a bunch of pictures.

I know what you're thinking.  What kind of self respecting gumshoe deals with the mob?  The kind who has bills to pay, that's what kind.  Get over it.  They're out there and they have money.  I don't do their dirty work.  Even mobsters have legitimate needs sometimes, and pursue them in legitimate ways.  Call it networking.  Besides, knowing the right people can get you a lot farther than standing on your principles or yelling about how holy thou art.

Anyway, Norm did mostly portrait work, and this little slice of happiness wasn't really the sort who looked like she'd be comfortable in front of a camera.

She paused on her way to the door.  "I did his website, and when I told him about the problem with my mother, he said he knew somebody who was good at that sort of thing.  I'm sorry you wasted my time."

Man, that girl could pout.  She could give lessons.

"Website," I said.  I was no longer convinced this was one of Vinny's crazy schemes to give me a hard time.

"I'm a web designer," she said tightly.  She blinked.  "Do YOU have a website?"  I could see the wheels and gears turning in her head.

"Me?"  I laughed.  "What the hell would I do with a website?"

"Generate business?" she asked sweetly.  Too sweetly.  "Oh...I forgot...you're not interested in business.  You'd rather laugh at people with problems and commit highway robbery against them."

"Don't get your panties in a wad," I said.  "I thought you were jerking my chain, that's all."

She looked down that nose at me again.  "Your...chain...is all I'd think about jerking," she said archly.

"Toucheee," I said, grinning.  "That's French, you know.  They speak a lot of that in Paris."

Her smile was grim.  "Not only are you lazy and insolent, you can't even pronounce touch.  You're a sad excuse for a private detective, Mr. Holmes.

Yes, it's true, Holmes is my last name.  Ironic, huh?  Not that there were any Sherlocks in my family tree.  It was just dumb luck.  I figured "Holmes Private Investigation Agency" would look good on a door and generate some business.  The irony of that was that most people didn't make the connection between the great detective and my name.  She didn't make my last name sound ironic, though.  She made it sound like it was a dirty word.  It stung.  I DO have a reputation, and it's not all that bad.

"Look," I sighed.  "Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.  I've got this friend named Vinny and he likes to pull a fast one on me sometimes.  I thought maybe that was what this was about.  Apparently, I was in error.  I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea about me."

"You have a friend named Vinny?" she asked innocently.  "And he likes to...pull things...on you?  How cute."  She had the beginnings of a smile on those lush lips.  Not only could she pout, she was pretty good at innuendo, too, much to my distress.

"Jokes," I said quickly.  "He likes to play jokes on me.  I thought maybe he sent you in here as a joke."

"It's no joke," she said, her voice suddenly serious.

"Well, think about it," I suggested.  "How often do you think I hear something like you told me?  I mean most people could manage to get a childhood toy away from their aging parents.  Cut me a little slack here, OK?"

"It's not like that," she said, pouting again.  "This isn't a simple childhood toy.  Those skates were a major part of my adolescence."

I found myself thinking about what I would have tried to make a major part of her adolescence, if I'd been a boy her age when she was coming into the blush of womanhood.  I would have loved to help her become a woman.  As a matter of fact, I was distinctly interested in reminding her she was a woman right now.

I pushed those thoughts aside.  I operatedprobably too oftenon gut instinct and my gut instinct liked her.  She had spunk.  Not as much, though, as she'd have if I got my way...  Oops.  There I went fantasizing again.  I suddenly wished I'd poured some of that scotch, her sensibilities notwithstanding.

"Tell you what," I said.  "Let's try this again.  Hi, I'm Bob.  What can I do for you Miss..."

"Powers," she said softly.  "Veronica Powers."

"Well, Ronnie," I said, gesturing at the chair.  "How can I help you?"

"Nobody calls me Ronnie," she said.

Man, this woman was prickly.  I didn't want her to think she could call all the shots though.

"I do," I said.  "I'll give you a discount.  How's that?"

"I can't afford what you charge," she said.  "Even with a discount," she added.

"Let's worry about that after we've talked.  Right now I'd like to hear about these roller skates that were the centerpiece of your teenage years, and why your mother would want to keep you from having them."

"I don't know," she said hesitantly.  I knew that wasn't a direct response to what I'd said.  What she didn't know was whether she could put up with me or not.

I decided to throw out a line and see if she'd bite.

"I can get them for you," I said.

She wavered for another fifteen seconds, then she sat back down.

I should have known that the relief I felt when she decided to stay should have been a big, red flag in my mind.

I was too busy watching those luscious breasts of hers jiggle when her butt hit the chair, though.

=================================================

She reached in the back pocket of the jeans she was wearing.  I suddenly noticed that she wasn't carrying a purse.  That should have been the first thing I noticed about her.  I was getting careless.  She pulled out a piece of paper.

"I wrote something about the skates one time," she said.

Now that was interesting.  Who writes about a pair of skates?  This woman was getting more and more interesting all the time.

"A poem?" I suggested.

"I wouldn't call it a poem," she said.  She unfolded the paper and stared at it.

"A story, then."

"I wouldn't call it a story either."  She was just looking at the paper.

"Can I see it?"

She looked up at me.  "I've never shown it to anybody."

"But you carry it around with you."

You've had those moments in life where suddenly something became starkly clear in your mind.  You suddenly get it.  There's a fancy word for itepiphanywhich most people don't use.  But I had one just then.  These roller skates, something so simple and childlike, were VERY important to this woman.  As odd as that seemed on the surface of things, it was crystal clear that this was serious, and nowhere near a joke.

"Sometimes," she said.

"I'd really like to see it," I said softly.  "Anything that might help me sally forth into battle and find victory is something of unadulterated interest to me."

She tilted her head at me.  "Nobody talks like that, Mr. Holmes."

I shrugged.  "I do...sometimes.  I guess it just depends on how motivated I am.  And I'd appreciate it if you called me Bob.  Now, are you going to let me see that, or do I have to throw you out of here like the bum you think I am?"

She laughed!  I felt a rush of irritation as she actually laughed at me.

But then she sat back down and, haltingly, she extended the paper.  I leaned forward and plucked it from her fingers, before she decided to be coy again.

=================================================

It only covered a quarter of the page.  It wasn't long, but it was magical, somehow.  The first line was almost eerie, because it validated what I was feeling for this cutie pie.  And from there it just grabbed the reader and transported him...me...to a place that was shining with golden light all around, but which also had shadows.  Those shadows held menace, a clear and present danger to the happiness of the place I was in as I read what she'd written.  Those shadows were like pebbles on the flat surface someone skates on, which can jam up a wheel and end you up with scraped up elbows and knees.

Hell, I'm rambling on about what I was reading.  You'll understand much better if you just read it yourself.  Here is what was on that paper:

White Leather Roller Skates With Red Wheels

I am the kind of woman people are drawn to. I have charm and charisma. I have grace and style. But if you ask me to tell you something important about myself, I will sayWhen I was twelve years old, I had a pair of white leather roller skates with red wheels. I used them to race, I used them to run. I used them to capture the imaginations of neighborhood boys. In black skinny leg jeans, before I got hips and I was afraid I would always be TOO skinny, and a green and white checkered shirt tied at the waist, I would skate for hours. Gliding over smooth blacktop, free from gravity and one with motion. And I would smile at the boys that passed by. Even in my freckle-faced, tomboy, spending more time in hospitals and doctor's offices than out, awkward youth, I had charm and charisma. I had grace and style.

I kept those skates glimmering white, the wheels forever ketchup red. The day I learned to skate backwards was a great personal victory. One of those moments when you wish someone was watching, that someone else had seen, documented, recorded, and would later verify that it had really happened. Too many of those moments go by un-witnessed. People watched me skate backwards hundreds of times after that, but I was alone in that first time, that really important time, that defining moment.

That was a bad year for me, along with a good handful of the ones that followed, but that pair of white leather roller skates with red wheels was a respite. They are what I choose to hold onto, a memory that I will mention at random moments in conversation to make sure I never forget. They are probably gathering dust in a garage somewhere alongside numerous other tokens of my past, remnants of those happy memories that sometimes seem scarce, but which I must fight tooth and nail to retain. Because life is a series of moments and we must always recognize that WE get to choose which of those moments define us. I refuse to be defined by sadness and hurt. I will always be white leather roller skates with red wheels.

Now you get it.  When I'd finished reading that, I wanted those roller skates, too.  They represented a way to flee from those menacing shadows in that place of golden light.  I wanted TWO pairs of them.  I wanted to present hers to her, and then put on my own, so we could skate together, whirling and dancing away from the shadows in life.

I looked up from the page, and at its author.  She had a look of nervous anticipation on her face.  She had bared a portion of her soul to me...had taken a risk.  She was waiting to see if I laughed at her or not.

She was beautiful in a completely odd kind of way, and she had the soul of an angel.  She didn't just have spunk, she had vision.  She was wise beyond her years and I suspected she had the key to happiness in another pocket of her jeans.  All I could think about in those few seconds was how much I wished she'd share that key with me...open a box of happiness I could dip into...with her.

I shook my head to clear it.  This woman was just flat dangerous.

"Interesting," I said.

Her shoulders slumped and the light went out of her eyes.  I felt like I'd just kicked a puppy.

"Fascinating," I added.   

She perked back up, but only a little.

"I can understand completely why these skates are so important to you now."

"They are," she said, anguish in her voice.

"I can get them for  you," I said, feeling like Saint George, preparing to mount my charger and head off to find...and behead...the dragon.

"I can't afford you," she moaned.

"Yes you can," I said.  I almost groaned.  I hate it when I say that.  I sighed instead.  "OK...so tell me about your mother."

Veronica Powersyoung, delicious, beautiful, elfin Ronnielooked me dead in the eye and said

"My mother is a buttface."

She went on to tell me more about the woman who had given her life.  And, when she was finished, as odd as it might seem, I had to admit that the first thing she said was the also the nicest thing she said about that woman.

======================================================

There are a lot of word pictures in the previous paragraphs.  The ones I would remember later were that place of shining golden light, and Saint George and the dragon.  That's because Veronica Powers, as her name alluded to, had the power to bring that place of golden light into the world, like Brigadoon emerging from the mists.  That would happen later...much later...but I'd remember thinking about that as I read about the skates.

The part about Saint George and the dragon was something I'd think about on a number of occasions in the relatively near future.  I didn't really believe in dragons...or saints either, for that matter.  Not then.

But that was before I met Ronnie Powers' mother.  And let me get this out of the way right quick  She wasn't the saint part of that phrase.

Chapter Two

I figured this would be a cake walk.  I mean, how hard could it be to talk an old woman out of a pair of roller skates that she didn't use, which were gathering dust in some closet somewhere, or maybe that garage Ronnie had talked about in her soliloquy.  Mom had no use for themher daughter wanted them.  Parents want their kids to be happy, right?  And, Im an intimidating looking fellow, Im told, so if just asking didnt work, Id intimidate the old bat a bit.  That's why I didn't plan on charging my latest customer anything more than the cost of the gas it would take me to drive over to Ohio, retrieve the skates, and come back.

During that drive, I let my mind wander.  I looked over at the passenger seat and imagined the skates, sitting there, minding their own business, waiting to be delivered to their owner.  I imagined them to be excited, eager to go back on the feet that had ridden in them over those countless miles of smooth pavement while the little girl in them became a young woman.

Then I imagined the skates becoming Veronica Powers, sitting beside me, unimaginably thankful that I had recovered one of the totems of her journey to adulthood.  Well...not unimaginably thankful...not exactly.  I could think of a way she was welcome to thank me.  It involved a lot of heavy breathing and her naked skin moving all over my naked skin, while I showed her how lucky she was to BE a woman, all grown up and fully involved with mature things.

I almost ran into the back of an eighteen wheeler carrying a load of cattle.  I let off the accelerator just as a cow let loose out of one of the holes in the side of the trailer and a brown hazy cloud appeared, only to be whipped toward me in the wind.  My windshield was suddenly opaque and I cursed, slowing more.

Let me tell you something.  Windshield wipers aren't designed to deal with cow excrement, moistened with piss and atomized by a seventy mile an hour wind.  Not even when you use the washers.

I didn't see that as an omen of how my trip to get Ronnie's skates was going to go.

But I should have.

=====================================================

Ronnie had given me the rundown on her mother, one Madeline Wilkenson, formerly Madeline Powers.  It hadn't been easy getting the information.  You might get some idea of that from her initial response to:  "So, tell me about your mother."

 The level to which their relationship had sunk was revealed clearly.  Her answer had been succinct, if not quite a term that would be approved by the literary guild.

"She's a giant buttface," she muttered.

She'd added an adjective, but I needed a little more than that, and by continued probing I learned more.  There had been a divorce when Ronnie was very young, a step-father after that, and a string of "uncles" after the second marriage ended in divorce as well.  I knew the type.  Some women can't figure out what they want, or how lucky they are to have a decent man in the first place.  Such women think mostly of themselves and their own wants.  Which, since they don't know what they want, makes for a pretty dismal kind of playing at being an adult.

That, combined with the fact that her mother and father were bona fide hippies, and probably did way too many drugs during the "free love" years, made it almost a miracle that Ronnie seemed to have grown up with a relatively stable personality.  Kids pick up a lot from their parents, and I'm not talking about what the parents are TRYING to teach them.  There are a lot of Gen-Xers out there who are messed up because their parents weren't very good role models.

I had pretty good data about when Maddie, as I now thought of her, had been a young mother.  But Ronnie had left home at seventeen, and there was a dearth of information about what I was heading into now.  Ronnie tried very hard not to spend any time with her mother.  The term "quality time" just wasn't in Ronnie's vocabulary, as it pertained to the woman who had given her life. 

Then again, I didn't think I'd need to know all that much, really.  I knew how to find her house, and that she worked as a teacher with learning disabled kids in Columbus, but that was about it.  If a woman with a face like a derriere came to the door I might blow it by laughing, but I didn't really think that was going to happen.  I figured I was savvy enough to finesse just about any woman, if I put my mind to it.

I had no trouble finding the house.  I got there about seven in the evening, which was great, as far as I was concerned.  It wasn't too late, but probably wouldn't allow for an invitation to sit and chat about how Ronnie was doing, once I got the skates.  I planned a quick in and out visit, and, with the help of some NoDoz, I could be handing Ronnie her skates the next morning.

That's not to say I abandoned my usual vigilance.  Being observant is a primary requirement of being in the business.  So I noticed the big red and white sign on the gate that said "BEWARE OF DOG".  I hadn't thought to ask Ronnie about dogs.  I made some noise so the dog, if it was out, could rush out and do his duty.  I actually hoped it would, in one sense, since that would make Maddie owe me when she came out to see what the barking was all about.  

The only problem was that no dog came barking.  That can mean two things, usually.  One is that the dog is inside, which is fine.  The other, though, is that the dog might be the sly type that lies quietly in wait for the borders of its kingdom to be breached, whereupon it rushes out and bites the shit out of the intruder.

I lifted the latch on the gate and stepped into the yard, holding the gate open so I could dart back out if anything rushed out of the shadows at me.

Nothing did.

I wasn't packing heat, because I'm not licensed in Ohio.  As I got to the halfway point between the gate and the porch I wished I'd thought to bring my telescoping baton, which would quickly deal with a tardy guard dog.  When I made it to the porch I felt better, especially when my foot on a loose board brought barking from within the house.  I rang the bell and the barking doubled.

"Shut the fuck up, Muttley!" came a dim voice from within.

The porch light came on, even though it wasn't dark out yet.  There were curtains covering the window in the door and I saw them nudged aside as I was inspected.  The door opened wide and I saw an Australian cattle dog dancing around, still barking.  A foot wearing a house shoe snapped out and kicked the dog in the side.  It yelped, whined and backed up.  The unmistakable odor of marijuana came wafting out the door.

"You don't look like a solicitor," said an alto voice that wasn't all that unpleasant.

The woman attached to that voice was looking down her nose at me.  I realized it was because she was wearing those glasses with more lines in them than an eye doctor's chart.  I guess I was close enough that examining me required one of the lower sections of the glasses.

"I'm not," I said in my suave voice.

"That's good," she went on, "because if you were a solicitor, I'd have to let Muttley loose on you.  He bites children, so he should flat out try to eat a solicitor."

"As I said, I'm not a solicitor," I said.  "I'm a friend of Ronnie's."

"Ronnie?  Who the hell is Ronnie?" she asked.

"Uh...Veronica?  Your daughter?  I assume you're Madeline Wilkenson."

"She calls herself Ronnie now?  Well isn't that about the blue-dyed shits!" exclaimed the woman.  "I call her Ronnie one time in her whole life and she goes into the screaming jeebies, but now that she won't talk to me anymore it's just freaking FINE!"  She poked her head out the door.  "Is she with you?"

"No," I said.  "I just stopped by to..."

She slammed the door in my face.  Just like that!

I rang the bell again, and Muttley started barking again.  I stood there long enough that I was beginning to think she was just going to ignore me, when the door opened.

"Are you still here?"

"Yes," I said.  "But I won't take long.  I just need to pick up something of Veronica's and I'll be on my way."

"She doesn't have anything here," said Madeline, looking down her nose at me again.

"It's just a pair of roller skates," I said.  "I just need to pick them up and I'll be out of your hair."

She snorted.  "That again?  I told her she couldn't have them.  Go away."

"What do you mean she can't have them?  They're HER SKATES!"  My control had slipped a little and I raised my voice at the end.

"No they're not," she said calmly.  "I paid for them.  That makes them mine."

"Come on," I moaned.  "You're never going to use them."

"True," she said, smiling widely.  "But they're still mine."

She slammed the door in my face again.

I stood there for another minute, trying to figure out what had gone wrong.  She must have been peeking out at me, because the door suddenly opened and she yelled, "MUTTLEY, SIC EM!"

I heard excited barking.  I cleared the gate like I might have in my track and field days, only to turn and find that Muttley hadn't left the porch yet.  He was barking to beat the band, but he hadn't chased me.  He looked around at the door, which was closed again, then looked back at me and barked while he wagged his freaking tail.

I walked back to my car.  I couldn't help but think: St. Georgezip; dragonone.

==========================================================

I had been caught unprepared and it smarted.  My pride was hurt.  Had I known what had happened would happen, I would have come prepared to deploy plan B.  But I didn't have plan B with me, so there was really nothing to do but drive back to Chicago.  I drove through the night, then crashed and slept until three in the afternoon.  That's definitely one of the perks of being self-employed.

I stopped by the office, where I had a supply of plan B.  The answering machine on my desk was blinking.  There was only one message.  It was from Ronnie, asking me to call her as soon as I got back.  I didn't have anything positive to report, and I wasn't about to let her know about my first abortive attempt, so I ignored the machine, got plan B all ready to go, and got in my car to make the trip to Ohio again.

=============================================

For plan B I wanted to approach the house during the daytime, and I wanted to catch her off guard.  When I got there the red Tracker that had been in the driveway the day before wasn't there, which confirmed that Madeline was still at work.  So I went a few blocks to get a cup of joe and a donut, then returned to wait for her to get home.

When I saw the Tracker pull into the driveway, I got out and went to the rear of her car.  I got there just as she was getting out.  She had some bags in her hands.  I was glad, because that kept her hands busy.  I adopted my no nonsense business voice.

"Mrs. Wilkenson," I said formally.  "You may remember me from yesterday.  I never got a chance to introduce myself.  I'm Bob Holmes, a private investigator, and I have a warrant here to search your house and recover property belonging to my client.  I tried to do this the easy way yesterday, but you decided to be uncooperative."

I waved plan B in her face.  It had her name and address on it, and looked very official.  It should have.  It was based on a real search warrant, right down to the signature of the judge on it.  Of course that judge had no idea I was doing this, but that was just a technicality in my mind.

She squinted at it and I held it still.

"I can't read that out here," she complained.  "You might as well come in."

Flushed with impending victory, I offered to help her carry things.  Since she was capitulating so nicely, I figured it wouldn't hurt to be magnanimous.  She handed me some bags and got more out of the back of the Tracker, and I followed her into the breezeway between the house and garage.  Muttley was there and dancing around with happiness.  Apparently if I came in with the mistress it didn't call for barking, her earlier command to sic me notwithstanding.

She dumped her bags on the kitchen table and turned to snatch the warrant from my hand.  I wasn't worried.  I had a good graphics program and the warrant looked perfectly legitimate.  She looked down her nose at it and glanced at me.

"You're supposed to have the sheriff with you when you serve a warrant."

I was ready for her.

"Considering the fact that you were smoking weed when I was here last night, I thought I'd do you the favor of skipping the cops.  I'm not holding a grudge here.  I just want to do what my client hired me to do, then I'll be out of your life.  Just give me the skates and you'll never see me again."

"Sit tight," she said and turned around to walk away.

She didn't go very far, stopping at a wall mounted phone.  She picked it up and punched only three numbers.

"Hello?  Yeah, there's a guy here impersonating a police officer and he's threatening me.  I need you to send a cop over here like immediately, cause this guy may kill me or something.  Oh shit!  He's coming in the house now.  I have to go!"

She slammed the phone back into the cradle and turned around to look at me.

"You're one stupid fuck to think I'd fall for that shit.  That warrant was issued in Kingston County and as any idiot would know this is Randall County.  Leave it to my loser daughter to hire a fucking ignoramus to try to steal MY property!"

"SHIT, LADY!" I yelled.  "IT'S ONLY A PAIR OF FUCKING ROLLER SKATES!"

"MY FUCKING ROLLER SKATES!" she screamed back at me.  She suddenly calmed.  "Now, I bet if I smack my face into the wall a few times, when the cops get here I can get you arrested for assault..."  She smiled, and I jumped as she suddenly screamed, "AND WATCH YOU ROT IN FUCKING PRISON!"

I had enough presence of mind to move toward her.  She flinched, which gave me the only little thrill I got that day, because she obviously thought that if I was going to get blamed for beating her up, I might as well do it.  But all I was interested in was plan B, which I did NOT want falling into the hands of the police.  I snatched it from her hand and started beating a hasty retreat.

"AND IF YOU THINK ANY COP WILL FIND DOPE IN MY HOUSE AFTER THIS, YOU STUPID FUCK, YOU'RE EVEN MORE IGNORANT THAN YOU LOOK!"

Muttley figured out that it was time to bark, but I made it out the back door before he could do anything more than that.

Saint Georgestill zip.

Chapter Three

I have to admit I was a little embarrassed, even though there was really nobody around to see it.  This woman, who I'd thought would be such an easy touch, was turning out to have more on the ball than I had expected.  That she'd just call the cops like that, even though I KNEW she had dope in the house, suggested she was either crazy or had an in with the department somehow.  I'd seen stuff like that before.  More than one bad cop has stolen "product" during a bust, and then turned around and sold it himself.

But besides being embarrassed  or maybe because of it  I was pissed off too.  I wasn't about to go back to that sweet, dangerous-looking woman in Chicago with the half crew cut and half dog ears hairdo, and tell her that her mother was smarter than I was.  I was beginning to get a glimmer of why Ronnie had that dangerous, smart aura about her.  She might not like her mother, but she was a product of the woman's genes.

So I opted for plan C.

I was tempted to give it a day or two.  I mean she HAD called the cops and all, and sometimes they had this bad habit of actually keeping an eye on someone who made a complaint like she had made.  I had no idea what cockamamie story she'd cook up to tell them when they answered the 911 call, but I didn't need any extra vigilance on their part when I executed plan C.

On the other hand, she might actually give them a description of me.  I'm burly, and that face full of hair isn't the cutesy little goatee that most men who sport facial hair have these days.  Im more the Grizzly Adams type, and fairly recognizable, even sitting in a car.  The last thing I needed was a run-in with the law where I didn't have any friends.

I could just see it in my mind:
<i>
"Hello officer.  I'm confused about why you stopped me.  I know I wasn't speeding."

"Driver's license and registration, please."

"Do you mind if I ask why you stopped me?"

"You match the description of a man alleged to be impersonating a police officer and threatening people."

"Hahaha.  That's a rich one.  Here you go, officer. I'm just Joe Average. I'm not a threat to anybody.

"I see, Mr. Holmes, that you're from Chicago. You mind me asking what you're doing in Dayton?

I couldn't lie to him. They have ways of checking these things. I thought about saying I was a consultant in the information sector. That's a little like calling a janitor an Environmental Sanitary Engineer, but sometimes it makes people nod, like they know what that means, cause they don't want to look stupid. I didn't think that would work with a cop who was already suspicious.

"Well, I'm a private investigator, and I'm on a case," I'd have to admit.

"What kind of case, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm trying to recover some very valuable property for a client."

"What kind of property, Mr. Holmes?"

"Uhhh...actually...it's a pair of roller skates."

"Step out of the car, Mr. Holmes. Keep your hands where I can see them!
</i>
***

I was pretty sure it would go something like that so, instead of hanging around Dayton, waiting for said scenario to play out, I went shopping for what I'd need for plan C.

I waited until an hour after I saw the last lights go off in the house and then eased out of the car, not closing the door completely.  I'd already taken the bulb out of the dome light.  The breezeway that separated the garage from the house was enclosed.  There was a storm door that led into it and, once you were through that, you could turn left to go into the house, or right to go into the garage.  

I wasn't surprised to hear Muttley stirring around in the breezeway when I approached.  Some people leave a dog in all night.  For those people the dog is just part of the family.  But I suspected any woman who'd kick her own dog just for doing his job wasn't going to be that type, and would put the animal out so it couldn't bother her during the night.  I was prepared for that eventuality, though, as long as I could keep the dog from barking too much initially.

Muttley had given out two nervous barks before I opened the storm door and tossed in $11.56 worth of beef chuck blade roast which, besides having nice red meat on it, had a bone, to keep Rover happy after his snack.  The light from the street lamps was good enough that I could see Muttley happily go for it.  I slipped in and went for the garage door immediately, while he was celebrating his good fortune.

I didn't want to draw any attention from the neighbors by turning on the lights, so I used my flashlight to begin my search.  I understood immediately why the car was parked outside.

If you've lived in your house for four or five years, take a look around.  See all that junk you've accumulated?  Now, multiply it by four.  This woman had lived here for twenty years or more and the place was crammed with lawnmowers, a garden tiller, and...of course...stacks and stacks of overflowing boxes.  Still, I didn't have to worry about making a mess.  Who'd notice in this clutter?  I just had to make that mess quietly.

I dumped one box and started transferring stuff from a second into the empty one.  I was on my fourth box when Muttley started barking.  I hurried to the door and opened it just enough to speak to the dog in a whisper.

"What's wrong, boy?" I said in my best pet-friendly voice.

He was standing over that bone, which had been cleaned up nicely and fairly shone, white in the dim light.  He looked at the bone and then back up at me, and barked some more.

"Eat the bone, you stupid dog!" I urged him in baby talk.

The furry fucker actually dipped his head and moved the bone with his nose, before looking back up at me and barking some more.  Apparently Muttley wasn't interested in bones.  He wanted more meat.  He barked some more.  It was dog language for "You didn't think you could buy me off with that paltry offering did you?"

A light went on in the kitchen and I ducked back, closing the door.  Muttley started barking up a storm now, so that his mistress would have no doubt whatsoever that he was doing his duty, despite the fact that there was a nice fresh bone on the floor that she hadn't given him and must have come from someplace else.

"SHUT UP, YOU FUCKING MUTT!"  She was so loud I could understand her clearly, through two doors and twelve feet of air.

Muttley came to the garage door and barked even more furiously.  It was dog language for "You don't understand, Mama, there's an INTRUDER here!  I'm doing my JOB!"

She yelled again, and was loud enough now that I knew she was doing that yelling from an open door.  I heard Muttley scratch at the door to the garage and bark, if it was possible, even more furiously.  I went to the sectional garage door and attempted to lift it.  It was stuck fast.  My flashlight showed there was an electric garage door opener that was keeping it that way and, of course, the emergency release rope was missing from the damn thing.  I was on my way back to where I hoped the button was when dear sweet Maddie came storming through the door with a baseball bat clutched firmly in both hands.  She was choking up way too much, but I wasn't in the mood to give her a lesson on how to properly hold a bat.  So I did the best thing I could think of.  I tried to blind her with the beam of my flashlight and slide by her so I could seek the only egress easily available to me.

She was quick for an old broad, let me tell you.  She blinked myopic eyes and swung that bat like Barry Bonds on a whole shitload of steroids.  She punctuated her swing with a grunted "Bastard!"  I leaned back and heard the swish of air as the bat went within an inch of my nose and slammed into a vacuum cleaner that was sitting atop a stack of boxes.  Plastic parts flew every which way.

I ducked away from the vacuum cleaner and tried to push past her, but she mustve watched Conan, The Barbarian too many times or something, because she used the bounce from the vacuum cleaner to swing back the other way.  I went to all fours, doing something like a bear walk and heard the bat slam into the wall.  I realized that now the flashlight was telling her where I was.  She was standing over me, and I hoped like hell that the bat had gone through the sheet rock and stuck, because if she brought it down now she'd break my spine clean in two.

"BASTARD!" she screamed.  Muttley barked right in my face.

I have to admit I panicked...just a little...and my instinct was to roll against her legs and knock her down.  The only problem was that her instinct was to kick the shit out of the intruder at her feet.  So when I tried to roll, all I did was move my ribs right into the path of her foot.  I thanked my lucky stars that she was barefoot, but it still hurt, and elicited an "OOF" from me.  Meanwhile I grabbed for Muttley's collar and pulled hard, jerking him past me and crawling for the open door.  He yelped, more from surprise than pain, in my opinion.

"MUTTLEY!" screamed Madeline.  Great.  Leave it to now for her to give birth to concern for her canine companion.   

I had both feet under me and was in the act of jumping through the door when that fucking bat connected solidly with my left side.  Pain shot through me like fire and every bit of air left my lungs.  I saw stars and it was only by adrenaline rush that I kept going.  I lurched to my right, propelled by the force of that strike, and bounced off the wall.  That was fortunate, because it bounced me toward the storm door.  I put a shoulder into that and fumbled for the handle.  My weight was too much for the latch, though, and the door sprang open.

From there, at least from the neighbors viewpoint, I must have looked like Igor...you know, Dr. Frankensteins hunchback assistant...shambling down the walk toward the street.  I was reduced to that bent-over one-legged loping kind of gait that Igor would use when he was trying to hurry to do his master's bidding.  The pain in my ribs was overflowing down my left leg, making it impossible to actually run.

She didn't chase me, but Muttley did.  I heard her scream, "SIC 'EM!" as loud as was humanly possible.  The saving grace was that Muttley, bless his black little soul, just wasn't an attack dog at heart.  He was a good guard dog, but as he scampered around me in circles, barking like crazy, his tail was wagging.  It was like he was saying, "This is fun!  I LIKE you!  You brought me a treat and now you're playing this neat running game with me!"

Thank God I'd left the key in the ignition.  I slid through the door.  My left arm wasn't working too good either, and when I tried to pull the door closed it was like a one year old was doing it.  The latch caught, but the door didn't close all the way.  I twisted the key frantically, gunned the engine to life, and would have left ten feet of rubber except that my '95 Contour just didn't have the guts to spin the tires.  It was good on fuel economy, but not so much on power.

I left Dayton as if I had urgent business elsewhere.  I did, actually.  I was pretty sure that, at a minimum, I had a couple of cracked ribs, and it was agony to breathe if I did anything more than suck in enough air to stay conscious.  All that frantic activity had encouraged my lungs to expand as much as they could and quite often to boot, though, and I saw stars again for the next ten minutes as I made my way to I-75 and north toward Toledo.  I knew something was broken, but I didn't know how bad it was.  If the tip of a fractured rib was making me bleed, I wanted to pass out on an interstate highway, instead of some back road where nobody would have a chance to find me before I bled to death.

Chapter Four

That trip back to Chicago would make a story in itself, but suffice it to say that twenty-four hours later I was sitting in my office.  My cracked ribs were tightly encased in what made me look like a practice mummy or something, where the lesson of the day was "Cover the torso and wait for the instructor to check your work."  I was three hundred bucks in the red, and it was only that much because I drove myself to the hospital, instead of taking an ambulance.  The emergency room doctor had wanted to call the police, but I told him not to.

"It was just a little misunderstanding," I'd told him.  "I went to a bat fight without a bat, that's all."

I wouldn't find out until much later that the doc had a sense of humor.  When the tape finally came off I would find that, in indelible marker, he'd carefully put a big black X right over the crack.  Above that was the word  "Louisville."  It took a month to wear off.

==================================================

I couldn't do much of anything until my ribs quit screaming at me every time I took a breath.  I didn't call Ronnie either.  I was much too embarrassed by what had happened.  I wasn't all that worried about the cops.  Even if Maddie made a complaint in Dayton, it wasn't likely anybody in Chicago would take it seriously.  They don't extradite you for that kind of thing.  It's too expensive.  And, except for the fact that I'd left my $5.25 knurled aluminum LED flashlight in the breezeway, there really wasn't any evidence, as far as I knew, that it was me who'd been there.  Not counting the ribs, of course.  The flashlight wouldnt have held any prints, because of the knurling.  Oh, sure, she probably knew who it was...but she didn't have any proof.

I didn't count on Veronica Powers keeping an eye on my office though.  Her silhouette appeared in the glass of my office door again.  This time she didn't knock, she just came right in.

The first thing out of her mouth was "Where have you BEEN?!  I must have left five messages on your phone!"


"Six," I said.  "But who's counting.  I have other cases to work, you know.  I've been busy."


"You said you were going to see her.  Did you get my skates?"


"There were...um...complications.  Your mother isn't the easiest person to get along with."


"I TOLD you that," she moaned.  "Didn't I tell you she was a buttface?"

"You did," I admitted.  "You just didn't tell me she was an intelligent buttface."

"So you saw her."

"I did.  She is of the opinion that since she paid for the skates, that makes them hers.  Apparently she thinks she loaned them to you for a few years, or something like that."

"Why are you all hunched over like that?" she asked suddenly.

"I'm not hunched over."  I tried to straighten up and not wince at the same time.  I was surprised at how hard that was.

"Yes you are.  You look like you'd fall out of that chair if it didn't have arms on it."

"I'm just tired, that's all," I tried.

"Stand up," she commanded.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not," I said, mustering what dignity I could.  "Why don't you just run along now.  I'm working on your case and, as I said, I have other jobs to do, too.  I'll get in touch with you when I have something to report."

She walked around the desk and stood beside me.

"Stand up," she said firmly.

"Who died and made you queen?" I asked.  I had to crane my neck to look up at her.  Who'd have thought neck muscles were connected to ribs?  I couldn't hide the wince this time.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said testily.  "I bumped into something."

I don't get amazed all that easily, but  when this young woman reached down and started unbuttoning my shirt...well, I got amazed.  She acted like it was the most normal thing in the world.  She didn't have to get many buttons undone before she could see the closely wrapped strips of tape around my torso.

"What happened to you?!" she asked again.  This time she sounded upset.  "Did my mother do that?!"

I told you she was a smart girl.  Didn't I?  Hell, I can't remember now, but if I didn't, I should have, because she was.

"Don't worry about it," I tried to growl.  It came out as more of a weak gasp as her hand slid inside my shirt and right over a cracked rib.  I followed that up with a not-so-manly groan and she jerked her hand away.

"If my mother beat you up, I'm going to just kill her!" she yipped.

Now she was impugning my manhood.  I felt a spark of anger that I had been so easily unmasked.

"Nobody beat me up!" I snapped.

That used up what air I had left and I unthinkingly took a deep breath to tell her to leave me alone.  What grated its way out of my throat was a groan that had "fuck" somewhere in it.  It's really kind of amazing how you can be in agony and still feel kind of bad for using a word like that in front of Ronnie.  Even though she looks like she's heard every dirty word on the planet, and probably used half of them herself.

She could see through bullshit, too, as it turned out.  Her eyes actually teared up and she backed up a couple of steps.

"Oh!  I'm so sorry!  I should never have gotten you involved in all this," she moaned.

She looked tense again, like she had before, when I was sure she was about to bolt from my office.  It's also amazing how you can be in agony and not want the woman who got you in agony, figuratively speaking, to go away, never to be seen again.

"Don't go!" I gasped.

She blinked at me.

"Who said I was going anywhere?"

Women.  Who understands them?  Not me, obviously.

========================================================

She didn't leave.  In fact, somehow she ended up buying me dinner.  I think it was her way of making up for what she thought of as sending me into the dragon's lair.  Except the dragon part was my characterization of her mother, not hers.  Then again, as I stated a moment ago, I don't understand women, so maybe she was thinking dragon, too.  Anyway, I'm getting off the subject.  Sorry.  Pain will do that to you.

The point is that somehow we ended up at Romano's, this little Italian restaurant I'd seen before, but never been in, because it had a sign in the window that said they specialized in "meatless delights," whatever that meant.  She kept saying things that had the phrase "beat you up" in them, which was leaving me feeling less than manly.  They seemed to know her in the restaurant and she cut to the chase when the waitress came up and started talking about appetizers.

She ordered for both of us.

Then, as a little more of my machismo oozed between the strips of tape around my ribs, she put her elbows on the table and leaned forward and said, "OK.  Tell me what happened."

"I don't want to," I said.  Apparently when my manhood left, all that remained was a pouting little boy.  Unfortunately, she seemed to know how to deal with that, too.

"Come on," she cooed softly.  "Don't feel bad.  I know my mother.  I should have known better than to send you off like that, unprepared."

"You're not making me feel any better," I said.  I was a little surly, I suppose, but the ache in my side was constant.  "I'm supposed to be a big boy."

"I thought you were," she said.  She pinked up a little.  "I mean, you are, of course.  But my mother is a hardened bitch, too, and I didn't communicate that to you very well."

"You got that right," I said.

"I said I was sorry," she complained.

"No, I mean about your mother being a hardened bitch," I explained.

I really didn't intend to tell her the whole story.  I felt pretty stupid already.  But she had this thing about her.  I mentioned it before.  When you were around Ronnie you just wanted to see her smile, which meant she was happy with you.  Not that I expected the story of what her mother did to me would make her smile.

So you can imagine how miserable I felt when it did.  Not only did she smile, she laughed!

"I'm sorry," she apologized immediately.  "It's just that I can see you crawling around on all fours with Muttley in your face.  I don't think he would hurt anybody, by the way.  But that image of you just doesn't match up with what I thought you were all about."

"Thanks," I pouted.  "It's not like I have a shred of masculinity left for you to rip from my bleeding body."

"You're not bleeding," she smiled.  Then she frowned.  "Are you?"  Suddenly she was all concerned about me again.

"No, I'm not bleeding," I said quickly.  I had visions of her running those hands over my ribs again, and wanted to avoid that at all costs.  "I FEEL like I am, but that's only because I just admitted what a schmuck I am in front of a dame.  I feel like I'm going to start lisping any second."

"Lisping?"  She looked confused.  Then she got it, as she realized I was suggesting all gay men talked with a lisp.  She laughed again.

"Oh, I know you're not gay," she giggled.

"Is that a fact?" I growled.  I actually growled that time, because I was in better control of my breathing.  I was concentrating on my new mantra: Shallow breaths, Bob...shallow breaths.

"I saw how you checked me out when I first came in your office," she said.  Damned if she didn't sound smug.

"I always check out prospective clients," I said, somewhat lamely.  Why was I arguing with her?  She was trying to give me my manhood back.

"Yeah...right," she said.  That bullshit meter was working fine.  She straightened up.  "Anyway, that's not the point.  What are we going to do?"

"We?"

"About my mother.  I'm NOT going to let her get away with beating up one of my friends!"

"Would you PLEASE stop referring to it as beating me up?" I moaned.

"Well that's what she did, isn't it?"  Very practical girl, that Veronica.

"No self respecting non-gay guy wants to admit he got beat up, OK?  Especially by a woman."

"Oh."  She tried to hide the smile by rubbing lips that I could tell werent itchy.  All she did was draw my attention to that mouth.  Luscious.  That's what her lips were.  Full and luscious.  I wondered who got to kiss those lips, and used the pain of a too-deep breath to take my mind off that kind of thing.

"WE," I said firmly, "are not going to do anything.  I'll figure out a way to get your skates.  You're the client and I'm the dick.  Let's just remember that, OK?"

"You're the dick?"  She didn't try to hide her smile that time.  I would never have thought of her as having a salacious side and it almost shocked me.  "Of course you are," she said, obviously returning to the subject of my sexual orientation.

Thank goodness the waitress brought us food just then.  I had no idea what to say after that.  That woman left me feeling all discombobulated.  It was very disturbing, or would have been if she wasn't so much fun to be around.

By the time I found out vegetarian Italian food isn't bad at all, I was able to steer the conversation away from the case, and we spent an hour just talking about stuff.  It was kind of a nice break to talk to a normal person about normal things.  I found myself wanting to do more of that in the future.

==================================================

The rib bone's connected to the sternum bone.  The sternum bone's connected to the neck bone.  The neck bone's connected to the skull bone.  By now it had penetrated my thick skull, through that network of other bones, that I had taken this job, and my nemesis, much too lightly.  This was going to take some real thought.  I didn't even contemplate just giving up and telling Ronnie I couldn't get her skates for her after all.  To see disappointment in those lovely green eyes of hers would be like being cracked in the ribs again.  I was sure of that.

So I employed my brain, for once.  I had to come up with plan D, and it had to be flawless.

Chapter Five

Plan D involved a visit to Melody Hartwig, who was a family law attorney I knew.  I'd done a couple of surveillance jobs for her and we had chatted about the law on an informal basis.  I gave her my discounted fee both times.  She worked in a rough part of town and was a do-gooder.  I knew she didn't gouge her clients, but I also knew that whatever I charged her would be passed on to the client.  I have a little do-gooder in me, too, though I try hard to control that impulse.


Melody welcomed me and then laughed when I told her what my newest job entailed.  She stopped laughing when I told her some of how things had gone thus far.  It was easier telling her what a wimp I had been, since another woman already knew.  Odd how that can be, huh?  Then I asked her if she could give me some advice on how to get a judge to order Madeline to turn over the skates.


"That's complicated," she said frowning.


"What you mean is that it would take too much time to do for free," I suggested.


"No, I mean I may NOT be able to answer the question."


"It can't be THAT complicated," I said.  Surely children have property rights.


"Think about it, Bob.  Up until about a hundred years ago children WERE property.  Their parents had the right to sell them into indentured service and things like that.  Children had no rights at all."


"OK," I said.  "I get that, but that's all changed.  Don't tell me the bleeding heart liberals haven't changed the laws by now."


"SOME of it has changed," she said, ignoring my barb about bleeding heart liberals.  She was one and we both knew it.  But she also knew I was just saying words.  "There's been legislation regarding children, but it's been piecemeal.  There's law on what children CAN'T own, but I don't know of anything that says what they CAN own.  I'm not sure there's any overreaching law on that particular issue.  My guess is that its still based on custom and common law."


"What do you mean custom?" I said.  "That's stupid."


"No it's not," she said.  "Parents have wide latitude in what they can give and withhold from their children."  I opened my mouth but she held up a finger to stop me.  "Parents buy things for their kids, right?"  I nodded.  "Maybe it's a Christmas present, or a birthday present, or just because the child begs for it.  But the fact is that nobody would say that the parent can't then withhold whatever that was if the situation changes.  Like for punishment.  You get your kid an IPod because he got good grades.  Then his grades dip and you take it away from him.  No judge is going to say that was a violation of the child's property rights."


"OK," I said.  "But this isn't like that.  She used the skates for years.  When she moved out, she didn't think to take them with her.  They're still hers, right?"


"Parents throw old toys away all the time," said Melody.  "They sell old toys at garage sales.  They donate them to the Salvation Army.  Nobody says that's wrong.  Imagine what it would be like if a child could bring legal action against a parent for throwing a toy away.  It would be madness."  She frowned again.  "I think you're barking up the wrong tree here."


"You said something about common law," I said.


"Sure.  Say a bully at school takes that IPod we were talking about away from your kid.  Common law is going to recognize that IPod as being your kid's property, and will view the incident as theft or robbery or whatever.  But if the parent takes that IPod, it's not the same thing.  The parent can also make an argument for ultimate ownership.  The only time I'd say it wouldn't work that way was if the kid earns the money and goes out and buys the IPod herself.  And it would have to be with her own money  not allowance  but money she got independent of the parents.  See what I mean by how complicated it can get?"


Now I was the one frowning.


"OK, but when she moved out she was an adult.  She took her clothes with her, and other things.  Wouldn't the skates be in the same category?"


"Maybe if she  had taken them then," said Melody.  "But if she left them there, then her mother could say she abandoned them, or something like that.  And technically, I'm not sure an adult child could really make the argument that the parent even owed them any clothing, once they decide to leave the nest.  I mean, most parents wouldn't stop their offspring from taking clothing, but I don't know of any law that says they HAVE to let them take anything at all.  There must be some kind of bad blood between them for this to be happening."


"Yeah, you could say that," said Bob.


"Then that makes it a civil matter," said Melody.  "Between two adults.  I suspect the fact that they're related doesn't really make that much difference."


"Can you make a call or two and see how the wind might blow if I approached a judge?"


"Sure," she said.  "But even that won't mean much, because any lawyer or judge I talk to will base his opinion on Illinois law.  Didn't you say this woman lives in Ohio?"


"Yeah," I said glumly.


"Why don't you just buy the skates from her?" asked Melody.  "If she feels like she owns them, surely she thinks she can sell them."


"We don't have the best of relationships, either" I said, carefully.  I hadn't told her everything, which included not mentioning my little legal indiscretions.  I had admitted to being outsmarted by a woman, but I wasn't about to tell her that Maddie had taken a bat to my ribs.


She shrugged.  "So the price goes up a bit.  Everybody has their price.  It's the core of capitalism.  Either your client will think the skates are worth the price or she won't.  Problem solved."


"I guess we could try that," I said.  I didn't think that would work.  Not after what had already happened, but I couldn't tell Melody that.  I mentally kicked myself for not thinking about just buying the hag off the first time I saw her.


=======================================================


Plan D, of course, required me to contact Ronnie.  I didn't mind that, really.  I liked being around her and this gave me an excuse.  She hadn't said that my checking her out had offended her, but she also hadn't said she'd enjoyed it.  I didn't think there was any invitation there, what with me being almost old enough to be her father and all, so I'd take whatever excuse I could come up with to see her again.   


I know.  We older, alone kind of guys are sad cases.  Get over it...while you go home to a bed warmed by someone of the opposite sex.


"Hey," I said into the phone when she answered it.


"Hi!" she said.  "Did you figure out how to get my skates already?  Do you have them?"  That girl had a one track mind.


"No, but I did some research, and the smart money says we should just offer to buy the skates from your mother.


"Buy my own skates?"  Her voice rose an octave.  "From my buttface mother?!"


"It's the easiest way, and it solves the problem.

"But that's just wrong!" she said.

"OK, it's wrong.  You want the skates, right?  Call your mom.  Offer to buy them.  Tell her you realize she spent a lot of money on you when you were little and you appreciate it.  You can't pay back all of it, but you CAN repay her for whatever she spent on the skates."

"I have to call her?"  Ronnie Powers sounded like I had just asked her to find a lost wedding ring in a cesspool.

"You're her daughter!  Daughters call their mothers all the time!" I whined.

"Not this daughter," she said.  "If I do this, do I still have to pay you?  I mean it sounds like I'm going to do all the work."

"Just make the call," I said.  "Let's get the skates in hand before we get all wrapped up about whether you owe me anything or not."

"Oh, all right."

"Call me back when you get done," I said.

"Will you actually answer the phone?"  She might be sweet, but she could be sarcastic, too.

"I'll be here," I said.

=========================================================

I expected her to call me the next day, but the phone rang a very short ten minutes later.

"Mr. Holmes?"  It was her.  My heart went pitter patter.  I was shameless.

"Ronnie?"

"She wants a thousand dollars for them."

I was dumbstruck.  "You're kidding."

"No.  She yelled at me for what she called sicking a private detective on her.  She said you threatened her.  She was ranting and raving about you breaking and entering, too."

"I'll explain later," I said.  "Did she actually say she wanted a G for those stupid skates?"

"She did," said Ronnie.  "She said I had hurt her and disappointed her.  Can you believe that?  She ALWAYS makes everything my fault."

"Shit," I sighed.  "I really thought this would work.

"She said something else, Mr. Holmes."

"Would you PLEASE start calling me Bob?" I moaned.  "You make me feel like I'm a wizened old man."

"She said something else, Bob," she said patiently.

"What was that?"

"She said YOU have to deliver the money and that she won't take a check.  She also said she won't take meat in payment.  What does that mean?"

"Oh," I said.  "When I went in the garage I tossed a hunk of meat to Muttley to distract him.  I forgot to tell you that part."

"What are we going to do, Bob?  I don't have that kind of money, and even if I did I wouldn't give it to my mother.  Not even for those skates."

"I still have a couple of ideas left," I said.  "Let me think about it for a few days and talk to some associates.  Maybe we can come up with something to trade for them...something she needs, or something she wants to keep secret."

"You're talking about blackmail," said Ronnie.

"Not really," I said.  "But if I find anything I can blackmail her with I might be tempted to use it."

"Good," she said.

Chapter Six

I actually only had one other idea and it didn't involve any associates.  In fact, it didn't even involve going to Ohio again.

Plan E required that I spend a dayand it took all daylimping carefully from one pawn shop to another, until I found a pair of white leather roller skates with red wheels.  They were a little worse for the wear, but that was to be expected of something at least fifteen years old.  I didn't know how old these skates were, but they looked like they could be more than a decade along.

Then I waited two more days, so there would have been time for me to do what I was going to claim to have done.

I gave her a call.  "Hey," I said.  "You want to come down here and get these skates out of my office?  They're cluttering up the place."

"YOU GOT THEM?!" she squealed.  I felt bad almost immediately, because I was lying to her and she got so excited about it.  "I'LL BE RIGHT THERE!" she squealed some more.

I don't know where she lived, but it couldn't have been far, because she was there within fifteen minutes.  During that whole time I kept telling myself this was the best way and that it didn't really matter if they were the ACTUAL skates she'd grown up in.  I mean the real ones were just a symbol, right?  It wasn't like she was going to put them on and suddenly be a girl again.  Still, I felt like I'd eaten a big bowl of the chili Zippo sells off his cart down on Magnolia street, without putting a few drops of Beano on it first.

She burst through the door and her eyes went immediately to the skates sitting on one corner of my desk.

"OOOOO THANK..."  She didn't finish, and she kind of went into slow motion until she stopped, still a couple of feet from my desk.  She leaned forward and peered at the skates.  "You," she finally finished, not nearly as excitedly as she'd started.  She put her hands on her hips and one foot went forward to leave her in a wide, well balanced stance.

The smile I'd pasted on my face slipped a bit.

"I value honesty in a man, Bob," she said, her voice low.

"Um...as you should," I said weakly.

"Those aren't my skates, Bob," she said.

I tried to look outraged.  "What?!  You mean that evil woman slipped me a ringer?!"

"My mother wouldn't do that," she said firmly.  "She doesn't care enough to go to the effort of finding another pair of skates like mine," she said.  "I just TOLD you, Bob, I like honesty in a man.  If you're not going to be honest with me, then you're wasting my time."  There was disappointment in her eyes, and that was what made me feel like Zippo's nonexistent chili was about to come back up any second.

"Oh."  What else could I say?

I'll tell you what else I could say.  Within three more minutes I'd spilled my guts about the subterfuge and begged her for forgiveness.  That girl could have had a career as an interrogator.  During the confession she moved her arms until they were crossed under those beautiful braless breasts of hers, with their luscious perky nipples which, to my utter disgust, I couldn't help but glance at more than once during those three minutes or so.

Not only am I inept, sometimes, I'm shameless too.  I admit it.

Her hands went back to her hips.

"What am I going to do with you, Bob?" she asked the room at large.  I knew she wasn't talking to me.  I had a feeling I wasn't allowed to say anything else anyway.

"I'm really sorry," I said, risking being told, "You just shut your pie hole you nasty, repulsive, conniving, weak minded liar!"

"I know," she said softly.  "That's why I suppose I'm going to have to forgive you."

"You are?"  Never has there been more hope crammed into two words than there was in that moment.

"You were trying to make me happy," she said, looking at the wall instead of at me.  "Its really kind of sweet, in a way.  I suppose I can't be mad about that forever."  Then she DID look at me.  "But no more lies, Bob.  If there are any more lies, we're done.  Got that?"

That "we" in "we're done" hit me right in the balls, and I don't mean in a painful way.  But that was only for a split second, before my brain engaged to remind me that there was no "we" except for the private investigator/client relationship.  She must REALLY want those skates badly, to put up with the likes of me.

"OK, I promise," I said fervently.  Then I thought about how much trouble I had already gone through for these stupid skates and how much MORE trouble would undoubtedly be experienced if I saved the "relationship" we were in.  I also realized I didn't care.  I wanted to erase the disappointment in those green eyes.  I HAD to erase the disappointment in those eyes, or they'd haunt me forever.

"Just out of curiosity," I said, trying to learn from my mistakes, "what tipped you off?"

She didn't smile.  "Those have pink laces in them, Bob.  Do I look like a girly girl to you?"

"Um..."  How does a man answer that?  There's no good answer for that one, even if it sounds like there is.

"And the toe stops are black instead of red."

"Oh."  That seemed safe, under the circumstances.

================================================

Ronnie had made it quite clear that there was no urgency about working on her case until I had healed up.  So, during the two weeks I waited for my side to become more of a tender ache than really painful, I shamelessly spent as much time with her as possible under the auspices of having her explain...and show me...what a web site might look like if I were eventually successful at getting her skates back.  And that gave the old battleaxe time to lose the edge, in terms of vigilance, which I assumed she'd been hot on for a few days after she chased me off with a bat and made that ridiculous demand for a thousand bucks.

During those two weeks, I spent quite a bit of time salivating over Ronnie while she bent over my shoulder from behind me, clicking things with the mouse and pointing out this and that good or bad feature of some web site.  It earned her a nickname, as a matter of fact.

"You smell good," I said one day, practically out of control.  I know she was convinced I was some kind of sex freak, because every time she saw me the front of my trousers bulged like I was some kind of sex freak.  "Like peaches," I added.

"It's my body lotion," she said.  "It's peach flavored."

She clicked the mouse again and directed my attention to something or other on the screen.  She was talking, but I didn't hear a word.  Peach FLAVORED?!  Just about every muscle in my body seized up at the thought of...tasting.  And I wasn't thinking about sucking from the bottle either, let me tell you.  Though, come to think of it, if there had been a bottle of the stuff lying there when she left that day, I might have been tempted.  Anyway, that's when I started thinking of her as "Peaches."

Two days later, while I was reviewing some video surveillance, she walked through the door.  I looked up and nodded.

"Hey, Peaches," I said.

"What is it with you and nicknames?" she asked, her hands on her hips.  "What's wrong with Veronica?"

"Nothing," I said.

"First you call me Ronnie, and now Peaches.  Is this your idea of trying to put a move on me?"

"Me?" I asked, looking up.  "Do I LOOK stupid?"  I realized that opened a door I didn't necessarily want opened, and went on before she could actually answer.  "Never mind.  It's just a term of endearment...er...friendship, I mean."  I was more than a little flustered.  "If you don't like it I'll stop."

"I didn't say I didn't like it," she said firmly.  Then she changed subjects, turning on a dime.  "Did you think about what I told you about popup tool tips?  I really think that your list of services would be very user friendly if the user could hover over one and get more information without having to go to another page."

That must have been what she was talking about last time, while I was dreaming about licking her all over.

"I've been kind of busy," I hedged.  "Besides, you're the expert.  I'm probably just going to go with whatever you think is best."   

About halfway through my reply I remembered how finely tuned her bullshit meter was.  I glanced at her to see if she was buying this.  Maybe she was used to people reacting like I did to the gobbledy gook she spoke when she was talking about web sites.  She smiled.

"Good.  I knew you had a brain in there somewhere."  She moved a box of tapes and plopped down in the chair I'd put them in.  "So many people want to argue."

"Not me," I said.  "I recognize expertise when I see it."

"You are so full of shit," she sighed.  "But you're cute, bordering on adorable, in a puppy kind of way.  I suppose if you have a puppy you have to be willing to put up with a little shit now and then."

"I am wounded!" I said.  "I'm fully housetrained and, believe it or not, I'm way more of a pit bull than a puppy.  I just went off half-cocked on your case, that's all.  I underestimated the diabolical intelligence of your mother.  It couldve happened to anybody."

"My mother is not all that intelligent," said the woman's daughter.  "She's selfish and mean, and ugly to people, and conniving, and..."

"I get you," I said, interrupting her.  "I just didn't quite get you soon enough.  Let's not talk about her.  It makes my ribs hurt."

"So, how are your ribs?"

"Nearly good enough that I can give it another go," I said.

"You're not going to do something stupid again, are you?"

"Tell me how you really feel, Peaches," I quipped.

"Maybe I should approve your next plan ahead of time," she said.

"You stick to your field of expertise, and I'll stick to mine," I said firmly.  "I know it doesn't look like it, but I DO know what I'm doing."

She looked up at the ceiling and took in a big breath, so she could let out a big sigh.  My fervent hope that her nipples would pop through her shirt went unanswered.

"Puppies and shit," she sighed.  "My world is full of puppies and shit."

Chapter Seven

I HAD thought about her case and I DID have another plan...sort of.

I admit I was a little desperate at this point.  Having been given a reprieve for trying to pull a fast one, and knowing I would have at least one more chance to make her happy, I had been thinking about what had gone wrong during my earlier abortive attempt at burglary.  I didn't feel bad about trying that.  The way I was thinking about it, those skates belonged to Ronnie, Melody's complicated musings be damned.

It occurred to me that I had been very stupid to try to go in that garage while she was sleeping in the house (Duh!).  The woman worked, for pity's sake, and left the house unguarded for at least eight hours a day.  That didn't give much respect to Muttley, but then he hadn't really earned much, in my opinion.  He was a good barker, but as long as someone gave him enough meat, that was about as far as he went.

So I had already decided to try plan C again, except this time I'd go while the dragon lady was at work.  I didn't tell Peaches about it, though.

I had already scoped out the neighborhood, but I put in a little surveillance, both to make sure she left for work and to see what the neighbors were up to.  It was a blue collar neighborhood, without a lot of bikes or kids toys in the yards.  I saw both a man and woman leave for work from the house on the garage side of Maddie's house, then she got in her car and drove off, too.  A middle aged woman from across the street left soon after.

I waited twenty minutes, in case she came back for something she'd forgotten, then parked my car down the street in the parking lot of a little strip mall, where it wouldn't be noticed if it sat for a while.  Then I walked down the street and up to the breezeway entrance like I knew what I was doing.

Muttley must have been expecting me, because he only gave one short yip and wagged his tail.  Maybe he smelled the meat I was carrying in a plastic bag.  Hamburger this time.  I was already into this case for a lot of dough and I was pretty sure I wasn't going to see any of it back in cold, hard cash.  He happily wagged his tail while I gave him what he was expecting.

I was able to turn on the lights in the garage this time, which turned out to be a good thing, because there was a ton of stuff to go through.  I looked around.  The box I had been transferring things to last time was still where I'd abandoned it.  I couldn't tell if anything else had been moved or not.  It was going to take hours to dump all those boxes out.  I sighed.  I didn't want the noise I was going to make to get Muttley all excited, so I closed the door.

There was a piece of paper taped to the back of the door.

It said:  "You won't find them, because I'm not stupid enough to leave them here.  Give it up, you putz.  You just made the price go up another five hundred bucks.  And by the way, I installed a silent alarm, and I WILL press charges."

There was a little smiley face drawn at the end of the message.

The only upside was that I figured out she was lying about the silent alarm.  The cops not only didn't come screaming in to arrest me as I beat another hasty retreat, they never showed up at all.

But I still didn't have the skates, and now I had no idea where to look for them.

=======================================================

I was getting tired of driving back and forth between Chicago and Dayton.  I was also getting tired of confessing my ineptitude to one Veronica Powers.  I didn't even think about trying to keep what had happened a secret from her.  I told her about it over pizza.

"I'm beginning to think this isn't worth it," she sighed.

"Nonsense," I said.  "They're your skates.  You have a right to have them."

"I don't want them if you're going to keep doing stupid things and end up in prison," she said.  She had this way of chastising me that didn't hurt as much as you'd think it did.

"I didn't get caught," I pointed out.

"Only because my mother is too lazy and too cheap to actually get a silent alarm," she said.  "You have to promise me you won't do anything else illegal."

"It's not exactly illegal," I argued.  "Recovering someones stolen property isn't against the law, as long as that's all you do."

"I'm not sure a judge would see it that way," she said.  "Promise me."

"You know, you're no fun at all," I said, trying to avoid making any promises.

"I'm more fun than you could handle, old man," she said.  "Promise me!"

"Damn, woman, you don't have to get nasty about it.  I'm not THAT old!" I complained.

"Promise me, Bob, or you're fired!"

"OK, OK, take it easy."

"That's not a promise," she said.

"I promise.  There!  Are you happy now?"

"I'll be happy when you figure out a legal way to get my skates for me and I can build you a web site," she said.

=======================================================

I had promised I wouldn't do anything else illegal.  I hadn't promised that nobody else would.  I went to see Vinny.

Vinny runs numbers for the mob.  He's not a bad guy, and from one perspective, he's just a guy doing a job that there's a demand for.  Yeah, people lose their paycheck to him, but then nobody forces them to make bets, right?  The way I see it, it's all part of natural selection.  The weak are taken down and the strong survive.   

Well, they would if politics didn't get involved, but that's another story.

Anyway, Vinny had connections, and I was out of ideas.  Some of his friends had innovative ways of dealing with recalcitrant clients, and I thought that either he or they might have some ideas I hadn't thought of yet to try.  And if any of those ideas were a little on the wrong side of legal, and THEY pursued them...then I was keeping my promise, right?

I told him the whole story, and the first thing out of his mouth was "I can get the bitch hit for a couple grand."

I didn't think Ronnie would approve, so I said, "Let's try something a little less permanent first.  Besides, she only wants fifteen hundred for the skates.  Why would I want to spend another five?"

He grinned.  "If she's kaput she can't complain about anything.  That's just five hundred worth of insurance."

"I dont think my client is going to be all that happy with me if her mother ends up on a slab," I said.

"OK then," said Vinny.  "I can get her knees broke for maybe five hundred.  You think she'll keep it a secret where the fucking roller skates are while somebody's breaking bones?"

"I think I'll pass on the aggravated assault, too," I said.

"Suit yourself," he said, shrugging.  "So what you need is some leverage then."

"I threatened to call the cops about her smoking dope and it didn't faze her," I said.

"That's kid stuff," said Vinny.  "You need real leverage, like that she's sucking little boy dicks or something like that."

"And what makes you think she's doing that?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said, shrugging again.  "There's all kinds of lowlifes in the world."

I thought it was interesting that a guy mixed up with the mob would characterize anybody but a snitch as a "lowlife," but I didn't start that conversation with him.

"Just watch her long enough and you'll get something on her," said Vinny.  "Everybody's got some kind of skeleton they want to keep in a closet.  You should know that.  You deal with that shit in your line of work all the time."

================================================

Vinny had pointed out the obvious.  I WAS in the business of getting the goods on people.  True, that leverage was usually used in some kind of a trial or suit, but there had been cases where things were settled out of court.

And it just so happened that Vinny had what I needed to do a long term surveillance on the target.  It was an old panel van that had one time belonged to some police drug task force.  It had a periscope in it that was disguised as an air vent.  It also had a bed, a little chemical camping potty, and a refrigerator in it that worked off of extra batteries.  When it was retired from government service, it was put on the auction block.  If you think it's ironic that a criminal enterprise bought it, it isnt.  Cops and robbers copy each other's technology all the time.

Of course I had to rent it, but it would allow me to sit someplace for an extended amount of time without drawing too much attention.  It even came with a selection of magnetic signs to attach to the outside, to make it look like a commercial vehicle, if so desired.

The periscope had three magnification settings on it, and I was pleased to find that if I parked in the very corner of that strip mall parking lot I'd used before, I could see when Maddie came and went and who visited her.  Though most people don't know it, for a couple of bucks any citizen can find out who anybody else's license plate is registered to, as well as his or her address.  Such are the delights of transparent government.

I had no idea what I was looking for, but I went prepared to stay for a while.  A visit to the local Army/Navy store got me a couple of cases of MREs, which would cover my food needs.  And Ronnie was plugged into this operation, too.  I'd told her what I was going to do and that I'd call her occasionally, to report what I saw.  She might notice something important that I missed.

It had been tense at first, when I told her about this new plan.

"I want to come with you," she said.

I thought about being cooped up in a four by six box with a woman who gave me a boner every time I thought about her, and almost groaned.

"The last thing in the world you want to see is me sitting on that little camping potty in that thing," I said.  I probably could have just said, "No," but I wanted to convince her this was a really bad idea.

"I can't anyway," she said.  "It wouldn't work out."

I agreed completely, so I said I'd call her frequently and let that end the conversation.

====================================================

I did call her frequently, over the next three days, but not to report any real information.  Surveillance is boring.  When you see it on TV, or in the movies, there's always witty conversation or something happening.  But in real life you sit there and try to keep from going stark raving mad while nothing at all goes on all around you.  Most people lead what could be argued to be a mostly boring life.  They go to work, come home, watch TV, go to sleep, go to work, go shopping, come home and on and on like that.  Most people don't even go for a walk.  And most people don't get a lot of visitors either.

Madeline was no exception.  For Wednesday, Thursday and Friday she lived a very normal, very boring life, except for one tiny thing.  She got no visitors and went nowhere interesting.  She ate lunch at the school where she worked.  Most of the time, when you're on surveillance, you know you're spinning your wheels.  But you have to do it, because there's no other way to get the information you hope to eventually get.  The only thing that set her apart from thousands of other people in that town was that everywhere she went, she carried with her a pair of white leather roller skates with red wheels, red laces, and red toe stops.

She took them to work with her, and didn't leave them in the car, where all I'd have had to do was a quick smash and grab.  She took them into the freaking grocery store with her, too, hanging around her neck like some kind of bizarre necklace.  And, of course, she took them inside with her at night when she got home.  It was like she knew I was there.

She was taunting me.

I was hoping for something interesting to happen on Saturday.  Ronnie had told me her mother wasn't currently married and had lots of short term relationships, either because she was only interested in sex or because she just couldn't keep a man interested for long.  So I was hoping that maybe she'd go on a date, or some guy would come over, and I'd be able to find out he was married.  If that were the case, I wouldn't put the arm on her, I'd put the arm on him.  HE would be the one to get me the skates, to avoid me splashing his indiscretion around, particularly to his wife or minister or boss.  If nothing else, he'd stop going to see her.  If every man stopped going to see her, maybe she'd get the idea that a pair of skates wasn't worth ending her sex life for.  Other than that I had no idea what I was waiting for, but I was hoping something would pop up that could be used against her.

Yeah, I know, it's not the most honorable of pursuits.  But life is seamy sometimes, and in that kind of world, seamy facts are the coin of the realm.

And something DID happen Saturday, as it turned out, but it wasn't anything I would have thought of in a million years.

Bright and early Saturday morning one of the three motion detectors I'd set in place started whining at me.  It was the one covering the breezeway door.

When I got to the periscope, I saw Madeline  Wilkenson start setting up to have a yard sale.

================================================

I knew instinctively that she was going to sell the roller skates in that yard sale.  

She lugged out all those boxes I had dumped, from one into another, and set them on the grass.  A piece of cardboard said it all:  "Yard Sale, Cheap Stuff."

Of course the last thing she brought out was the skates.  She brought them out of the house, hung around her neck as always.  There was a chair in her right hand.  She sat down with the skates still around her neck.

I knew there was relatively little I could do about that.  I couldn't go up and buy them myself.  She knew me.  And I didn't know anybody in this town who would do me a favor.  And even if somebody off the street bought them, I knew this demon woman well enough by now to know that she'd have some evil plan to keep me from getting my hands on them.  She was torturing me.  And she must have advertised the sale, because people were already parking their cars on the street in front of the house.

I got out of the van and waited for the right kind of customer to come out.  I saw him within a few minutes, while I peeked around the corner to keep an eye on Maddie and the skates.  The guy I chose had the look about him of a man trying to kill himself slowly with alcoholism: pint bottle, wrapped up in a brown paper bag, cradled to his chest like it was his best friend.  He needed both a shave and a haircut, and some clean clothes wouldn't have hurt either.

"How'd you like to make enough for a fifth?" I asked him.

He looked at me suspiciously.  Hardened drunks don't trust anybody.  People they know either are trying to do some kind of intervention, want their booze, or just want them to move on and be drunk somewhere else.

"Maybe," he said, his eyes darting around.

"There's a yard sale down the street.  The woman running it has a pair of roller skates draped around her neck.  I want you to go buy them and bring them back here."

"What for?" he asked.

"That's my business," I said.  "You in or not?"

"I ain't got any more money," he said, licking his lips.

I pulled out my wallet and got out a fifty.

"You buy them as cheap as you can, and what's left over is yours," I said.  "I'll be waiting here."

When he turned the corner I hotfooted it back to the van and glued my right eye to the periscope.  The idiot went straight up to her, pointed at the skates and started talking.  I didn't think to tell him to shop around a little.  Madeline said something and appeared to laugh.  The guy looked around and the next thing I knew he was running full speed around the garage, toward the alley.  Motherfucker was ripping me off!

My choices were to chase him down and get my fifty clams back, during which time she might sell the skates, or to let him go and stick to the more important issue.  I let him go.  I didn't have any illusions about finding him later and getting my money back.  Even if I found him half an hour later, the money would be gone.

I saw movement on the street through the periscope.  There was a kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen, riding one of those itty bitty bikes that you can do tricks on.  I got out of the van and motioned him over.  This time I flashed him the badge on my belt, but not long enough to actually read it.  I did the civic duty thing with him and said he could earn twenty bucks.  I told him to shop around and that as long as he didn't go hog wild I'd cover whatever he bought too.  I gave him the two twenties and ten that were all that was left in my billfold and told him he could pick up his bike when he brought me the skates back.  I put it in the van, just in case.

The kid did OK.  He wandered around, poking through boxes.  Eventually he pulled out a couple of things, kept one in his hand and put the other back, then went over to Maddie.  He gave her one of the bills and got some others back in return.  Then he pointed to the skates.  Maddie seemed to tell him an awful lot about them.  He fucking looked back toward the strip mall and walked away.

He came straight to the van.  He'd seen me get out of it, obviously, and he knocked on the door, right where Maddie could see him.  I wanted to scream, but there was nothing else to do but open the back door.  He had a roll of comics in  his hand, which he'd apparently bought.

"She gave me a message for you," said the kid.

"Why in hell did you tell her about me?" I moaned.  "You screwed everything up."

"I didn't have to tell her about you," he said.  "She told me no self respecting boy would be interested in a pair of girls roller skates, and that she wanted me to tell the man who sent me to buy them that the price was now two thousand dollars."

"Shit," I said.

"Give me back my bike," said the kid.  "She told me if you didn't, she'd call the cops for me.  I told her you WERE a cop and she said you aren't a real one."

"Shit," I said again.  I shoved the bike toward him and he got it out.  He stuffed the roll of comics inside his belt.  I held my hand out for the rest of the money.

"She said I can keep the money, too," said the kid, backing up.  "She said if you tried to take it back, I should come tell her and she'll call the cops about that, too.  She said you were trying to get me in trouble."

"Shit, shit, SHIT!" I exploded.

He didn't wait around.  He just took off on his bike.

At least he didn't ride back toward the Wilkenson residence.

Chapter Eight

My cover was blown.  There was nothing I could do about that.  But it wasn't illegal for me to be there and it wasn't illegal for me to watch her through a periscope on public property.  Even if she called the cops, they had nothing to hold me on.  She'd destroyed the only crime scene she could claim I was involved with when she moved all those boxes outside.  They might try to hassle me, but it wouldn't go anywhere.  Even if I wasn't licensed in Ohio, I still had the right to be where I was, doing what I was doing.  Besides, I was fairly sure she wanted me to see her sell those skates.

I was also fairly sure she had some plan that she was sure would work that would keep me from getting them from whoever she sold them to.  I wracked my brain to figure that out, but got nowhere.

==================================================

It was a girl of about ten or eleven who got them.  Well, her mother got them, anyway.  They did some shopping for clothes, which I thought was kind of odd.  Apparently Ronnie hadn't taken all her clothes, or Maddie had saved her old ones or something, because there were some that looked right when mommy held them up against her daughter for a look.  That was all they took up to the dragon woman, who was all smiles.  They didn't know they were looking at fangs, and the transaction was concluded quickly.  Mommy didn't appear to haggle.

Then the little girl pointed at the skates and there was a long discussion about them.  When Madeline took them from around her neck and handed them to the girl, I actually sighed.  No more money was exchanged.

The woman took the girl back to an older Toyota and they got in.  I got the license number with the magnifier in the periscope, but I didn't follow them.  For all I knew, that's what Madeline wanted me to do.  I made a call and got the tag info.  Then I stayed there for three more hours, just to give Maddie fits.

=============================================

Tiffany N. Moore, all of thirty-three years old, according to the birth date on her driver's license, lived at 2257 Bannister Road, Number 157.  2257 Bannister Road was the home of the Starlight Trailer Court, and Number 157 was an old white over blue Skyline model, about forty feet long.  It looked like it had seen better days before Tiffany N. Moore was born, but the yard was neat.  It was an older park, with a network of sidewalks through it, and the roller skates I was seeking were rolling along the walk in front of Number 157.  The little girl wearing them was still learning and wobbly on her feet.  Both knees were already skinned up.

I got out of the van and stood looking at the girl.  Apparently Tiffany was expecting me, because she came charging out of the trailer, running full tilt at me.

"GET AWAY, PERVERT!" she screamed.  I recognized the canister in her hand as being pepper spray just as she triggered it.

===============================================

If you've never gotten a shot of pepper spray directly in the eyes, don't go out and do that.  You don't need to do that to understand that it's a really unpleasant way to spend half an hour.  All you have to do is put a little spritz in the air and walk through it.  Hold your breath while you do it, by the way.  No sense in dealing with both streaming eyes AND coughing up a lung at the same time.  Just getting the barest hint of mist in your eyes will teach you plenty.

I have no idea how long I rolled around on the ground.  And though I KNOW I coughed up both lungs, apparently I sucked them back in.  I had closed my eyes just in time to keep myself from being flat blinded, but my face took the full spray and it felt like a nuclear fireball was eating away at my skin.  My eyes were swollen closed, but some of the stuff managed to migrate to the eyeballs anyway.  They were burning, too.

It took a while for a worried "Are you OK?" to penetrate my brain.  I found out later that she'd never used pepper spray before and had no clue what it would do to a man.

Eventually I was able to croak, "Water."  I didn't know it, but a crowd had gathered.  One of the men took charge and, since Tiffany told him the same thing Madeline had told herthat I was a convicted sex offender who preyed on ten year old girlshe elected to supply water from a hose.  Actually, while he didn't know it, that was probably the best thing he could have done for me.  It got the stuff off me, for the most part, and diluted what was still there to the point that I could breathe again without feeling like I was taking in acid instead of air.  Through it all, I kept rolling around and screaming.  It wasn't very manly, but I didn't care.

Somebody else called the cops to come get the sex pervert who had attacked a girl on their street.  I was sitting up when they arrived and put me in cuffs and stuffed me in the back seat of a cruiser.  Somebody in the crowd had seen my badge while I was rolling around and told the cops about it.  They took it, but didn't ask me any questions.  I wasn't in any shape for answering anyway.

I don't know how long I sat in the back of the car.  Somebody got my wallet out, and my eyes could open just barely enough to register a blue uniform, but not much else.  Some paramedics showed up.  I guess the police had called them.  They bathed my face and eyes with milk, and that took a lot of the sting out.  They offered to take me to the hospital, but I declined.  I had already avoided one ambulance bill in this case and I looked at it as a personal triumph over Madeline if I could avoid another.  Besides, I knew there wasn't much else they could do for me.  Pepper spray doesn't really do any permanent harm to tissues.  It just feels like it does.  I knew that microbes of the stuff would still be there until the contaminated skin sloughed off, so I didn't rub my eyes.  All that would do was grind it in and get it on my fingers.   

Eventually I was able to start blinking my eyes a little bit.  By the time the cops were ready to talk to me, I was breathing more or less normally and could see, though things were still blurry.

A cop took the hand irons off, and I sat with my feet hanging out of the cruiser.  Tiffany, or at least a woman wearing the same color of clothing she had been wearing, was standing there, too.  She was crying.

The cop gave me the news.  "We ran your name.  You've never been convicted of a sex crime.  Somebody in the Chicago Police Department vouched for you as well.  You wanna tell me what happened?"

"It's a long story," I croaked.

"You're not licensed in Ohio," he pointed out.

"I'm just acting as my client's agent here," I said.  "No cloak and dagger stuff."

"What about the van?" he asked.

"What about it?" I said back.  "It's not illegal."

"It's also not registered to you," he said.

"I borrowed it.  The registration is in the glove box."

"I know.  We already looked at that.  CPD told us who that belongs to too.  You have interesting friends back in Chicago, Mr. Holmes."

"No crime in that either," I said.

"I hate to have to ask you this," he said, sounding like he REALLY hated to have to ask me whatever he was going to ask me, "but do you want to press assault charges against Mrs. Moore?"

"Nope," I said.  "I assume that if I don't, as soon as I can see again, I'll be able to go back to Chicago."

"You have the right to press charges," he said.  His voice was dripping unhappiness.

"I also have the right not to."

"Yeah, you do."  His voice perked up a little.

"All I want to do is tell her the truth and ask her a question, and then I'd be most delighted to leave your happy little jurisdiction," I said.  "You can be here when I do it, if you like."

"Let me talk to my supervisor," he said and disappeared.

==================================================

I let them help me walk toward the trailer.  The crowd had dispersed, either because they thought everything was over or because the police encouraged them.  Mrs. Moore was sitting on the steps that led up to the small porch on the side of the trailer.  The girl was sitting beside her.  I could see by the white and red blurs at her feet that she still had the skates on.

"I'm sorry!" Tiffany wailed as I approached.  "Please don't make them arrest meeeee!"

"He's not pressing charges, ma'am," said the cop.  He said it forcefully, and I wasn't sure whether he was telling her or reminding me.

"Oh thank you, thank you, thank you," she moaned.  "That woman lied to me.  I didn't mean to hurt you.  She said you'd try to hurt Bethany.  She said the most horrible things about you.  I thought they were true.  I'm SO, so sorry."

"She lies about a lot of things," I said, just in case whatever she'd told the police who answered her 911 call ever connected that to me.

"What's this all about?" moaned Mrs. Moore.  "She said you were a child molester, and that her daughter committed suicide because of what you did to her."

"Another lie," I said.  I stopped myself again from rubbing my eyes.  It would be days before I could safely rub them with my bare fingers.  "It's all about the skates you bought."

"I didn't buy them," she said quickly.  "She gave them to Bethany.  She said they were her daughter's favorite thing before she died."

"Her daughter didn't die," I said.  "It was her daughter who hired me to get the skates for her."

"I don't understand any of this," sighed the young woman.

So I told her the whole story.  Well, most of the story.  Since Mr. Nice Policeman was standing there listening to all this, I skipped over a few parts.  It sounded bizarre and I knew it.  She also didn't believe me, which Id suspected was what her reaction would be.

"I can't believe someone's mother would do things like that," she said.  "Are you sure you aren't just trying to get out of trouble?  She said you were a pervert who wanted the skates to do nasty things with, because they were all that was left of her poor dead daughter.

The cop, either because this was the most entertaining thing that had happened to him in a long time or because he believed mecops know about how some parents treat their childrenspoke up.  "Ma'am, we did a background check on him.  He's never been convicted of anything.  And the police in Chicago vouched for him.  He really is a private investigator there."

She started crying again.  "I can't believe a woman would do that to her own child," she sobbed.  "That's just wrong."

"It happens sometimes," I said.  "It's sad, but it happens.  Anyway, that's why I came to see you.  I'd like to buy the skates from you, to compensate you for all this uproar."

If anything, she sobbed even harder.

"I caaaaan't," she cried, then started that little hiccupping thing that happens sometimes when someone tries to cry and talk at the same time.  Basically, she said that Madeline had made her promise never to sell the skates to me, no matter how much I offered her, and to give them away to another worthy girl when Bethany was done with them.  Madeline had said that was how she'd know that her daughter's spirit was still alive.

"But you know what she's like now," I said gently.  "You don't have to keep that promise."

"Yes I do."  She stopped crying.  "I take promises very seriously.  We don't have much since my ex-husband ran off and quit paying child support.  My word...my pride...is all I have, sometimes.  Your word is your bond.  If you throw that away, you have nothing."

"But she lied to you," I moaned.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean I lied to her.  I can't let you have those skates, Mr. ..."

"Holmes," I said.  "Bob Holmes."

"I can't let you have them, Mr. Holmes.  I'd be breaking my word if I did that.  She may be a terrible woman, but I won't be.  But I FEEL terrible!  Ohhhh, I don't know WHAT to doooo."  She started crying again.

"Mommy, do I have to give up my skates?"  Bethany's whine was heartbreaking.

I looked at the cop.  He shrugged.  He wasn't getting in the middle of this one.  Besides, technically, at least according to Melody, they weren't stolen.  She'd gotten them as a gift, from a person the law would probably decide was entitled to give them away.  It was her morals that were the problem.

If you can call sticking to a promise a problem.

=====================================================

I was wet and in all kinds of pain.  Pepper spray uses a chemical that's in chili peppers, and that sinks into the skin.  It does to your face and eyes what spicy chili does to your tongue.  In fact, you can season chili with pepper spray and it won't hurt a thing.  Other than your tongue.

I wasn't going to try to browbeat the woman into giving up the skates, despite the fact she had half killed me.  Well it felt like she'd half killed me.  I was exhausted, so I just took a nap in the van, parked in front of her trailer.  I didn't ask to come in and change clothes.  I told the cop what I was going to do, because I still couldn't see well enough to drive.  He informed me that it would probably be a bad idea to contact Mrs. Moore again before I left.  I told him I wouldn't.

I woke up in the middle of the night, still damp.  My eyes were pretty much recovered, so I just started up the van and drove back to Chicago.  Vinny would give me a hard time for the next month, because my clothes had transferred pepper spray to the bed in the back and to the driver's seat.  Everybody who got in the thing during that month got super clear sinuses almost instantly.

I waited a day to call Ronnie.  I was going to have to tell her the whole thing and explain, somehow, why she couldn't have her skates, even though they were no longer in her mother's possession.

Chapter Nine

I called Ronnie and suggested we go out for dinner. I wasn't thinking of it as a date. It was more to get her into a setting where the food might ease the disappointment of failure. She sensed something was wrong.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I can't just ask you out to dinner?"

"Bob!" she warned. That bullshit meter of hers was SO sensitive.

"OK, things didn't turn out very well...again."

"What happened?" Her voice had that tired quality to it that is so often there in a voice that has to ask What now? for the fifth or sixth or seventh time.

You said you like Mexican, right? How about we meet at El Cazador, and I'll tell you all about it over dinner.

The pain was gone, if not the sunburned look that the skin retains for days after it's been irritated with pepper spray. I forgot about that, though, and walked up to meet her with a smile on my face designed to make her believe that everything was all right.

"WHAT DID MY FUCKING MOTHER DO TO YOU NOW?!" she squealed, looking at my face. Her hand came up to touch it, but she stopped.

"It wasn't your mother," I said. "It's pepper spray. It's a long story. Let's go inside and I'll tell you there."

Ten minutes later, I had a very agitated Veronica on my hands. She was bouncing in her seat, she was so pissed.

"She said I was DEAD?! She GAVE MY SKATES TO SOME STRANGER?!"

What do you say to a woman in this situation? There's nothing you can say. You can't say, "It's going to be OK," because it's not. You can't say, "I'll think of something," because you know you've finally met your match, and somehow that fucking dragon got hold of the sword and cut St. George's head off.

"Does Vinny know anybody who would whack her?" Ronnie asked suddenly. "'Cause I'd pay to have that done right now."

I jerked and banged my head on the back of the booth. Man, could this woman get me all worked up.

"Calm down," I said. "I'll think of something."

"You will?" She sounded so desperate that I picked my head up off the ground, figuratively speaking, and tried to rearrange it on my shoulders.

"Of course I will," I said. "This isn't over yet."

"You can't steal them from that poor little girl," she said firmly.

Aren't women's morals interesting? She was willing to have her own mother assassinated, but forbade me from stealing a pair of skates from a little girl.

My face burned suddenly as I thought about how Tiffany Moore would react if I did that. She might have a gun this time. "Of course not," I said.

"Does it still hurt?"

I blinked, confused, until I realized she was talking about my face.

"Not so much," I said. "Unless I rub the skin. That's not a good idea."

"You've gone through a lot for me." There was something...odd...in her voice. It was kind of like she was giving voice to something she'd been musing about, but wasn't sure that her thoughts on it were on target.

"What can I say?" I said. "I knew things like this would happen when I decided to get into this line of work."

"You are so full of shit, Bob," she sighed. "Nobody would get into your line of work if he thought he was going to get beat up, ripped off by winos, and get his face all burned up."

"Pressure makes diamonds," I said, trying to sound like it was no big deal.

"Well that's that," she sighed. "Thank you for trying."

"I know I'll think of something," I said.

"No you won't," she said firmly. "This is over. If you keep going, something bad will happen to you. It's not worth it."

It occurred to me she was giving me an out...releasing me from my pledge to help her...that I wouldn't have to think about Madeline Wilkenson or those skates anymore.

"Don't give up so easily," is what came out of my mouth. I blinked. My brain was addled, probably from when my head thumped on the ground after the dragon cut it off.

"I DON'T give up easily," she said. "But I like you and if you got really hurt somehow, I'd never forgive myself.

Cracked ribs wasn't "really hurt?" Hours of agony and near blindness wasn't "really hurt?" A little prick of anger gave me back my intelligence, which allowed me to concentrate on the other part of her comment, which was jumping up and down, waving its hand in the air like Arnold Horshack on "Welcome Back Kotter," going "Oooo, Oooo, Oooo!"

She liked me!


"OK," I said.


===============================================


A private investigator is generally interacting with a specific segment of the population. On the upper end of the scale, that bunch might be called "challenged by life," and on the lower end of the scale might be termed "the dregs of society." So it shouldn't be any big surprise that you have a tendency to get a little jaded. You begin to expect the worst from people. Maybe it's karma or something, but when you expect the worst from people, you often get it.

But then you meet somebody who just doesn't fit into that group of people. Maybe a woman like Ronnie, though I have to tell you I think she's a pretty rare type. Or even a woman like Tiffany Moore, who could use some money, but has the kind of standards that won't let her get it just any old way. Anyway, it makes you reflect on the world in general and kind of gives you a wakeup call.

I thought about them both, for a few days. I suppose there are a lot of women who have some resemblance in appearance to Ronnie, but there are a lot more women who would come down on the less disturbing side that Tiffany was on. And yet both women had the same good sense and good morals or whatever you want to call it. Both of them had standards and those standards were important to them. And, having interacted with both of them, I thought that even though they were polar opposites in appearance, they'd probably like each other if they spent a little time chatting.

Which is what caused me, eventually, to think up plan F.

I didn't tell Ronnie about it, but only because I knew she would approve, even though neither of us could know whether it would work or not.

I went out and found as close to an exact match to the skates as I could find. Brand new, this time. I had to guess at the size, and I guessed a little large. Better to have to stuff some socks or newspaper in the toes than that they be too small. I also got elbow and knee pads, and a sharp looking helmet that matched the red and white motif I was going for.

Then I called Ronnie.

"Hey," I said. "I got an idea. Wanna go for a ride with me?"

"Where?" she asked.

"Dayton," I said.

"Bob, I can't just go off to Dayton at the drop of a hat. I have responsibilities."

I hadn't thought of that. I'd assumed she worked from home.

"Oh," I said.

"What's the new idea?" she asked.

I didn't mind telling her, cause it was the first one I'd come up with that didn't stray into shady territory.

"I should have thought of that!" she said, when I was finished. "That might actually work, Bob!" She sounded excited. "Let me make some arrangements and I'll call you back."

Ten minutes later, the phone rang.

"I can be ready to go at seven, tomorrow morning," she said.

"Seven?" That seemed kind of specific.

"It's five hours up and five back. Then there's the time it will take to see if your plan works. We'll be gone all day. I don't want to get back too late, if possible."

"Oh," I said. "Yeah, sure. OK. You want me to pick you up?"

"Nope," she said. "I'll be there at seven."

===================================================

Spending time in a car with someone usually goes one of two ways. Either you get along or you don't. I suppose there's a third possibility, if the passenger sleeps the whole way, but Ronnie didn't.

As it turned out, we got along fine. She liked to talk, and I was a professional listener. I got her whole life story out of her and all it took were the right questions or prompts at the right times.

She wasn't a motor mouth, though, by any stretch of the imagination, and I did my share of talking, too. I was surprised how much I told her, in fact. Like I said, she would have made a good interrogator.

Along the way she examined all the loot, and approved. The closer we got, the jumpier she got.

When we got out of the car, though, it was like she'd flipped some kind of switch. She was as calm, cool and collected as a woman can get. She almost looked disinterested as we approached the trailer. I had all the stuff in two big plastic bags, one hanging from each hand. Ronnie knocked.

Bethany was the one who answered the door.

"Mom!" she called out over her shoulder. "It's that guy again."

"What?" came a distant return call.

"You know...that guy you sprayed in the face with that stuff!"

Half the neighborhood probably heard her. My stomach got a little nervous. I didn't know if Tiffany would show up armed with more pepper spray or not.

She didn't, but she was wary.

"What do you want?" she asked, through the storm door as she pushed her daughter back behind her.

"This is Veronica Powers," I said, looking over at Peaches. "She's the woman I told you about. I thought you might want some proof that she's not dead."

=================================================

Ask a guy if it would surprise him to see another guy checking out some chick. He'll look at you like you're crazy. Guys look at women all the time. We don't even think about it. We just do it by habit. But ask him if women check each other out and he'll look puzzled and then probably shake his head. Why would one woman check out another? Unless they're lezzies, I mean...but in a guy's world, they don't count. They're not available, you know?

But the fact is that women check each other out even more intently than a guy ever would. A guy usually sneaks glances, because he doesn't want to get caught staring. Tiffany, however, gave Ronnie a full star, fifteen second, up, down, and up again inspection that almost embarrassed ME. My head swiveled just in time to see Ronnie smile, completely unruffled by this obvious evaluation.

"Hi," she said.

Tiffany looked back at me and then at the bags in my hands.

"Can we come in for a few minutes?" I asked. "There might be a solution to the problem."

"There is no problem," said Tiffany. "I told you, I won't break a promise."

"I'm not going to ask you to," I said.

She looked uncertain for a few seconds, then pushed the door open. When Ronnie put her hand out to open it farther, Tiffany stood back.

The place was sparely furnished, but neat and clean. Bethany stood to one side, watching us curiously.

"Why's your hair like that?" she asked.

"Bethany!" yipped her mother.

"It's OK," said Ronnie, smiling. "Everybody wants to know." She looked at Bethany. "I just like it this way. I like to be a little different."

"Oh," said the girl. "Are you going to take my skates away?"

"I'd like to talk to you about them," said Ronnie, not answering the question. "And show you something," she added.

I started to lift the bags, but Ronnie reached out and put her hand on my arm. She was obviously telling me, "Not yet."

Peaches reached into her back pocket and brought out a piece of paper. I didn't know about this part...whatever she was doing...but I knew instinctively that it was the thing she'd written about the skates. There was something else there, too. It was a photograph. She extended the paper to Tiffany, and the photograph to Bethany. They each accepted the offering automatically.

"That's me, wearing the skates," said Ronnie, talking to Bethany. She didn't say anything to the girl's mother, who unfolded the paper, also automatically. "I was twelve in that picture."

"I'm only ten," said Bethany, peering at the picture closely. "But I'll be eleven in sixteen days."

Tiffany made a little sound in her throat. She was reading. She was also blinking her eyes a lot more than would be normal. She looked miserable.

"Bob had this idea," said Ronnie. "My mother made you promise you wouldn't sell the skates. Is that right?"

Tiffany nodded and said, "Or give them to him." She darted a look at me.

"But she said that when Bethany was finished with them, you could give them to another girl, right?"

"She said it was to honor the memory of her daughter," said Tiffany, unhappily.

"Would you mind if I gave Bethany a birthday present?" asked Ronnie.

"What?" Tiffany looked confused.

Ronnie reached for the bag in my left hand. It had the pads and helmet in it. She took the items out and laid them out on the coffee table. I had the skates, still in their box, out of the other bag by the time she reached for them. She added them to the display.

"Oh, Mommy!" sighed Bethany.

Tiffany looked wary, all of a sudden. "Why?" she asked.

Ronnie smiled. "Because if she accepts these, she won't need the others any more, and she can give them away to another girl."

This was my cue and I spoke. "Ronnie here is young enough to be my daughter. She's really just barely out of her teens."

Tiffany looked thoughtful. Her eyes went back to the paper, still in her hand, then to Ronnie's face.

"You're nothing like her," she said. We all knew she was talking about Madeline.

"I don't want to be like her," said Ronnie.

I winced.

"It's a technicality," observed the woman.

"It is," agreed the previous owner of the skates in question.

"Don't women your age have girls' night out and all that?" I said helpfully.

"Be quiet, Bob," said Ronnie, without looking at me.

"Yes," said Tiffany Moore. She didn't look at me either. "Be quiet, Bob."

Chapter Ten

The ride back to Chicago was different in many ways from what Peaches and I had gone through only hours before.

The general atmosphere was different, for one thing. Ronnie sat there, with those skates on her lap, stroking them and humming. She was staring out the windshield and not saying much. That was OK, though. Most people try to fill a silence when they're together, but this silence was comfortable. In fact, I'd say the atmosphere in the car was just plain comfortable. The ordeal was over and we hadn't had to face the dragon lady.

It was about to get a lot less comfortable.

I had decided to take I-75 north to I-80, instead of going back on I-70, because I didn't want to have to deal with rush hour traffic in Indianapolis. I had been this way on this case before, and I knew that you could take Highway 33 from Wapakoneta northwest through Decatur to Fort Wayne, which was a shortcut, since I-75 fades way east before you get to I-80.

We were about ten miles away from Wapakoneta when she turned to me.

"You've spent a lot of time and money on this case," she said.

"Uh huh," I replied.

"So...how much do I owe you?"

I drove on for another minute or so. I knew what I wanted in payment, but I couldn't ask for that. She'd call me a dirty old man, and probably slap the crap out of me.

"I guess maybe I could use a web site after all," I finally said.

She hugged those damn skates to her chest and stared out the windshield again.

======================================================

About ten miles north of Monmouth, an 18 wheeler hauling hundreds of wooden crates filled with live chickens had jackknifed and gone over. Both lanes and both shoulders were full of truck, pieces of wood with nails sticking out of them, and chickens, most of which were no longer among the living. The ones still alive were not happy, and were running all over the place.

It was obvious we weren't going north for a while. Traffic was backed up both in front of us and behind us. Eventually we did what some other people were doing, which was make a U-turn and look for an alternate route.

But I didn't have a map in the car.

I bet you didn't know it, but you can actually cross the entire United States using only county roads. You'll drive a lot more than three thousand miles, but you can do it. It also takes a lot longer than if you stick to interstate highways. I knew that we needed to go north and west, and that if we did that, we'd eventually cross a major highway going into Fort Wayne.

So I just took the first road headed west and off we went on a little adventure.

You know how if you're going down a strange road and it seems like you're not seeing what you expected, you sometimes think, "Just a little further and I know I'll find it." Well you women might not know about that phenomenon, but the men do. And maybe seventy percent of the time it works out.

Of course the other thirty percent, it doesn't, but the odds ARE in your favor. I mean surely people in eastern Indiana want to go west occasionally...don't they?

It took over an hour and a half before she broke.

"We're lost, aren't we," she said.

"No we're not," I said. "We're going west. Chicago is west of here."

"You have no idea where we are, do you," she said.

"We're in Indiana, south of Fort Wayne," I said confidently.

Two hours later we were still on two lane roads. Some of them were gravel.

"I have to get home tonight," she said. "I told people I'd be back by nine at the latest."

"Just call your boyfriend and tell him not to worry," I said. I saw an overpass up ahead with two cars whizzing along going perpendicular to us.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she said.

"Well call whoever and tell them you might be a little late then," I said.

"We should have been back by seven," she said, accusingly.

"I can't help it if our progress was interrupted by a truckload of chickens," I complained.

"We should have crossed a major road by now."

"I know that!" I snapped.

I stopped before going under the overpass. There was no on ramp. The road we were on kept going west. There was one of those confidence signs up at the end of the overpass that had the shape of the state of Indiana on it and the number one. I really wished I could get up there, but there was no way. There were fences on both sides of the road.

Thirty minutes later the sun was in our eyes. We were on a road that had road signs on it at each intersection, so I knew we had to be near some fairly large city. The signs said we were on "S County Line Rd W." Two miles later, still going west, the signs changed to "W 1200 N."

"See?" I said triumphantly. "We're getting close to a city. The roads are numbered here.

Not two minutes later, she started laughing. "Figures," she said between giggles.

"What?" I saw buildings up ahead.

"Didn't you see the sign?"

"What sign?"

We rolled into a little town that had a total of five or six streets.

"Welcome to Zanesville," she said, laughing. "Population a hundred and thirty-five."

=================================================

Zanesville, Indiana is about two miles east of I-69, which goes north...and east, damn it...to Fort Wayne. But from Fort Wayne, Highway 30 takes you to Gary. Gary is, for all intents and purposes, a far flung suburb of Chicago. Everything within a hundred miles of Chicago is really a far flung suburb of Chicago, whether it's in Indiana or Illinois.

We'd lost about three hours, but now we were back on good roads and could make time.

In Columbia City, I saw the first detour sign. An hour later (which should have taken fifteen minutes), we stopped in Warsaw for gas. The attendant said the construction went forty more miles, clear past Plymouth.

I got back in the car. I was bushed. We didn't make it five miles before there was another detour. I swung wide to let a truck behind me go on. I hate it when a big truck is right on your ass.

"You want to drive for a bit?" I asked.

"I don't drive," she said.

"Say what?" I stared at her. She was twenty-four. Whoever heard of a twenty-four year old woman saying she didn't drive? Maybe in New York City, if she had been born and raised there, but that wasn't the case.

"I never got a driver's license," she said. She didn't sound defensive at all.

"I'm going to need to stop for a little while," I said. "I need a nap or we're going to end up in the ditch."

"I made a call while you were getting gas," she said. "Things are covered at home. I told them I might not get back until tomorrow morning."

"We'll get you there sooner than that," I said. "I just need a power nap, then I'll be fine."

The problem was there was no place to pull over. The detours were all on narrow roads and the main highway had cones all over the place. I suggested taking a cross road north, but Ronnie vetoed the idea firmly.

It was dark by the time we got to Bourbon.

"I could use some bourbon about now," I said.

"No you couldn't," she said.

"I was kidding."

"No you weren't. Pull in there!"

She pointed and I saw the neon shape of a long-legged bird standing on one leg. In the middle of the bird's body was a sign that said, "Crane Motor Inn." Half of the vacancy sign hanging from the crane's mouth was dead, and the only letters that were lit were "ancy." It made me a little...antsy...and the faded, chipped paint on the walls of the line of half a dozen rooms didn't make me feel any more relaxed. There was only one car in the parking lot, in front of the room at the end of the building.

There was a light on in the office, though, and I really was tired, so I pulled up and parked. Ronnie, for whatever reason, got out and went in with me. There was a middle aged man behind the counter, thin to the point of being gaunt. He was leaned back in an old wooden desk chair, reading a comic book and watching a tiny TV at the same time until he looked over at us. His eyes took in Ronnie first, then moved to me.

"You got any rooms?" I asked.

He put the comic book down. "Just so you know...we don't rent rooms by the hour any more," he said. "Got raided by the law two weeks ago."

I expected Ronnie to go off on him, but she didn't say a word.

"I need two rooms," I said.

He looked at Ronnie again. "Two rooms?" He smiled. "I've got a room with a queen bed in it."

"Do you have two rooms or not?" I asked. I was getting impatient.

"Yeah, I got two rooms," he said. "Thirty-four per room per night."

"Fine," I said. "Two rooms, one night."

The clerk plucked two keys off a board and handed me the check-in sheet. When I filled it out and handed it back, he didn't even look at it. He took my credit card, punched numbers on a little machine, and handed me the slip to sign.

"Checkout is eleven," he said. "Vending area is open all night." He pointed through an open doorway to a room full of machines. "If you need change, get it now. The condom machine only takes coins." He looked at Ronnie again and smiled. She smiled back, sweetly.

Oh, that's OK, she said to the man. We won't be needing any condoms tonight.

I wanted to lean over the counter and pull his liver out through his mouth, but Ronnie reached for one of the keys in his hand before I could do that. She started for the door as I held my hand out for the other key. I was following her when she turned back, looking past me, to the clerk.

Just so you know, she said, Im not a prostitute. If he could have me at all, he could have me for free. And you definitely couldn't afford me, no matter how much money you had.

She didn't exactly flounce out of the office, but her step was lively. She stopped at the car to get her skates, then walked across the parking lot to the room that apparently matched the number on her key. I moved the car. Don't ask me why. My room was right next to hers.

=================================================

I may have had the smarts to get two rooms, but that didn't ease the tension I was feeling. As tired as I was, my brain was still functioning. She had made it quite clear that it was a waste of time for me to think about hanky panky, even if she had made me feel pretty good about it. But, I knew she was next door, probably getting ready for bed. She might even be naked. To my shame I looked at the walls, hoping some pervert in the past had made a hole, through which to peek and exercise his pervertedness. Of course, there was no such hole. I took off my shirt. I thought about turning on the TV, but the whole reason we had stopped was so I could get some rest, so I didn't. I decided I might as well get to bed, flog the log and get it over with. I was going to have to drive her the rest of the way back to Chicago tomorrow, after which I'd never see her again.

There was a tapping at my door. I went to it and spoke through it, asking who was there.

"It's me," came her voice. "Open up."

I did, and damned if she didn't SKATE into the room! The carpet was thin enough that she didn't have any trouble as she did a pirouette and stopped, facing me.

"They still fit. Can you believe it?"

"Wow," I said, for lack of anything else to say. She obviously wanted me to be happy for her. "I'm happy for you."

"I know," she said. "My bathroom doesn't work," she added. "Can I use yours?"

"Of course," I said, wishing I still had my shirt on. That paunch I mentioned earlier was something I wasn't all that proud of, especially when a cute young woman was there to see it.

And see it she did. She looked me over like I was a side of beef and she was trying to see if I was fresh enough to be worth the price somebody was asking.

"Won't be long," she said suddenly and disappeared into my bathroom.

I picked up the shirt, but couldn't decide whether to actually put it back on again or not. I must have thought about it too long, because the bathroom door opened. She skated out. Her shirt was hanging from one hand, which left her dressed in black jeans and white leather skates with red wheels.

My own shirt fell from suddenly limp fingers.

"Is this what you've been salivating so much to see?" she asked, as if she was just showing me a really nice collectible vase or something.

"Urg," was all I could get out. I was salivating rather too much to pronounce real words. I swallowed reflexively.

"These little things?" She looked down at them like they were a big disappointment.

"Don't speak ill of perfection!" I managed to gasp.

"They may not be all that much to look at," she said. "But I'm told they taste pretty good." She lifted a hand to pull at her right nipple. "I wouldn't know about that, of course. I can't taste them myself."

"Ooooooo," I moaned. I might have drooled too. I don't actually remember feeling anything on my chest, but I wouldn't have been surprised.

"I suppose you DO deserve some kind of treat for getting my skates back," she said. She did another pirouette and my eyes did smaller circles in their sockets. She skated straight at me. For the briefest of instants I felt those breasts, hot and soft, pressed against my naked chest and then I was falling backwards onto the bed.

I was covered with wiggling girl and my mind was suffused in golden light as those luscious lips found and pressed against my own. If I had died in that second, I would have believed I was already in Heaven when it happened.

But I didn't die. My instincts, which didn't depend on brain power, kicked in and I kissed her back. She rubbed her young, firm breasts all over my chest while I kissed her, and I felt like I might actually explode into itty bitty pieces. There was a bit of pain from my mostly-healed ribs, but I didn't care. I heard soft humming sounds, but it wasn't my ears ringing. It was her throat, telling me she liked this...a lot.

Then, with the exuberance of youth, she broke the kiss and did a kind of roll/arch/flex thing with her body that landed her lengthwise on the bed, while pushing my upper torso aside so she had room to land.

I looked at her, still stunned. Being a man, something male came out of my mouth. I thought you said no condoms would be needed tonight.

They won't. Her eyes gazed into mine. It's a pity, she said.

Pity?

"It's a pity I can't make love to you while I'm wearing these skates," she pouted. She could really work that bottom lip.

"Damn," I groaned, realizing she was just torturing me...paying me back for all the shenanigans I had pulled on her case. She was only teasing and had no plans to go any farther than that. "I should have known," I said.

I sat up. She didn't try to cover her breasts at all, still teasing me, still showing me what I ultimately couldn't have.

She lifted a foot and the skate that was on it punched my shoulder.

"So?" She still sounded pouty. "Aren't you going to take them off?"

Chapter Eleven

There are situations in a man's life when time gets all fucked up.  The first time that happened to me was in the very first football game I was a starter in.  I was a normally second stringer and was used to sitting on the bench.  Then the guy who played end got hurt, just before an away game, and suddenly I was out in front of all those people and the team was depending on me.  I don't remember there being any time during that game.  I was either playing or standing on the sidelines watching the defense.  I was aware of dozens of thingssounds, movement, the feel of the ball under my fingers, where the defenders werebut there was no time involved.

It was the same the first time I got into a gun fight.  There was no time then either.  All I could focus on was surviving, and that involved figuring out where the enemy was, or was going to be, how many rounds I had left, both in my gun and in my extra magazines, and what there was to take cover behind that might stop the bullets being fired at me.  Time didn't resume until I knew he was down and I was safe.

The first time I jumped out of an airplane was like that, too.  They had outfitted me with this thing that popped my chute automatically if I got below a certain altitude, which was good, because I wasn't paying ANY attention to time, as I concentrated on seeing the Earth down there and feeling the wind that meant I was hurtling toward that Earth.  I was aware of my body position and the huge effect that tiny changes in my movements made, but I had no room left in my mind to think about time.

And this turned out to be very similar to all of those things.  Not that I was a virgin or anything.  I'd been with my share of women.  But it had never been like this.  Again, I was aware of dozens of things that were going on.  I saw things, felt thingsboth physically and emotionallyand did things, but how long it all tookI have no idea.

I felt the leather of those skates as I unlaced them.  I felt the astonishing friction-free movement of the wheels as I pulled the skates off.  I heard the thump as they hit the floor.  I heard the rustle of her jeans as I pulled them off her legs.  I saw her impatiently push her tiger-striped panties down, revealing loins that had no hint of hair.  I heard the bed springs react as her heels hit the mattress, and saw the muscles in her thighs flex as she lifted her butt off the bed, spreading her knees.  I saw her hand cover what my eyes were then glued to and one finger disappear between flushed red lips.

Then the finger came out and, in concert with another, they spread those lips wide, her hips still arched up off the bed, and I knew she was showing me how empty she was and how much she wished she wasn't.

I have no recollection of removing own pants.  None.  I have no idea how it happened, except that it had to have been my own doing, because she didn't move, other than to pump her loins at me.

Usually, the first time a man and woman do something like this together, there is some amount of hesitancy.  They aren't quite sure how to proceed, because neither is sure what the other is going to do.  There is most often some fumbling as they work through that initial hesitancy and nervousness, until nature, or lust, or passion finally takes over and drives the train from that point on.

But with Ronnie and me, that night, there was no hesitancy at all.  The first thing I filled her with was my tongue, because I HAD to taste her.

She tasted like peaches.

I breathed her in, and my heart soared at the sounds she made.  I decided I could do this for hours and be completely happy.  Her orgasms were announced not by longwinded wails or theatrical screams.  Rather she just got to a point where she sounded extra happy for thirty seconds and then went back to her encouraging, delighted little yips and moans.

After hearing her do that a few times, I remembered what she'd said about her breasts and moved up to taste them, too.  They tasted like pussy, and I almost laughed out loud.  I had spent enough time on them that they started tasting like breasts, when she pulled me up so I could taste her lips again.

I have no idea if I accidentally moved into her or if she found me and pulled me in, but suddenly her lips were sucking my tongue and her pussy was sucking my prick.  Somehow she must have gotten chipotle sauce inside her, because she felt as hot as fire.  Moving in her, and feeling her response through her lips, was the most wonderful thing I'd ever felt in my life.  It was like I WAS a virgin.  It had never felt like this before.

Making love with Ronnie Powers was a little like two women mud wrestling, except there wasn't any mud and I wasn't a woman.  But we twisted and rolled and writhed, making sounds like we were killing each other.  Sometimes I was on top of her, and sometimes she was on top of me.  At one point, our movements were so violent that I came out of her.  Her moan of disappointment would have curdled the milk in a cow's udder and I was frantic to get back in her.  As I slid back into her, she said the first words she'd said since asking me if I was going to take her skates off.

"Ohhh yesssss," she moaned.

I think the reason making love with Ronnie was so different than anything I had ever experienced before was because there WAS no hesitation, no fumbling, no sign of any kind that there was anything else in the world that was worth doing.  And I'm talking about both of us.  She wanted this as desperately as I did, and that acceptance made it something that was just perfectly right.

As I said, time had no part of this.  I wasn't counting minutes.  I wasn't even counting her orgasms.  I don't know how far apart they were or how many there were.  All I know is that I wanted to give her just one more.  And when that happened, I wanted to give her just one more after that.

My body betrayed me.  There came a time that my prick said, "OK.  My turn!"

I remember thinking, "Nooooo, not yet!  I'm not done here!"

My balls responded with "Oh yes you are, bubba," and they did their thing, and instinct took over and I went deeply into her and held myself still, while muscles deep in my groin caused soothing streaks of semen to jet into her.   She made a sound like "mmmmmmmmm" that told me all that semen was welcome to come and live in her forever.

I knew I was going to die then.  You just couldn't feel that good and live through it.  And, to be brutally honest, I was ready to die then.  What I mean is that it was the best that I'd ever felt and, in my opinion, probably the best I ever COULD feel.  The pinnacle of life had been reached.  The mountain had been summited.  There was nowhere to go but down, now, and going down after being that high could only be something akin to death.

Then her hands grabbed my face and she kissed me four or five times and said, "I really missed this, Bob.  I'm so glad this happened."

And suddenly I didn't want to die anymore.

========================================================

By morning, my verve for life had dimmed just a little.  That girl just plum wore me out.  I felt like a new boot that had been broken in by being soaked in water and then walked dry.  In fact, while I should be ashamed to admit it, I was actually glad when she said, "We have to get going.  I told Julia we'd be back by ten."

Luckily, when we left Bourbon, we only had another twenty miles of construction and from then on it was smooth sailing.  

The atmosphere in the car was completely different, of course.  She held those skates on her lap and hummed.  I know that sounds exactly the same as what I described before, but it wasn't.  Now that hum, which had sounded happy before, sounded both happy and somehow satisfied at the same time.  She reached over every once in a while and touched me.  She didn't grope between my legs or anything like that.  She just touched my thigh, or my arm, and once she stroked my hair back into place.  It was completely innocent.

Which was why I was actually embarrassed when I got another hardon as we got into the morning Chicago traffic.

She giggled, looking at my lap.  Then her face got thoughtful.

"Bob?" she said.

"What?"  I was embarrassed that my pants made me so transparent.

"I want you to know I don't do this very often."

"I should hope not," I said, thinking she was referring to hiring a private eye to do something that shouldn't have to be done in the first place and getting him all banged up in the process.

"So you don't approve," she said.  Her voice sounded tense.  "I suppose you think I'm a slut."

"What?"  I looked at her like she was crazy.

"You think that because I slept with you last night that I'm a slut."

"Are you insane?" I asked.  In my own defense, my lack of tact was a product of being confused.

"I don't do that very often," she said.  "I'm not a slut, Bob."

"Hang on there," I said.  "I never said you were a slut.  I don't think you're a slut.  How did we get on this subject again?"

"I said I don't hop into bed very often with a man I don't know all that well, and you said I was a slut for doing it."

"I did NOT say you were a slut!" I gasped.  "I thought you were talking about hiring a private detective and getting him half killed!  Ronnie, I do NOT think you're a slut.  Last night was one of the greatest things that ever happened to me!"

"Well, good then," she said.  "I'm glad you feel that way."

She went back to humming and looking out the window.  I felt like banging my head against the steering wheel.  One minute this woman was making me feel like the king of the world, and the next minute she had me defending myself from horrible things I never even said!

Then we were where shed directed me to drive to and she was leaning over to kiss me, her head turned sideways.

"I'll see you later," she said.  "Call me."

Just like that she was out of the car and running.  Somehow she was able to run and turn her upper body backwards to wave at me one last time before she went through a door and disappeared.

==================================================

I went home, went to bed, and slept for nine hours.

Then I got up and went to the office, despite the fact that for everybody else, the day was done and it was time to head home.  I spent some time going over my open cases, planning on how to get them all caught up or finished, now that I wasn't spending major amounts of time on Ronnie's case.

The phone rang, which was odd, since it was after five.  I picked it up.

"You were supposed to call me," she complained.

"I needed to get some sleep," I said.

"Are you well rested?"

"I am."

"Good, because I'm fixing you supper tonight, and I'd like you to come eat it."

"I thought you didn't cook," I said.

"I don't," she said agreeably, "which is why this is a particularly astonishing situation."

"I AM hungry," I admitted.

"Good!" she chirped.  "And there's somebody I want you to meet."

"OK," I said.  "Who?"  I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice.  As soon as I understood that I was being invited over, I had fantasies about being worn out again.  Men are idiots that way.  Now I was going to have to behave myself, because there would be someone else there.

Her voice came back somewhat guarded.  "He's kind of the other man in my life right now," she said.

Disappointment turned to tragedy.  She was breaking it off.  What she was doing was giving me a last meal before things ended.  I couldn't believe this woman could be that cruel.

"It's not what you think," she said.  "I can explain it when you get here.  Please come?"

For what she had already given me, I owed her.  I wanted to sulk, but didn't.

"OK," I said.

She gave me her address, which was new information.  She'd never talked about where she lived or who she lived with.  I assumed the person I would be meeting was a roommate, who she was involved with or something.  I knew my job was to bow out gracefully.  I told myself she was out of my class anyway.  She was too young for me, too.  I thought of a dozen reasons why it was a good thing she was letting me down gracefully.  It never occurred to me that it might be family.  I knew her father was gone, and she'd never mentioned a brother.  If she'd said it was family, I still might not have wanted to go.  I'd had enough of her family to last me for a while.

===================================================  

My first clue was when I knocked and there was the sound of small feet, running rapidly, and a young voice yelling, "I GOT IT MOMMY!"  That was followed by a screamed "WAIT!" and a quieter "You know to look first, baby."

I saw the light coming through the peep hole go dark, and put on a smile.  I never remember that when you look like Grizzly Adams, a smile doesn't necessarily engender calm feelings of safety in the viewer.

It was quiet for a long time, until I heard her voice call out, "Well, who is it?"

"I don't know," said the young voice.  "But you were right, Mommy.  I'm glad I didn't just open the door."

I heard more sounds of movement and the peephole lit up again, only to go dim once more.  The door opened and she blushed.

"Sorry," she said.  A little boy had backed up and was staring at me.  He looked poised for flight.

"You told him exactly the right thing," I said.  I looked at the boy.  "Your mother is a very smart woman," I said.  Like an idiot, I smiled at him again.  I probably looked like a hungry bear.

"Keane, this is Bob.  I told you about him.  He's here to have supper with us."  She turned to me.  "Bob, this is Keane, my son."

Now you might think I was surprised, or maybe even shocked or something like that.   Some of you might think I was thinking, "Damn, a rugrat!  I knew something had to go wrong."  But the fact of the matter is that little boy just made every bit of sense in the world.  He actually completed the picture that was Ronnie.

Why?

It's simple.  I was a man.  I had fallen under her spell.  I had, quite recently, spent an entire night engaged in a strenuous effort of trying with every erg of energy in my body to get this woman with child.  That was the effect she'd had on me, and it wasn't at all odd to me that she'd had that effect on some other poor schmuck.  Not that being with her made him a poor schmuck.  I should have known she wouldn't have invited me over if he was still with her.  She wasn't that kind of dame.  So that meant that he'd either fucked up and gotten kicked out or, for some insane reason, had walked away from the best thing that had ever happened to him.  That was what made him a poor schmuck.

I felt bad later, when I found out Keane's father had died of a rare disease he'd contracted while he was off in the Peace Corps, being a better citizen of the world than I was.

But I didn't give the poor schmuck any more thought, then.  My mission was clear, at that point.  It wasn't to bow out gracefully anymore.  Now it was to make friends with Keane.

Fortunately, kids are like dogs.  They have this built in ability to sense whether someone is a good guy or not.  They can be fooled sometimes, but only by a real pro.  And while I could be a human chameleon, I never did that with kids.

Supper was Thai takeout, which shed "fixed" by ordering when she hung up from inviting me over and then kept warm in the oven.  Actually, that's not fair.  She had made ants on a log, filling celery sticks with peanut butter or Philadelphia cream cheese, then lining up raisins all along the length.

I talked to Keane all through supper, asking him about school and what he liked and things like that.  His natural suspicion and reticence gradually went away.  I knew I had been accepted when he started telling me the kind of jokes that six year olds tell, which are hilarious to other six year olds, but not to adults.

After supper, I found out he was an artist, when I was presented with a thick pile of drawings he'd made.  Theyd been done in various media, from crayon, to marker, to pencil, to paints.  And they seemed bizarre in a way, until I was presented with a book of art prints by all kinds of famous artists.  He had looked at those pictures and then drawn his best impression of them.  He was pretty good, too.  He also knew way more about art than I ever would, and he was just a kid.

Time flies when you're having fun, and the next thing I knew Ronnie was telling him that it was bedtime and he had school the next day and things like that.  It was so odd to see her completely comfortable in the role of a mother, but only because I hadn't thought of her in that role before tonight.  I had thought of her as a mother-to-be, as I said before, but that's different.

"Please don't go anywhere," she said over her shoulder as she led him off to bed.  "There's something important I want to talk to you about."

I had no idea what it was that was important.  She hadn't touched me or sent me any signals since I'd arrived that evening.  Which had me thinking that she was thankful, but remote, as far as what I'd done for her.  Had that unbelievable night we'd spent together been a onetime thing?  I knew there were women out there who didn't form attachments to men like I was used to.  Women's lib had resulted in things men hadn't expected.  There were a lot of independent women out there who didn't need a man like women had needed them when I was in my late teens and early twenties.

I was in the process of talking myself into being resigned to accept what she'd given me as all I was going to get, when there was an odd repetitive thumping sound that came from the hallway she'd disappeared into.  My subconscious mind alerted me to the sound of someone trying to skate on carpet, when she appeared, wearing the skates my mind had just told me would be on her feet.

I laughed, because she looked delighted.

She skated up to me and, without slowing, plopped herself down on my lap with a thud that made both my femurs unhappy.

"Ow," I complained.

"Don't be a baby," she said.  "I'm not that heavy."

Then she kissed me like she meant it.  Apparently she liked anticipation, because all those hours of not touching me or sending me any signals were made up for in that one kiss.

And, once she stopped anticipating, she didn't waste a lot of time getting to the point.  When that kiss ended, she wiggled on my lap and stared into my eyes.

"You wanna take my skates off again?  I liked how you did it last time."

================================================

Now I TRIED to pay attention to time, because I wanted to spend as much of it as I could enjoying what was going on.  I took my time removing each skate, then unwrapped my present slowly, too.   She didn't say a word, just watching me as I tugged and pulled and uncovered things.  When she was naked, I stood there, looking down at her, enjoying the view.  I was doing a little anticipating of my own, just then.

I shucked my own duds and she sat up and then stood up.  She led me to her bedroom and pushed me down on the bed.  Then she got on her hands and knees and let her face hover over an erection I was proud of.

"I missed you," she said to my penis.

Then she kissed him and licked him and convinced both him and me that shed meant what she'd said.  When I was about to explode, she stopped and crawled up to dangle her nipples in my face.

"They missed you, too," she said, lowering her body to brush a stiff nipple over my lips.

While I tried to make up for that, she positioned herself and wrapped Mr. Happy up in tight, warm pussy, sinking down with a groan of happiness that almost made him spew.

I tried to distract him.

"So what was the important thing you wanted to talk about?" I asked.

"This," she said, rocking faster.

"You wanted to talk about doing this?"

"No, I wanted to talk about continuing to do this."

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

"Yes," she said, jerking her hips in a way that threatened to undo all the control I'd painfully reestablished.  "You didn't take much convincing."

"You thought I'd try to talk you out of it?" I gasped.

"I want to keep seeing you," she said, leaning her weight on the hands she put on my chest.

"OK," I said.  "I'm in complete favor of that."

"Good!" she said, whipping her hips forward and back in jagged three jerk motions, accompanied by three little grunts that went with each of the jerks.

And then she whined and moaned and came all over my cock, and there was no WAY in the world I could contain my own orgasm.  It rushed at me like electricity in a copper wire, and when my I went off in her, it felt like that electricity was zinging its way through my penis.

I am probably still alive to tell you all this only because she didn't demand a repeat of our first night together.  Had she done that, all that would be left of me is the withered husk of a man, dried out and brittle, like the leaves in February that fell from the tree in September, the year before.  She could have broken me that night.  I'd have killed myself trying to keep up with her.

But she didn't make me do that.  Instead, she lay down on top of me and nuzzled my ear.

"Can you stay for a while?" she asked in a soft panting whisper.  "I really don't want to get up."

Does a man lost in the desert leave the oasis once he's found it?

"I can stay," I gasped back.

"Good," she murmured in my ear.  "I'm going to take a nap now."

Her nap turned into an all night cuddle.  At some point, she slid off of me, onto my arm, which wrapped around her of its own volition.  We slept like that all night long.

Morning wasn't awkward.  She had things to do, and got up to do them.  I had things to do, and got dressed and left to go do them.   I got a kiss when I left.  There hadn't been all that much conversation, the night before, but what there HAD been had been pretty clear.  She expected me to call her and continue spending time with her.

I expected me to do the same thing.

====================================================

You know how some women get all assertive when they get their hooks in a man?  It's like there's some rule that if they give you sex, you owe them.  They start trying to put their mark on you.  Maybe it's telling you how to dress, or something like that.  They have to "improve" you.

And if they don't go all assertive, they get needy and clingy.  They get all gooshy or weepy, and talk about how important you are in their life.  It gets to the point where if you don't see them one day, they pout the next time you do.

Then they offer to clean your apartment.  That's the sign that the end is near.

Ronnie didn't do any of those things.

We saw each other a couple of times a week over the next month or two.  I called her more often than she called me.  OK, I called her every day.  I admit it was me who was a little needy.  Sometimes when I said, "What's up?" she'd just tell me what she was doing at the moment.  Other times she'd answer that she missed me and wished I was there.  I thought that was my cue to say, "I could come over," in that pitiful puppy dog/hopeful little boy voice all men have when they're horny out of their minds just from hearing a voice like that.

But she didn't react to that puppy dog voice.  Not like I hoped she would.  She'd usually say, "How about Thursday?" or some other day of the week than the one I called on.  She wasn't needy and she wasn't clingy.

And when she came to my place, she never offered to clean up.  She said things like "Bob, you're a serious slob, you know that?"  Once she said, "Well color me astonished!  He DOES know how to work a vacuum!"  But she didn't point out my deficiencies all the time.  Sometimes she said nothing about the state of my abode.  Or, if she was feeling curious, she'd walk around picking things up and asking me what they were for, where I got them, or why I had them.  

She didn't try to remake me.  She offered opinions, such as "It's a good thing you didn't go into interior design, because you couldn't dress in clothes that match if your life depended on it."  She wasn't mean about it.  She just said what she was thinking.  Another example was "I like your cute little pot belly."  I knew she meant it because she kissed it right after she said that.

And if I asked her where she wanted to go, or what she wanted to do on a date, she wasn't shy about telling me.

We went line dancing one night at a country western bar.  This punk looking chick walked into that place wearing the Harley Davidson biker jacket that I had known she owned, but had never seen before, and started boot skooting with the best of them.  Before long, guys were offering to buy her drinks and those redneck girls in cowboy hats were thinking of ways to kill her.

Another time we took Keane with us to the Field Museum, where I learned more about natural history than I had ever wanted to know, but had a great time doing it.

We rode the El.  We window shopped.  And yes, we even went roller skating.

Part of the fun of it all was that I looked like Joe Average, while she looked like Cyndi Lauper on drugs, except that she was gorgeous, where as Cyndi, bless her heart, is beauty challenged.  The odd part was that I didn't notice how she looked anymore, other than the gorgeous part, until some stranger stared at us.

Sometimes she said she just wanted to spend a quiet night in.  She had a baby sitter for Keane, but it could get expensive if she used her too often.  I stocked up on the oysters before those dates, because, while we made love often and in some strange and interesting places, the times she was the most passionate were after an evening of just the three of us doing something simple and spending time together.

It was on one of those nights, about six months after she'd come into my life, in the dead of winter, with the wind howling outside, full of snow when what I would fondly come to call "the ambush" happened.   

We were in the middle of a truly ugly game of Monopoly, which meant there was nothing left to buy and I owned about four properties, none of which were the same color.  She took pity on me, pronounced Keane the winner, which wasn't far off since he had a pile of cash and most of his cards were laid out in neat groups of three that matched.  She led Keane off to bed, like she had done so many times before, and looked over her shoulder, like she had done so many times before, too.

"Please don't go anywhere," she said as she led him off to bed.  "There's something I've been thinking of talking to you about."

Now earlier, I called it "the ambush."  That usually means you aren't expecting what happens, even though you probably should.  What generally leads to an ambush is a false feeling of security.  We'd been together for about six months, and during that time I had slowly come to feel secure in the fact that she wasn't getting tired of me nearly as fast as I'd expected her to.  And when someone wants to ambush you, they make things look either normal or like somewhere you want to be for whatever reason.

Such as when she returned to the living room wearing the skates that had brought us together.  This time the only thing she WAS wearing were those skates and a smile.  

THIS was a place that was somewhere I wanted to be and I stepped into the kill zone happily.

I don't want to bore you with details you've read before.  Suffice it to say that, while I'd had the distinct honor and pleasure of bedding this woman many times in the last six or seven months, it never got routine.  If you've ever made love to a woman wearing roller skates, you may have some understanding of that.   

By the way...if you HAVEN'T made love to a woman wearing roller skates, I can tell you that while they look all curves and roundness, when they slam into your tender buttocks, they're all corners and edges.  But never mind that.  It's worth experiencing, if only so you can tell a REALLY great story at a party sometime.

At any rate, somewhere around two in the morning, when your defenses are just naturally low, and I was even less alert than I'd been when the ambush started, I remembered what she'd said.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" I asked, standing up the kill zone.

She kissed my shoulder and said, "Guess what."

"I'm too tired to guess," I said, smiling tiredly at her.

"You can't be tired," she said in a practical voice.  "You just spent hours in bed."

I looked at her like she was crazy and she beamed at me.

"Guess what!" she insisted.

"You're going to wear your roller skates to work," I said.

"Silly.  You know I work at home."

"OK then, you're going to wear them to go grocery shopping."

"No," she said patiently.  "I love you.  I've been thinking about it, and I wanted to tell you that I love you."

I felt the urge to say, "I love you, too," bulge within me like somebody had secretly stuck a helium nozzle in me somewhere.  But that's a scary thing for a guy to say, especially after he's recently been involved in a run of the best luck of his life.  It's like a gambler, who's on a roll and is afraid that anything he does, that he hasn't been doing all along, will jinx it.  It was like things had gone SO well that I was afraid blurting out that I loved her too would seem too pat...too easy...too routinely expected.  I was just sure that it would be the wrong thing to say.  I WAS in love with her.  I just didn't know how to communicate that in a way that felt right.

So I bit my tongue and made the understatement of the century.  "I'm really glad you do."

"Good!"  She kissed my shoulder again.

Five minutes later she was asleep and it was too late.  I was in the kill zone.  I was lying down, with bullets whizzing overhead, and there was no way to get out of it that I could think of.

====================================================

When a bomb is dropped, it shakes things up.  That's what bombs do.  They change the landscape they interact with.  But what if the bomb is trucked in on a flatbed instead of being dropped from the sky?  A bomb that doesn't go off doesn't change the landscape much at all.

The "I love you" bomb has been known, on many occasions, to drastically alter the landscape of the relationship.  That's what I had been worried about when I avoided catching it and tossing it back to her.  So I hadn't given the routinely expected response:  "I love you, too."

I firmly believe that the average woman expects that response, when they drop the "I love you" bomb the first time.  It's simple quid pro quo.  I was the quintessential average man.  What that means is that I knew I owed her that "I love you, too."  I hadn't given it when I should have, because my reflexive thinking had made me hit the dirt instead of firing back.  

So I worried about it.

But Ronnie wasn't the average woman.  Remember what I told you about how she just said what was on her mind?  She'd done it again.  It wasn't a bomb.  Not from her point of view.  It was just how she felt about me.  And yet, she knew it was important.  Her comment about thinking about it before she actually said it proved that.

And it was important to me, too, because I thought about it a lot in the weeks and months that followed that ambush.  Even a bomb sitting on a flatbed changes the scenery, just by its presence.  That it doesn't go off doesn't mean it has no effect on those around it.

She loved me.  This wasn't just a run of good luck for me.  I began to have hope that she would NOT get tired of me and toss me aside some day.  And THAT led to the realization that I didn't JUST love Ronnie Powers.  I adored her.  I craved her.  I couldn't live without her.  Her essence had seeped into my soul in a way that it couldn't be separated from my being unless I was ripped apart like an atom being split in a nuclear explosion.

I know I'm using a lot of military analogies here, but I'm a man, OK?  And they work, so bear with me.

Now my problem was that I knew I loved her, and I knew she deserved to KNOW that I loved her, but I was completely incapable of telling her in any way that rose above the "Me have big rock!  Me throw it at you now!" level.

OK, that's the last reference to bombs and guns and all that stuff.  I promise.

Meanwhile, Ronnie went about loving me like she had all along.  She shared herself and her son with me.  I was privy to her delights and moments of sadness.  She was interested in how my day had been and what kind of case I was working on.  She continued to apologize routinely for not having finished my web site yet, because this or that had caused further delay.

I had never been happier in my life, because this woman loved me.  And I had never been more miserable in my life, because I couldn't figure out how to tell her I loved her even more.

Oddly enough, it was on a night much like the night of the ambush that things reached a resolution, of sorts.

We had just finished watching the annual showing of The Wizard of Oz, and Keane was trying to get me to "fly" him like a flying monkey.  Ronnie was trying to get him to stop and go to bed, so I flew him to his room.  She followed, shaking her head.  She had compared me to Keane on more than one occasion, and it wasn't because she thought we were both handsome.  I started to leave and she looked over her shoulder at me.

"Are you staying?" she asked.

I knew she meant staying the night.  I did that about twice a week these days.  Work and the fear of being turned into a husk of a man kept me from overindulging.  Still, an invitation from her was like magic.

"I could," I said.

"Good," she said.  "We need to talk about something.  I may want to hire you again."

I didn't think of this as another ambush.  Clearly, I had some advance notice that there was a potential kill zone up ahead.  I sat on her bed, contemplating the myriad of things that could mean.  By now she was well aware of the kinds of things I did in my job.  And if she had a problem of some kind, she knew I'd help her with it.  She didn't have to "hire" me to do anything.

So whatever she was thinking about must be something complicated...or had a component of danger associated with it.

The first thing I thought was that anything she hired me for would probably turn out badly.  The last time she'd hired me had landed me in the hospital.  Not that there hadn't been compensation, but I felt a twinge in my rib as I sat there, wondering about what she might want me to do for her this time.  I know it was psychosomatic, but that rib reminded me that if it was something she actually wanted to HIRE me for, it would be real work.  On the other hand, as miserable as the last job for her had been, I couldn't complain about what it had led to.

Even if she hadn't actually "paid" me the agreed price for the last time she'd hired me.  I was still firmly out of the technical age, advertising only in the Yellow Pages.

Still...this woman had brought love and laughter into my life.  I owed her.  So I put on my best face.

That was easy to maintain, initially, because she was already taking her clothes off when she came into the room.

"Good," she said.  "You're right where I want you.  Maybe a man can be trained after all."

"Ha, ha," I growled.

"But you're still dressed, so maybe I'm wrong."

I didn't push it.  I got undressed in record time.

She wanted to ride me tonight, and I was completely happy with that idea.  She usually wore me out, and if I started on my back, with her doing most of the work, I might be able to last a little longer.

Id forgotten about that snapping pussy of hers.  Within minutes, I was sweating and straining with the effort of lasting long enough to hear the sweet sound of her orgrasm.

"So, what's my next job for you?" I asked, concentrating on not cumming.

She rocked slowly on me.  She closed her eyes and made small happy sounds.

"Before I met you, it had been a long time since Id been with a man," she said to the wall above my head.  "Maybe my standards were too high, but I didn't realize how much I missed having a good man in my life."

"Thank you," I said, feeling proud of myself.

"So I think I want to hire you to find me a man."

Suddenly, not cumming was much easier.

"To do this?" I asked, unbelieving.

"Among other things," she said.  "I think I need a man in my life on a regular, full time basis.  Not like the way things are with us.  I'm not complaining, Bob.  You know I love you, but I need more than you're offering."

"Oh," I said.  This was the shits, and I felt my penis begin to react to my now dismal mood.  Her pussy began squeezing it and then relaxing, over and over again.  He perked back up some, the traitorous little bastard.  "Shouldn't you just use a dating service for that kind of thing?"

"No," she said, her eyes still closed.  "I want you to be personally involved in this search.  I like the way you work."

That was hilarious, and I laughed, a little bitterly.  I was feeling a bit bitter.  "Like I actually did anything to get your skates back," I said.  "We still wouldn't have them, if you hadn't been there with that photograph and your story about them."

"I know," she said.  She opened her eyes and looked down at me.  "But remember, I'd never showed that to anybody before.  And it was your reaction to it that let me show it to Tiffany.  And you took me there."

She leaned down and kissed me.  Man, could she kiss.  I felt like a slave being called into Cleopatra's presence.  Cleopatra could wave dismissively and say something like, "Slave, go throw yourself into the Nile with the crocodiles for me," and off he'd go, intent on doing the backstroke so he wouldn't see them coming for him when it happened.  I loved her.  This hurt, but I loved her and her happiness was something I'd been trying to ensure for months and months and months.

"OK, so what's this man going to have to be like?" I asked, taking the high road.  I wanted to be proud of myself for doing that, but it hurt too much.

She sat back up and started rocking again, faster this time.

"It would be nice if he was handsome, at least to me.  And he needs to be intelligent, well read, kind, funny, sweet, thoughtful, and nice to animals and children.  And honest.  Honesty is very big with me.

She rocked faster and started squeezing my cock with her pussy muscles again.  Whoever this mythical guy was, he turned her on.

"He has to be talented, respectful, and capable of understanding and practicing sarcasm," she said, breathing deeply now.  "Hang on a second."

I hung on while she leaned forward and had an orgasm, just like that.  Then she sat back up and rocked some more.

"That way he can deal with being around my insane family," she panted.  "And he has to be willing to argue with me when he thinks I'm wrong."  She leaned forward a little.  "I want him to be horny for me all the time and in love with my nipples."  She started going faster again.  "I'd kind of like him to be taller than me.  And he needs to be just a guy and not a metrosexual."

She reached for my hands and brought to them to her breasts.

"He should be a guy who's good with his hands.  I like rough hands.  He should have hands like yours.  I don't want my man to have better hands than I do.  He should be stronger than me, too."

She leaned forward into my hands and rested her weight on her breasts while I squeezed them.  She humped her way through another orgasm and made those delighted little noises while she did it.  Then she put her hands on my shoulders, supporting her own weight, and stared down into my eyes while her pussy muscles went to work again.

"He has to be someone who can be my friend, as well as my lover...someone who shows interest in things that are important to me."  Her pussy was milking me off and I knew it, but there wasn't a thing in the world I could do about it.

"He has to be willing to go through hell for me," she said, leaning down to kiss me.  Her pussy squeezed me hard, and I groaned as soothing semen rushed through my prick and burst into her heat.

"Mmmmmmmm," she went into my mouth, sucking my tongue.  She made it quite clear that she liked the feeling of me cumming in her.  "He has to be the kind of man I'd want to marry, and be a father figure for Keane.

As I gave her everything I had in me, she lifted her face enough to speak one more time.

"He has to be the kind of man I'd actually sit through the Wizard of Fucking Oz with."

===================================================

I knew who she was talking about now.  I'd have to have been ten or twenty bricks shy of a load not to tumble to what she was hinting at.

And I know you're remembering all that crap about how dismal I felt, and all that whining I was doing, even if it was all in my head.  And I know you're thinking I should have been overjoyed.  I should have been gibbering with happiness.

But the "I love you" bomb is a firecracker next to the "I want to marry you" bomb.  I know I said I wouldn't use the military analogy again.  So sue me.  This was serious shit!  I was over forty and had never been married.  No woman had put her brand on me.  I was my own man.

She wanted to corral the stud.  She wanted to fence in the free running mustang.  She wanted to take away the only thing I really owned...my freedom!  And for what?!

I lay there, staring at the ceiling of a room in which I'd just been ambushedAGAIN .  I had two choices.  If this woman was anything like her mother, she had the genes of a stalker in her, and she knew where I lived and worked.

And then I thought about the alternative.

I reflected on what it would probably be like inside that fence, unable to run free.  I'd be stuck there with a deliciously sexy young woman, who was smart and had the soul of an angel.  I thought about having to come home to a woman who, if history repeated itself, was in the process of fucking me almost unconscious, and was only breathing deeply herself.

I thought about coming home to a woman who had grace, style and charisma, who still celebrated a defining moment in her life that nobody had seen, but which still defined her.  I thought about opening a door each night to find a woman there who refused to be defined by sadness and hurt, who would equate herself with the freedom and joy represented by a pair of white roller skates with red wheels.

I turned my head to look at the white roller skates with red wheels that were responsible for me being in that bed...which had brought about a defining moment in MY life.  They were sitting on her dresser in that room and had watched, many times, as I was made love to in a way that inspires songs to be written about it.

I rolled my head back to look into those blue/green eyes, under those hanging bangs, in front of all that quarter inch long hair that was a base for those ridiculous dog ears.  The moment was there.  I loved her, and I now had a chance to tell her I loved her in a way that would be as real as was possible, with no hint of clich in it.

"It had better be a damned impressive website," I said firmly.


The end.

