The clock is ticking, bringing Jerry Prescott closer and closer. I need to get myself together. “I’ll run out quickly. Just to get rid of him.”
Melanie replies, “I’ll do it.”
Before I reply, a late-model sedan comes into view. This is the rental car I’ve been watching for. The driver accelerates fast into the space beside the motorbike, braking with a screech. That tortoise would have been pancake-flat. A man hops out, and it’s Jerry Prescott. (I h
ave done some extensive online research/stalking, so I can say this for sure.)
He speaks to Tattoo Guy and gives him a slap on the shoulder. Hey, man, how’s it hanging? Men are all part of one big penis club. Poor phrasing on my part. Now I’m looking at Tattoo Guy and I’m thinking the words big penis . . .
I force myself to move away from the window and rearrange water glasses on the tiny meeting table.
“They’re coming in together,” Melanie narrates. “Young Guy is picking up a different turtle now. He’s showing it to Old Guy, who’s mad about it. They’re walking up the path. They’re having an intense conversation. A chest poke. Can’t see them now, but they’re almost at the door—”
“Knock, knock,” Jerry Prescott says in the doorway and I still jump. He comes inside, and Tattoo Guy leans in the doorway, an air-paddling golden bonnet tortoise in one hand and his backpack hanging heavily from the other.
“Hello, Mr. Prescott. Nice to meet you. I’m Ruthie Midona.” I weave through the tight office space to shake his hand. “I’m holding the fort in Sylvia Drummond’s absence.” I sound plummy and old-fashioned, a good solid secretary type in my cardigan and loafers. Oh man, I’m still wearing my reading glasses on their chain. And they’ve been noticed.
“Oh hey,” the young guy says with easy recognition, like we’re old friends. “I had a real interesting dream about your glasses last night.”
I decide I didn’t hear that. “And this is Melanie Sasaki, my temp.”
“Ruthie, Melanie, good to meet you both.” Jerry pumps our hands vigorously. He’s the older version of Tall, Dark, and Handsome. He has an expensive smile. To me he says, “I’ve heard a lot about you from my team back at HQ. You’re a lot younger than I expected.”
“I get that a lot.”
(Tattoo Guy grins broadly with his own expensive teeth.)
I lock eyes with him. “I have a meeting at the moment, I’m sorry.” Read: Get out of here.
“This is my son, Theodore,” Jerry says, turning to the young guy. “Come in here, introduce yourself.”
“Hello, I am this man’s son,” Theodore says obtusely, making his father frown. “I am the infant child Prescott.”
“Could you possibly take something seriously? Just once?” Jerry scolds him. “Put that turtle down, for goodness’ sake. I’m so sorry,” Jerry apologizes to us in a desperate hush as Theodore wanders back outside to release his captive.
The only explanation for this visit is that I’ve majorly messed up somehow. I audit every memory of the gas station incident. I was curt and rude to Theodore, but I’d also been called elderly. Is it against PDC rules to loan strangers money? Did I scratch his bike with the car when I pulled out?
I’m fired. That’s what this is.
I’m fired and homeless in one deft stroke, and Theodore Prescott and his hair are walking back into the office at this exact moment to see it happen. “It’s okay,” he says, reading my murder-victim body language. “No, it’s okay, Ruthie, don’t freak out.”
“Sorry, this is all a bit irregular.” Jerry laughs, false and bright, and it occurs to me that he’s nervous too. “We’re just dropping in to see how things are going here.”
“Would you like to sit?” I gesture to the tiny round table and fill water glasses. Theodore hands one to me like he’s concerned.
Melanie sits and pelvic-thrusts her office chair over to the table. “I’ll take notes.” In a sparkly notebook, mentally eating popcorn. Her brown eyes flit to Theodore approximately once every five seconds, chipping away at segments of him until she’s seen everything available. It is deeply annoying, because I wish I could do that too.
“I like that one.” Melanie points to a tattoo on his arm. “That’s a dai-doro, right? A Japanese stone lantern,” she explains to me and Jerry. “They’re really beautiful when they’re lit up at night.”
Theodore replies, “This one never lights up, no matter what I try. Are you Japanese?”
“Half,” Melanie says, warming to the subject (herself). “My dad is from Kyoto and my mom met him when—” She falls silent when she feels my glare. “Sorry. Back to business.” She writes today’s date. I have the strangest thought: She doesn’t know about that rose on the back of his arm. That one’s mine. And I bet his lantern glows all night.
“I’m sure you must be wondering what all this is about,” Jerry says.
“I think I know,” I reply, and I make prolonged, unblinking eye contact with his son for the first time.
Theodore Prescott has: