Lies and Pancakes

An outtake from chapter 2 of Sesame Swallow, Private Investigator

I had to nail these shots, and then we could talk pancakes and bacon and other remedies to my hungry belly. I took the last sip of my mocha just as we rounded the corner, and just at that moment, the screen door at 938 S. East shuddered and swung open.  I dropped the empty cup back into its holder and snatched up the nicest thing I owned in the world, a gunmetal gray Nikon DS5500 with a 400mm zoom lens. It was my life’s blood in this shitty job of hunting cheaters and deadbeats, a last hurrah from my dwindling trust fund. I caressed it for a moment, eyeing the dull screen door, a perfect match for the 1950’s green-gray formstone that hugged the front of the two story rowhome, and then, when the door swung wide and I saw him standing there, I pulled the beauty up to my eye and tapped the power button. It chirped, then the viewfinder blinked on, and I zoomed in to catch the morning’s last kiss.

Digital stills and video with the touch of a button - I was the paparazzi of Charm City cheaters, and I was paying the bills today. Charm City Cheaters - maybe I could finagle that into a reality TV show? Was it better than Swallow Investigations? I needed a new name for my failing business.

“What’s his deal?”

I didn’t look up, but kept on going just as they did, lips still locked, his hand inside her robe right on the stoop like no one would see. We were only a couple houses down across the street in the ‘02 pea green and rusty (not rust-colored) Camry. We blended; they, well...no shame to their game...it was Canton, after all. They fit right in.

“Mr. Aaron Canty. Away on business, according to his wife. They live in Owings Mills near that dead mall.”

“Proper county folk.”

“Wife, two kids, a yellow cockapoo. This is his girlfriend’s house.”

“What a dick.”

I shrugged. Yep. He was supposed to arrive in BWI at 10:53 on United 1431 from Charlotte, and it looked like his flight was right on schedule. One last cross check from the flight attendant...

His ride was on time, too - a gray Prius pulled up, fuzzy mustache adorning the front of the electric car, and Mr. Smooth tore himself away from his squeeze. I kept film rolling, the camera vibrating as picture after picture snapped. I zoomed in on his well-groomed face, the light gray sports coat and white shirt with scarlet tie. His beard was neatly trimmed, his red-rimmed eyes focused on the sidewalk in front of him until he dipped into the back seat.

I stole a shot of the offending party before Bea and I ducked down and the Prius whispered by.

“Bet she’s a cow.”

“Don’t think so,” I said, dialing up the last few frames. I’d barely had a chance to look. I flicked through the two dozen shots the camera had collected before we’d hidden ourselves, and I found myself frowning at what I saw. Typical. Totally fuckable. And fucking someone else’s man.

“We have to follow them,” I said, half talking to Bea, half to myself. The screen door was already closed, the Prius two blocks down already.

“Well, we know he’s going to the airport, right?” said Bea, turning the engine over. “What’s the rush? It’s 95 to 295 or nothing, right? Won’t be no traffic, hermana, and that stupid mustache is impossible to miss.”

I shrugged, tucked the camera back into my crotch and watched the screen door slip away as Bea executed what should have been a three-point turn. A moment later we were in lukewarm pursuit, and our mobile spy station spilled onto Boston Street, heading south. I groaned as the sun slapped me across the face again, and I pushed my sunglasses back up onto my nose to take the edge off.

“There’s a Starbutts in Target, you know?”

I glared at Bea when she smirked and failed to slow down even a little so I might catch a whiff of something caffienated when we whipped by the shopping center at Canton Crossing. I’d have to wait a bit longer, but before I could even issue a challenging growl she’d only ignore, the pole flashers blinked on and the red-striped barriers at the railroad crossing trapped us, sending up a wail of misery from Bea’s brakes and dashing my hopes of a few shots of Mr. Wrong being dropped at BWI.

“Home, Jeeves,” I muttered. “It’s time for the Starbutts on Greene Street and then back to bed. Shot of espresso and a muffin on me?”

Bea smiled and began her 3-point turn torture once again. She was faster than the train that was coming through though; had to give her that. “Oh no, hermana. All I get is a muffin? I did drive your tore up ass all the way out here to SouthEast.”

“I still look hot.”

“Yeah, from a distance.”

“Bitch.”

Bea snickered, and I couldn’t help but follow up with a giggle, which had my poor head throbbing before we were even aimed the opposite way.

You win some, you lose some, I thought. I didn’t really need the goods on Mr. Cheater at BWI, but I liked to be thorough. I had over fifty stills of him and his squeeze playing night-after tonsil hockey, plus what I’d gotten the other day when he’d “gone out of town” and I’d trailed him all the way back from the terminal where his wife had dropped him off. No doubt she was on her way there to pick him up now and ask about his trip. I steadied my camera as we bumped through some Boston Street potholes and considered shooting her a few pics via the Bluetooth connection to my phone, but maybe her kids were in the car, too, and so I just leaned back in the seat and thought about what was next. Plenty of time to finish that marriage, but for now, I needed more caffeine. And pancakes.

Collage from Sesame Swallow, Private Investigator