Chapter Forty
After leaving the grocery store, Quinn follows the woman to a hair salon.
It’s there he confirms she’s having an affair.
She’d been pretty good at hiding it—she’d fooled two other investigators at the office—so Quinn is feeling good about his work.
As good as you can feel reporting a cheating spouse, anyway.
The woman’s trick was to go into the salon, then slip out the back door to a motel walking distance away.
The salon was too small for the prior investigators to go inside unnoticed, and it’s not uncommon to spend a couple hours there, so she hadn’t raised suspicion.
But it was the wine and cheese, the trip to the grocery store before the salon, that did her in.
Quinn calls the client, a divorce lawyer who sends his firm regular work, and gives him the news.
“The tape shows her leaving the motel followed by a good-looking guy five minutes later.”
“Excellent. Hopefully this will get you out of the doghouse with your boss,” the lawyer says.
In his free time, Quinn has been investigating his mother’s case, which has tested the patience of his boss.
“Let’s hope,” Quinn says into the phone. “I’ll drop off the tape later today.”
Now, Quinn’s on to his next assignment: trailing a heavyset man who wears a neck brace as he trudges into a Home Depot.
If he’s committing insurance fraud—faking injuries from a slip and fall—he’s a pretty good actor.
From his car, Quinn aims the bulky video camera at the guy as he goes inside.
Being a private eye is nothing like in the movies or noir crime novels.
It’s mostly waiting around. When he was medically discharged from the military, he’d hoped to go into law enforcement, become a detective, inspired by his mother’s case.
When his injuries prevented that, taking this job was the next best thing.
And while not glamorous or fulfilling, it pays the bills and he’s made a lot of contacts, including lawyers.
One of them has helped him with a plan for trying to gain custody of George.
But he wonders sometimes if the obsession of uncovering what happened to his mother is a solid foundation for a career.
Wonders what else he can do without a college education.
He has a flash of a memory of Giuseppe talking incessantly, as he was prone to, during one of their patrols, the hot sun bearing down on them.
“You have the soul of Leopardi, you should write,” his friend said.
“What are you talking about?”
One of the local kids ran over, waved at them.
The kid had no shoes and wore a Nike shirt that was too big for him.
Quinn looked around and, seeing no other kids, handed the boy a chocolate bar.
He put his finger to his lips, hoping the boy understood not to tell the other kids.
He’d learned the hard way, giving out candy was like feeding seagulls at the beach.
“I see you writing in your notebook,” Giuseppe said, as they continued walking.
“Letters.”
“No, I know you write story.”
Quinn shook his head, scanned the area. It was oppressively hot and the locals were in no mood for trouble.
“Your story,” Giuseppe continued. “What’s it about?”
Quinn decided that the only way to shut him up was to engage. “It’s about a supper club.”
“A supper club? What is this?”
Quinn sighed. “In the U.S., there’s this question people sometimes ask to get to know someone: ‘If you could have dinner with any single person, dead or alive, who would it be?’”
Giuseppe gave a quizzical look: “Why would I want to eat with someone dead?”
“No, it’s just a—”
“I play, I play, I understand.” He grinned. “And your story is about this?”
“It’s about an all-night diner, and when people go to this one booth at the stroke of midnight, someone who made an impression on them is there to eat with them. Talk to them about life. So for you, it might be Leopardi who appears. If it was my father, it would be Johnny Cash. You get the idea.”
“I like this.”
“And each night the supper club diners learn something about themselves. Sometimes something profound. Sometimes something simple, like it’s never good to meet your heroes because they will disappoint you.”
“How does the story end?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Who would be at your supper?”
“I don’t know.” That’s not true.
Quinn never finished writing the story. Sven from the Belgian squad burned his notebook as kindling in their barbecue barrel.
Quinn tries to strike the memory. He’s been trying hard not to dwell on Somalia, on Giuseppe, but that feeling—a slippery dread—consumes him on the bad days.
But he can’t let it today, the anniversary of his first date with Holly.
Quinn watches as the guy he’s surveilling appears from the store and heads back to his pickup truck, carrying a small bag of whatever he bought in the store.
He’ll follow the guy home, confirm he’s not faking, then call it a day. Tonight, he’s meeting Holly and her law school friends at Mr. Toad’s in the Old Market to celebrate his birthday, their anniversary. He’s not looking forward to it, but he’ll pretend.
He keeps his distance tailing the pickup truck, which is fine since he has the guy’s address.
Parking a couple blocks away, he pulls the baby stroller from the trunk, unfolds it.
He makes sure the doll is bundled so it looks like a real baby, turns on the hidden video camera built into the cradle.
No one’s threatened by a stranger with a baby.
His mark gets out of the pickup gingerly, like he’s in pain. The guy gives him a look for a beat, then removes something from the Home Depot bag. Quinn keeps walking. The guy unspools a coil of rope, goes into the garage, then returns with a pinata. Like for a kid’s party.
This piques his interest since the house—small and dilapidated—doesn’t look like a kid lives there. He watches as the man disappears into the backyard.
Hmm.
Quinn does a loop and pushes the stroller on the other side of the street. Then a car pulls up in front of the guy’s house. The woman behind the wheel gives the horn two quick taps, and the heavyset guy appears from the backyard.
Quinn realizes that this is a drop-off. Divorced parents.
The guy gives a wave, and the car door opens and out bounds a kid, about five years old.
The little boy wears one of those pointy hats, like he’s just arrived from a birthday party.
This is the dad’s turn after the real party.
Quinn remembers the last birthday he had with his mom, the altercation with Randy, but shakes it off.
The kid sprints to the man, who kneels to catch him in his arms. The guy, with none of the limitations from earlier, spins the kid around and around, and it’s obvious that he isn’t really injured.
Quinn positions the stroller so the video camera catches everything, proof that the man is faking. It’s apparent when the guy puts the little boy on his shoulders.
Quinn watches the father and son.
It’s these moments that destroy him.
He reaches into the stroller and turns off the camera, decides the guy has lost enough, no reason to take his dignity.
“Happy birthday, kid,” Quinn says to himself as he packs up the stroller and drives away.