Page 41 of Alonzo

“You’re what?”

“I’m not really an accountant. I’m a fisherman. But… there’s more to me.”

Fisherman. What the actual fuck? I’m so stunned at that word I can’t think straight. Fisherman? Nobody’s a fucking fisherman. Right? I mean, I guess some people must be fishermen. But…

“Tara?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not understanding you. Did you say fisherman?”

He sighs. “Yeah. But like I said, there’s more.”

“What kind of more?” The question emerges from my mouth out of instinct because I’m not really sure I want to know.

The angle of the phone camera widens to reveal a shirtless Lonnie. And he’s quite the specimen. Not what I pictured underneath that white button-down, that’s for sure. I’m talking hard, contoured chest muscles. And as the angle gets wider and wider, he reveals a set of washboard abs that only come from constant, deliberate hard work.

But it’s not the muscles that make me hold my breath.

It’s the tattoos. He’s covered in them. Full sleeves. Full chest piece. And I bet if he turned around, there would be a back piece to match.

I’m… speechless.

“Tara? Can you see this?”

Oh, I see it. I’m just trying to decide how I should react. Then my thumb slips on the side of the phone and I accidentally take a screenshot.

Luckily, Lonnie is still talking and doesn’t notice the click noise, or politely ignores it.

“They’re not crappy. I’d like to make that clear. My tats were well-thought out. Every single one was planned. There’s nothing piecemeal about this ink. They are all mermaids. From every kind of myth and legend. What I’m trying to say is…”

But I stop listening. Did he just say mermaids? This cannot be happening. I thought maybe… best-case worst scenario, maybe he wasn’t an accountant. Maybe he was just some loser with no college degree so he’s skimming the bottom at a random office. Or he was a mechanic. A plumber. Some blue-collar guy who has a fantasy about wearing white button-downs to work every day.

But those tattoos. Those tattoos tell me that none of my best-case worst scenarios are going to be true. It’s going to be something so much worse.

It’s not the ink. It’s not the art. I’m not a snob. I’m not too good for a man with tattoos. It’s just… a man with tattoos like that? He’s a very specific type of man. The kind of man who usually partakes in illegal activities. They ride motorcycles and drive muscle cars. They have friends with tattoos, and clubhouses, and loud mothers—not to mention psycho ex-girlfriends.

OK. Fine. I’m picturing that Sons of Anarchy show, but there’s a good reason for that.

I’ve seen that side of life. Yes, I loved my job as a private investigator. I wouldn’t take any of it back, but these men with tattoos are like the lure of a charming old house. When you’re standing on the sidewalk or cruising by in a car it’s easy to get lost in the curb appeal. You see nicely trimmed hedges, and the quaint shutters, and the warm glow of light from within.

But if you tour the house with an intent to buy, you see everything else. When you peel back the facade you see the cracks in the plaster. You see the chipped paint, and the oil stains on the driveway, and start totaling up the cost of energy-efficient windows because this place leaks heat and AC like a sieve.

And that’s just normal people.

I’m not normal people. I’m an inspector. It’s my job to see those cracks, and that paint, and the oil stains. But I don’t stop there. I look in the basement, in the attic, in the crawlspace, in the garage. I test the appliances, and the water pressure, and look at the roof.

“Tara? Are you still listening?”

I know how old that water heater is. I know that ductwork has never been cleaned, I see those mouse droppings.

“Tara? Answer me.”

There’s a leak behind the powder room toilet, all those beautiful original wood floors are actually rotting, and guess what? You can’t get a permit to remodel because this place is on some list of historic homes.

“Tara?”

“I’m here.”

“Do you have anything to say?”