Candy Apple Red. Nancy Bush

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СКАЧАТЬ stool. “Those fish are tough. Really tough. But sometimes you cast out…” He reeled in again. Actually reeled in. And for just a moment I almost forgot it was all illusion. Once more the imaginary line sailed toward the heads of the other customers whose blank oblivion said more about the hour of the morning than any disinterest in Billy’s story. “You get a bite and it’s kinda like…ugh.” His shoulders drooped. He jiggled the line with a slack wrist. “He’s on, y’know? Grabbed it big time. But there’s just no zzziinnnggg.” He grimaced and nodded. “Hatchery fish.”

      Julie, the Coffee Nook’s proprietress, asked “Audrey” what she would like. I realized with a jolt that Audrey seemed to be staring across the room at me. She saw that I noticed and quickly murmured something to Julie, then hurriedly walked out of the Nook. Julie shrugged.

      I sipped my black coffee. It’s a shame, but I struggle with both caffeine and lactose. I’m determined to give up neither. If I ever have to give up alcohol I’ll start smoking or doing drugs or indulging in weird sex acts. If I can’t have a vice I just don’t want to live.

      Billy continued, “They don’t quite have that survival instinct, y’know?” He sighed and wagged his head slowly, side to side. “Just can’t really make it out there. And that’s the problem with our kids. They’re hatchery fish.”

      Aha…he’d managed to pull the allegory back to his favorite subject. Billy’s boys were in college, taking a jumble of courses with no clear career path in sight. Most of their friends were in the same boat. I grimaced. Even though I hit the big 3-0 this year and consider myself long finished with higher education, I’m not convinced that I won’t be tossed in with these shiftless souls Billy seems to know so much about. My job situation alone might drop me into the loser bin.

      “But they’ll—they’ll figure it out,” Billy added. He nodded jerkily as if to convince himself, then ran his hands through his hair, making it stand straight off his head. Billy always looks like he just woke up after a two-week bender. He’s so not the three-piece-suit type that his choice of profession almost awes me. But then, I’ve changed professions so many times that sometimes I think I should tack Misc. after my name. Jane Kelly, Misc.

      I asked Julie, “Do you know who that woman was? The one dressed like Audrey Hepburn?”

      She shook her head. “Never seen her before. She didn’t want anything.”

      I decided to forget about her. If I started thinking people were watching me, I would become as paranoid as the rest of the world. I turned to Billy and said with conviction, “My brother’s a hatchery fish.”

      “Booth?”

      “Yep.” I hoped this deflection would take the light off me since I definitely preferred the idea of being a wild Coho to a hatchery fish.

      Billy considered. “Booth’s all right.”

      I snorted. My twin was a source of irritation to me. Path of least resistance, that was Booth. Christened Richard Booth Kelly, Junior after my shiftless, deadbeat father. Mom, in a moment of belated clarity, decided she couldn’t have her children be Dick and Jane and so Booth became Booth.

      “Hey, the guy’s got a job,” Billy remarked.

      Yes, Booth was part of the Portland Police Department. I, on the other hand, felt like a poser. I pointed out dampeningly, “The L.A.P.D. breathed a sigh of relief when he left.”

      “Nah…” Billy smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. He loves it when I’m grumpy.

      My brother did choose a career path while I’ve seesawed around the whole issue for years. But Booth’s reasons are so wily that I can’t trust anything he does. During his stint in L.A. I’m sure he spent most of his time patrolling the area around the University of Southern California and hitting on the sorority chicks on 28th Street. I don’t think he ever got lucky, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I suppose I should look on his following me out of So-Cal north to Portland, Oregon, as a move in the right direction, but with Booth, you just never know. This isn’t to say I don’t love him. Family is just a pain in the ass. Ask anyone.

      Billy said, “You’re a process server, Jane.”

      I just managed to keep myself from saying, “You call that a job?”

      Billy shrugged. A friend of mine Dwayne Durbin, an “information specialist” (current buzzwords for private investigator) fervently believes I have all the earmarks of a top investigator, which means he thinks I’m a snoop. He wants me to hone these skills while learning the biz through him. The idea makes a certain amount of sense as I took criminology courses at a Southern California community college with just that thought in mind. Well, okay, there were other reasons, too—reasons that had everything to do with blindly following after a guy who had a serious interest in police work and whom I was nuts over and who subsequently dumped me. But regardless, I’ve done a fair amount of classroom training.

      As I sat at the counter, I truly believed—at least in that moment—that I could become an information specialist. I had training and a mentor who would guide me into that world. Why not just go for it? I’d been resisting the full-on private investigator gig all the while I’d been in Portland. I’m not sure why. Self-preservation, I guess.

      However, for the last six months I’d been working as general dogsbody to Dwayne who sometimes needs to be in two places at the same time. The fact that Dwayne thinks I have the makings of a first-class information specialist worries—and yes, flatters—me. Dwayne’s cute in that kind of slow-talkin’ cowboy way, but I’m not sure he’s really on the level sometimes. Half the time I get the feeling he’s putting me on. Sometimes he’s enough to make me want to rip out my hair, scream and stamp my feet. (I also have a problem with a name that begins with Dw. I mean…Dwayne, dwindle, dweeb…None of those words conjure up an image of a guy I want to hook up with, even professionally.)

      But between doing background checks for Dwayne and process serving for some of the people he knows—mainly landlords—I’ve kept my head above water financially speaking. I keep toying with the idea of selling the Venice four-unit I own with my mother, but that would mean dealing with her in close contact and I’ve already voiced my feelings on family. Mom lives in one of the upstairs units, and though I love her dearly she’s not exactly on my wavelength about a lot of things. Sometimes we struggle just getting through to each other. She’s talked about selling the units, but selling entails moving, and she’s dropped more than a few hints about making a move from So-Cal to Portland, and I’m damn sure I don’t want her to be the next member of my family to follow me north. Booth’s bad enough. I’m just not good with either of them. (I’m very self-aware, especially about my failings. Not that this has helped me much, but if pushed to the wall, I’ll pull it out as some kind of badge of honor.) I’ve reminded my mother of this fact many a time. She always looks at me half-puzzled, as if she can’t understand how she could have given birth to me. Luckily, she seems to feel the same way about Booth so I’ve never worried that he was her favorite.

      “You were a bartender in Santa Monica, right?” Billy said on a note of discovery. “What was the name of that place?”

      “Sting Ray’s. Ray being the owner.”

      “My old man owned a bar. Did I tell you?”

      I nodded. On numerous occasions. About as many times as I’ve told him I used to bartend. Neither Billy nor I worry that we recycle conversations. I also never have to worry that he’ll get pissy over my inherent lack of attentiveness. Hey, I was ADD before it was even popular.

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