Life in Drips and Sputters
5
There are some places a working man need not venture. It's bad for the ego.
A screaming woman had just ruined the function of my left ear, seemingly grieving in that way new widows do. Her operatic wailing would have been more convincing had dry eyes not critically weighed the blood splotch on the white rug. Every reason to suspect her next call would be to a carpet cleaner. And then the pool boy. A woman who already knew the numerical factor of her late husband's will.
Her sticky presence made my wallet feel lighter.
Such a play at despair could destroy a man's confidence in womankind. So I entered the lab with the assurance that a smile with the trimmings would await me. The room was slightly crisp, the temperature preferred by eight out of ten pieces of evidence. Machines whirled and fizzed, computers hummed. I stopped near a little unit that did its best to excuse the zipping sound made from tiny gears. Probably costs a decade's salary.
I didn't get the trimmings. Not even the gravy.
Abby's lean body angled over one of her toys. It wasn't an unpleasant view. From the back, anyway. Coming around to the front of the table I noted that, above the mire of official tools and unsanctioned gadgets, there hovered a sharp and boding frown. An enormous thing on an ageless face. That morbid mouth was lined in kohl and dissatisfaction. The kind of mouth not to be interrupted. Above were the kind of eyes that found me. And found me lacking.
A day better spent hiding in the parking lot.
In the measure of feminine wiles, hers assembled into a storm of 'kill.' If the perp had any sense, he'd welcome the all-male population of prison.
"What?"
I'd been greeted that way on occasion, usually by murderers interrupted and one-night stands whose names I'd neglected to catch. Not recently, of course. Still, Gibbs wanted answers. But I should have strapped on a steel apron to protect the sensitive bits.
"Just checking on the progress." Witnessing Abby's gravitation toward irritation created an ill-advised loosening of lips. "To see what you're doing."
"You even know what I'm doing, Tony?"
"Of course. You're putting this thing into that thing and then it does," and the steam ran out, "its thing."
"And what's that thing called?"
"Square box of some financial consequence.
"And what does it do?" She slipped into Mr. Roger's sing-song sweater. It was an uncomfortable fit.
"Makes you look really smart." I added in haste, "not that you need a thing to do that."
"Because I'm…"
We weren't far from the hands-on-hips phase but had, from the sound of it, already arrived at the toe tapping stage. I took a step back. Distance was always a safe strategy. I used to be welcomed in here. In this lab where I'd enjoyed more than one triumph of brilliance. Come to think of it, that was only yesterday. Hours were cruel little buggers. My hand gesture was meant to sum up my esteem. I wasn't unaware that it looked more like a home shopping presenter indicating the deal of the day
"The mistress of square box things."
"And you are…"
"Leaving?" I suggested.
"Glad we had this talk, Tony."
But because luck's a lazy beast waiting to be pushed downhill, I gave it a shove. "See, we're not that different if you think about it."
Her expression said that she'd thought about it and killed the notion before it could breed.
"Since I use actual words where 'thing' works for you?"
"No," I defended with sad lack of conviction. "Both experience-honed crime solvers of compatible resources. I work through visual clues and you work through thi-stuff that plugs in."
That things was kicked out of my sentence gained a grin from toxic lips. Finally.
"Good boy. Now go get the criminal and lock him in a square box of taxpayer consequence."
The ego was trimmed in bruises, but the departing hug was as good as gravy.