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Sid was behind his desk in the corner, pecking away at his ancient computer keyboard one key at a time. When he heard the bell ring on the door, he looked up at me from behind his thick, coke-bottle-bottom glasses.
“Uh oh,” he said. “Trouble just walked in.”
I smiled. It was what he said when I came to work every morning.
“What’s up, kid? Back so soon? You get yer man?”
“No,” I said with a sigh. “Far from it.”
“Take a load off and tell me about it.”
I sat down in the chair opposite his desk and told him the story: how I had gotten close to the leader of the Midnight Riders, then betrayed his trust – and how much I hated myself for doing it. How the biker gang’s villainous VP had found out who I was, and nearly killed me. How an undercover DEA agent had blackmailed me, then left me with nothing once my true identity was discovered.
After I finished, Sid shook his head. “Sorry to hear it, kid. That’s some tough fuckin’ breaks.”
I slumped down in my chair. I didn’t cry – I’d never cried in front of Sid, and I wasn’t about to start – but the full weight of my despair crashed down on me like a pallet of cement blocks. “I feel like such a failure.”
“Aaah, don’t sweat it. You know what they say: if at first you don’t succeed, fuck it.”
I laughed – my first genuine laugh since the horrors of last night. It felt good. “Yeah, well, that’s about the only option I have left.”
“So,” he said casually, “you lookin’ for a job? ‘Cause I had this PI workin’ for me – nothin’ to write home about, but she was okay. Anyway, she walked out on me last week and I ain’t hired anybody to take her place yet.”
I smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Sid.”
“Don’t sweat it. We’ll start you off at minimum wage till I see what you’re made of.”
I glared at him, and he chuckled.
“Gotcha,” he said, then went back to being genuine. “You need anything, you just let me know.”
“If I could crash on the sofa in the back room for a couple of nights, that would be great.”
“You know, I didn’t mean that ‘anything’ part literally. That was just to make you feel better.”
“It’s just until I get a new apartment.”
“When’s that gonna be?”
“A couple of days.”
“Is that a ‘couple of days’ couple of days, or is that woman time?”
“‘Woman time’?”
“Like when my ex-wife was putting on makeup and shit and told me she’d be ready to go in five minutes.”
“It’s a couple of days, you chauvinist pig.”
“Oink oink. Guilty as charged.”
“Never mind, I’ll crash on somebody else’s sofa.”
“No, no,” he grumped, “you can stay here.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take it outta yer paycheck.”
