For Butter or Worse Read online

  Dating Veronica is like stepping in dog poop. No matter how hard you scrub your shoe, there’s still a lingering smell. I’ve broken up with her 71 times, but she refuses to acknowledge that we are broken up. It’s because it wasn’t her idea. When it finally is her idea, only then will I be freed from the yoke of sexual tension that I live under every time she gets close. She also gives me P.I. work from time to time, so I am beholden to her and she knows it.

  “That is such an old joke it’s practically in a museum,” I say. I dump the squishy banana in the trash can. I walk behind my desk, open a drawer, and fish out a paper napkin. I keep a drawer filled with soy sauce packets, napkins, and wooden chopsticks, all courtesy of my forays next door. You never know when a packet of duck sauce will come in handy.

  I wipe the fruit goop off my hand and throw the napkin in the trash.

  “Tsk, tsk, don’t be so prickly,” she says, spinning a slow circle in my office chair.

  “I could have you arrested for breaking and entering.” She’s been breaking into my office ever since I had an office.

  “I did not break in. The door wasn’t locked,” Veronica says haughtily.

  The main problem with us is that the only time we like each other is when we’re in bed. And since we’re rarely in bed together, that pretty much means we argue most of the time.

  I glare right back at her. “It was too locked. I always make certain of that. So, how’d you get in this time?”

  She dangles a key in front of my face. I make a swipe for it, but she drops it down the rabbit hole of her cleavage before I can get it. She puffs out her chest in my direction. It’s like she’s daring me to fish for it.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You have a key to my office,” I say indignantly. “How’d you do that?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Veronica taunts.

  I barely refrain from leaping across my desk and throttling her. She’d sue me for sure. That’s the problem with dating lawyers. I don’t even bother to ask for the key back because I’m sure she had copies made. She probably sweet-talked the landlord into giving her one. Veronica and her boobs can be very persuasive.

  “What do you want?” I ask, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  “Other than you?” she asks. She gets out of my chair and walks around the desk toward me. I dash the other way and plop my butt down on the warm vinyl of the chair. I feel much better sitting in my power chair.

  She slides her butt up on the desk and swings around to my side. Her crossed legs are right under my nose. Her skirt hitches up just high enough to give me a pretty good view of her dynamite gams. I will myself not to look. Concentrate on her face, I tell myself. Veronica exudes just enough sexuality to titillate but not enough to be inappropriately dressed for a lawyer. It’s enough to drive a dyke crazy.

  “I’ve got a little job for you,” she says. She hops off the desk and walks over to her briefcase sitting by the door. She bends over, looks over her shoulder to see if I’m looking, which I am, and smiles.

  “I don’t know if I can fit it in my schedule,” I lie.

  “I don’t see a line of people in the waiting room.”

  “I don’t have a waiting room,” I grouse. She knows that work has been slow. I don’t know how she knows but she does. She always knows. Veronica has the pulse on everything criminal going on in this town. That’s what makes her the town’s leading defense attorney.

  “I need you to do some background work on a client,” she says. It’s not a question; it’s an order.

  I don’t really like doing this kind of work if it means I’m helping Veronica get a criminal off the hook. It makes me feel disloyal to the justice system. In my book, if you did the crime you should do the time, but sometimes one of her clients is actually being railroaded by a less than perfect justice system, especially if that person happens to be black.

  “What is it? What kind of background work?” I ask.

  “I need you to sniff around my client’s background. She’s not exactly being forthcoming, and I don’t like surprises.”

  “I don’t sniff. I’m not a bloodhound.”

  “No, but you are damn good at surveillance. No one suspects a woman holding a squished banana to be a detective.” She hands me a manila file folder.

  I take the folder and ask, “When do you need it?”

  Veronica shrugs. “We’ve got some time. I asked for a stay in order to gather more evidence.” She hands over a check. I try not to look too eager when I take it from her. I glance at it. It’s made out for seven hundred and fifty dollars.

  “My retainer is a thousand,” I remind her.

  “Discount for a friend. You find anything, and I’ll double it,” Veronica says.

  “Fine,” I say. I need the money fast. Plus, you can only eat so many eggrolls before you get sick of them.

  “Good. Keep me posted. Oh, and Jamie, you might want to get some green bananas. They’re harder to squish.” She turns and struts out of my office and even though she can’t see me, I flip her the bird.

  I stare at the check. I wish I didn’t have to do this, but money is money. Maybe the gal is telling the truth and she is innocent. I could be helping a woman unjustly accused.

  I open the file folder and hope that I’m not going to regret taking this job.

  Chapter Two

  As a form of protest against Veronica, I don’t start my assignment immediately. Instead, I go to see Travis and Michael at the State Fair.

  I haven’t been to the fair since I was a little kid. We stopped going because my father worked in waste management (that’s the fancy name for being a garbage man) and couldn’t stop picking up litter and complaining about the over-filled trash cans. He marched up to the supervisor of trash collection, dragging me and my mom with him, and gave him a piece of his mind. That quickly turned into an argument. Needless to say, we were forcibly escorted off the fairgrounds and my father was banned for life. My mother refused to return to the fair in loyalty to my father. So, I didn’t get to go either. I couldn’t do that to Pop. In a big Italian family like ours, loyalty counts for everything.

  I buy my ticket. The price has gone up a lot in the last thirty years. Inflation is a real thing.

  I wander around the fair with no specific direction in mind. I just soak up the atmosphere. The State Fair is a big deal around here. People from all walks of life show up once a year to experience the sights, smells, and excitement. This year is no different: farmers, FFA kids, dog and pony trick shows, displays of abnormally large vegetables, large mechanical equipment with sharp implements attached... all the stuff I remember.

  Except now there’s fried candy bars on a stick. They definitely didn’t have those when I was growing up. The line for one of these delectable delights is insanely long. I contemplate getting in the line. You can never go wrong with chocolate or fried food, so, by that reasoning, fried chocolate has to be twice as good.

  I put my finger between my tummy and the waistband of my pants. They’re still resting a bit tight around the middle. It’s bad enough that I’m limiting myself to one Yoo-hoo a day because they don’t have a diet version. Maybe I should go look at those giant vegetables to remind me I’m supposed to drop a few pounds. They look too weird to eat so they’ll serve as a good appetite suppressant. I don’t like vegetables anyway.

  I walk down the major thoroughfare looking for the beer tent. I refuse to get into the Eurocentric biergarten thing. To me, it’s a tent that sells beer. I spot the horse barn, and just to see if anything has really changed in thirty years, I head straight for it. Sure enough, it’s closed for cleaning or horsey nap hour or some such reason – the horse people never say why it’s closed, it just is and today is the same as always. I never got to see the horses back when either.

  I sigh and move on to the llamas, then the pig barn. I realize as I stare at a 1500-pound pig that I’ve caught fair fever. I’m looking at things that had never crossed my mind. I look
at the piggy moms with their cute, squealing little piglets. I know I’ll never eat bacon again without thinking of these cute pig babies, which means I won’t be eating bacon or any other pork product for the rest of my life. That’s a depressing thought. A life without bacon isn’t a life worth living.

  I know I’ve gone over the edge when I stop at the spinning paint booth and hand over some money to make one of those paintings for myself. The vender, a man wearing a red, white, and blue fair hat, and has a toothpick hanging out the side of his mouth, gives me glossy paper and my choice of paint colors. I go for rainbow. Now all I need is a stuffed unicorn and I’ll be in Happyland.

  That’s what my nephew Griffin calls the place you go that’s full of rainbows and unicorns and all the gummy bears you can eat. His mother, my sister Juniper, is a sugar Nazi, which means Griffin dreams of candy but can’t eat any. When we hang out, he gets all the gummy bears he wants. We don’t tell his mom. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I make him brush his teeth before I drop him off in case Juniper smells sugar on his breath.

  I finish my spin-art painting and while the guy uses a hair dryer to dry it, I go to the next booth and buy a stuffed unicorn. I’ll give it all to Griffin. That’s my justification for buying crap I don’t need. This is another symptom of fair fever—buying stuff that will make no sense when you get home. Who really needs a plastic blow-up baseball bat? I buy one anyway. The unicorn is an endangered species and I might need to defend him. My spin-art masterpiece is original art, ready for hanging. The man hands it to me and I ask him if he knows where the beer tent is.

  “You mean the biergarten?” he asks.

  Is everyone a beer snob? “Yes, that’s what I said. The beer tent,” I say obstinately.

  “The biergarten is that way,” he says, pointing a paint-stained finger in the direction of the Expo building. “Turn left and go past the Around the World of Oddities exhibition, turn right when you reach the Alligator-on-a-stick booth, look across the street, and you should see it.”

  Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how big is this place? I thank him and head off to the Expo building, keeping my eyes straight ahead so I’m not tempted to go inside and buy some miracle household product that will make my life so much easier and improve my standing in the community.

  The day is getting hot and wearing all black isn’t helping. I’m going to have to go see Reggie, my clothing advisor who works at Nordstrom. She’s the one who talked me into the trench coat and fedora. She’s hinted around that she’d like to talk me out of my trench coat and fedora, but I don’t need another love life complication. Although... she is extremely attractive.

  My lustful thoughts are interrupted by a child running smack into me as he comes out of the Oddities exhibit. He bounces off me and into the woman behind me.

  “Guess what, Mom? They’ve got a whole display on warts!” he tells the woman. “They’ve got the world’s most humongous wart!” She apologizes for her zealous son’s behavior.

  I smile and nod, moving away quickly. I hate warts and I don’t want to know about warts. There are some things best left unsaid and a vivid description of warts is one of those.

  Sure enough, I turn right and there’s the Alligator-on-a-stick food booth. The beer tent is right across from it.

  Travis waves excitedly at me when I enter. “I can’t believe you came. I thought you hated the fair,” he says.

  I take a seat at the bar next to Ivan. He licks my face and I temporarily forget my no-kisses-because-he-licks-his-butt rule. I’m hoping that sitting on the stool has kept him from sticking his nose in his privates.

  “We just got back from the pet restroom,” Travis says. “Have you seen it? Fake grass, even a fake fire hydrant.”

  I grab a napkin and hurriedly swipe my face.

  “He only went number one.” Travis knows about my no kisses rule.

  A large, hairy man who’s well into his cups shuffles up to the bar to get another beer. Like he needs it. He stares at Ivan who’s sitting on the barstool minding his own business. He slurs, “That’s the ugliest damn dog I’ve ever seen.” He squints his eyes at Ivan in an attempt to focus. “Is he wearing lederhosen?”

  “Why yes,” Travis says sweetly. “He comes from a long line of German rescue dogs.”

  “Looks more like he’s the one who needs to be rescued,” the man says.

  “Actually, he saved sixty-four arschlochs from a burning bar in Hamburg which is why he has no hair. It all got burned off. You’re looking at a true hero,” Travis says tartly.

  The guy looks at Ivan again and his eyes soften. “I apologize.” He stuffs several dollar bills into the tip jar.

  Evidently, the drunk guy doesn’t know German. I don’t know many German words, but I do know that arschloch means asshole. Travis pours him a non-alcoholic beer while he scratches Ivan’s ears, so the guy doesn’t notice he’s been cut off. He weaves off to his table where his poor wife is looking bored and miserable.

  “Has Ivan been getting insulted a lot?” I ask.

  “Not as much as you’d think. If people don’t know what kind of dog he is, I make up tragic stories about why he doesn’t have any hair. See, it’s working great,” he says indicating the tip jar which is packed with bills.

  “I didn’t realize people drank this early,” I say looking around at several tables filled with drinking fair goers, most of them men.

  “They drink beer while their wives go see the quilt exhibit. I guess it’s a really big deal this year. Second only to the butter sculpting contest,” Travis says.

  “Butter sculpting?” I had no idea there even was such a thing. I’ve heard of sandcastle sculptures and ice carved swans for fancy parties but never butter. “What, like sticks of butter carved into cute little animals?” I ask, unable to stop my curiosity. Travis will know all about it because he’s attracted to weird things. Last month he researched the mating rituals of sloths. (Spoiler alert: it takes them a loooong time to do the nasty.)

  Before we get any further into the butter sculpting thing, Michael comes around from the back of the bar carrying a case of German beer with an unpronounceable name. Travis squeezes one of Michael’s biceps before he sets the case of beer on the makeshift counter.

  “Oh, me likey,” Travis says.

  I turn away. I’m not in the mood for watching love. Michael smiles at me and executes a mock-courtier bow. I roll my eyes but can’t help but smile at him.

  “So Michael, how’s the tiergarten treating you?” I ask.

  “Did somebody say tiergarten?” Michael asks.

  That’s Michael and Travis’s cue to link arms and sing a chorus of the Rufus song. I cover my ears with my hands. Ivan does a few little yips at the end of the song. I can’t tell if he’s adding to the chorus or if he’s indicating his relief at it being over.

  Michael opens the case of beer and starts handing Travis bottles to put in the cooler. Travis’s head is in the cooler so all I hear is a muffled, “Did Veronica stop by your office?”

  “What makes you think that?” I ask.

  “You have that look,” Michael answers for him.

  “What look would that be?” I ask.

  “Your glum look,” Michael responds.

  Travis pops his head up. “And I can smell her. I recognize her perfume.” Travis does have the most amazing nose. He’s the bloodhound, not me. If I ever need a professional sniffer, I’ve got one in Travis.

  Michael’s assessment is true. Veronica sucks the joy out of my life and I was already down in the dumps about not having work. I mean, I’m in the beer tent at the fair. That alone smacks of desperation. “I will admit she did stop by the office.”

  Travis stands up and arches an eyebrow and puts a hand on his hip.

  I shake my head. “And before you ask, we did not have sex. She gave me a job I’m not sure I should’ve taken.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “She wants me to do surveillance on one of her clients,” I say. I
wish I had a Yoo-hoo. Travis must sense my need. He reaches into the cooler and pulls out a cold one.

  “Wow. Now that’s service,” I say. “How’d you know I wanted one of these?”

  “You had on your Yoo-hoo face,” Travis says.

  So now I have a glum face and a Yoo-hoo face. “Thanks, I really need this.” I stick the little straw into the box and take a long pull.

  “What’s in the bag?” Michael asks, peering down at the white plastic bag I’d set on the floor next to my stool. Ivan has gotten off his stool and is sniffing it.

  “Nothing. Just some stuff,” I say. No way in hell I’m going to let them see the unicorn or the blow up baseball bat and I don’t even want to go into the spin-art painting.

  At that moment, Ivan sticks his little head into the bag and chomps his jaws down on the unicorn’s horn. He jumps back on his stool and gives the unicorn a good shake like he’s trying to break its neck.

  “Give that back. That’s no way to treat a unicorn,” I say and snatch it way. I wipe the slobber off its horn with a napkin. “No wonder they went extinct.”

  Travis grabs my bag and paws around inside it. He pulls out the spin art. He shows it to Michael. Both of them cock their heads and study it. “It’s not bad, actually,” Travis says.

  “I can see the angst and anger, right here,” Michael says. He points at the middle of the spin art. They snicker together like a couple of junior high girls.

  “And right here, definitely, sexual tension and frustration,” Travis says.

  “Very funny.” I grab my spin art out of his hands and stuff it back in the bag.

  Travis picks up the blow-up baseball bat and waves it in the air like he’s the gay version of Babe Ruth. He bops Michael on the head with it. Michael grabs for it, but Travis is faster. However, I’m even faster. I reach across the bar and pluck it right out of his hand.

  “Hey, give that back,” he protests.

  “It’s mine,” I say, stuffing it back into the bag.

  “Okay, so spill. What does Veronica the Viper have in store for you and why don’t you like it?” Travis says.