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“Can I make a pit stop?” I requested. “I have dumpster hands.”
He said nothing, but reversed directions to take me to a bathroom in their office suite.
It was swish. Black walls. Recessed lighting. Backlit mirrors. White bowl sinks looking stark and stylish on a matte black counter. Contrasting blond wood floors and matching wood stalls. An attractive white planter in the back corner with a healthy green plant in it.
It did not say PI’s office. It said five-star hotel.
I did my thing, then I did it again for good measure. I considered a third go but decided that was maybe a hint over the top. After that, I walked out to Jackson waiting.
He was silent through the reception area and into the hall. He was also silent down the elevator to the parking garage (their offices were on the fifth floor of the high-rise). He remained silent as he bleeped the locks on one of seven shiny black Denalis lined up right next to the elevator. And he was silent when we got in. He pulled out and we were on our way.
It was me who broke the silence when he pulled into Lenny’s drive-thru.
Okay, maybe he wasn’ttotallyinfuriating.
“Thank the good Lord above,” I said.
He had no response.
He didn’t quite make the menu board when he stopped and turned to me.
“Just the malt?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Also a cowboy burger. No tomato. Stress that. I don’t want even one slimy seed to ruin the perfection of the burger. Tots. And the malt needs to be vanilla. Oh! And a root beer. No, Orange Crush. No! Root beer.”
Jackson didn’t move, just kept staring at me.
“Root beer,” I firmly decided.
He looked forward then the SUV inched forward.
I was realizing how this wasn’t going to be a great thing (even if it was a great thing, Lenny’s was always great, even though, if you went inside the one on Central, you might be eating your burger or pastrami next to a meth addict, a couple sex workers, some hipsters, some skaters, and a Scottsdale socialite slumming it to cheat on her Whole30 diet where no one could see her—in other words, the vibe could be mixed, though, in my opinion, that was part of the fun), because this wasn’t McDonald’s. The drive-thru at Lenny’s took a while.
Part two of this predicament was that I’d left my wallet in my glove compartment in Tweety.
“Um, my wallet’s in my car,” I told him.
“My shout,” he said.
“I’ll pay you back,” I promised.
“You bet your ass you will,” he murmured so low I barely caught it, but couldn’t ask after it since he was leaning forward to pull out his wallet due to the fact the cashier had opened her window.
After he dealt with paying, as we sat waiting, I queried, “What did you mean?”
“About what?” he asked, his head turned away from me, apparently fascinated with the goings-on inside at closing time at Lenny’s.
I jogged his memory. “The part about me betting my ass I will. I’m good for it.”
Again, it’d bite into my monthly fun-money budget, which wasn’t an astronomical number to begin with, but since Donald Walken/Paul Nicholson was caught, and Elsie Fay was with her parents, I had free time. I’d just sign on for more dog walking and cat sitting and sort myself out.
“Though, I don’t have any cash on me. I’ll drop it at the office tomorrow,” I told him.
“Right,” he said.
“Really, I will,” I confirmed.
“I believe you.”
