Joe

Joe had a lot on his mind as he flipped some fried eggs. The hashbrowns were frying in the large skillet nearby, and some crispy strips of bacon sizzled beside them. The oils and fats and butters commingled, adding a salty, sweet, and savory smell to the air that almost certainly could raise your cholesterol.

Sure, he'd gotten the private investigator's license. Sure, he'd gotten himself an office next to March’s diner. Sure, he'd even bought some ads. “Just Call Joe,” they said, because March had insisted that nobody could spell Czeslaw, let alone pronounce it. He'd agreed with her. Still, no matter the steps he took, here he was, flipping eggs, and burgers, and whatever else could be fried in oil to pay the bills. March was glad to have the help, and the company. And Joe was glad to have the work, and the company. The two got along well enough such that it was almost like Joe was co-owner. At least, that's what he liked to think. At least his spot in the kitchen had a view of his office next door, and March was fine with him stepping out to help any customers, as long as he didn’t burn the toast.

He finished cooking the order, plated it, set it on the pass-through counter, and rang the bell. “Order up,” he said.

March took the plate and set it on a tray with a fresh mug of coffee. “Thanks, Joe,” she said with a flutter of her eyelashes that left Joe speechless. “Why don’t you take five. It looks like there's a little lost lamb outside your door.” She nodded toward the window. Joe looked out. In the time between plating the food and delivering it, a woman appeared. She looked rich, but also a little unkempt. She wore one of those trendy raccoon hoodies, and her golden hair poked out from beneath the hood. Joe nodded, hanging up his apron and heading out through the side door so he could go into his office through the back.

His coat and hat were on a coatrack in the back, and he put them on before stepping out into the front office. He made a show of noticing the woman, then opening the door to let her in.

“It's been a busy day,” he said. “Take a seat.” He handed her one of his cards. JUST CALL JOE was on the front, and a little phone icon danced in the lower corner.

The woman took a seat. “Your office smells like the diner next door,” she said. “It must make you hungry.”

Joe nodded. “I must spend half my earnings there,” he said. “It's good food.” He sat down behind his desk. “What brings you in?”

“It's my husband,” she said.

With those three words, Joe dreaded what would come next. He'd have to spend his nights and weekends hanging around outside office buildings, sleeping in his car, tailing cabs to seedy motels, and who knows what else. March had told him that most of his cases would involve investigating suspected infidelity (though, she had put it less politely), but he was certain that his background as a former police officer would open more doors. He got the feeling that if he started taking cases of suspected infidelity, he'd be cast into the world of chasing down wayward spouses and possibly getting his nose punched (or worse) by some angry men. He opened his mouth to say something. Something like, “Sorry, hon, but I don't investigate cheating husbands,” but before he could say it, she finished her sentence.

“He's missing. His company is treating him like he's dead. The police are treating him like he’s dead. But he's only been missing since last night, and nobody has a body or anything,” the emotion started welling up in her voice as she continued. “And now, all my credit cards and subscriptions aren't working, and,” then she started to cry. Joe pushed a relatively unused box of tissues toward her. “I'm worried that he really is dead. But also I have no idea what to do with my life if he is.” Then the tears came in earnest. Her nose started running, and her face turned red. Her mascara started streaming down the side of her face. She almost looked like the raccoon face on her hood when she looked up and apologized, her eyes a mask of smeared makeup, a pile of tissues on the desk in front of her.

“It's fine,” he said. “These sort of things are difficult to deal with.” He picked up a stylus and a tablet. “Just so I'm understanding things, you want me to help you figure out what happened to your husband?”

She nodded.

“Even if he is dead?”

She nodded.

He started writing some stuff down. “Now, I need to know some details. Enough so I can start looking around and asking questions. I have some buddies in the precinct, so they might be able to help me out, and by the sound of things, they're probably not going to do any further investigation, so they'll jump at the chance to have someone in the private sector handle it for them.” He was just letting the words flow at this point. He caught himself. “I need names, dates, places. Whatever you've got.”

She gave her name, Dolores Tuttle. Her husband's name, Archie, same last name, yes. It was after work last night. He worked at Solstice QuantBank. Usually, after winning a contract, he and his coworkers would get drinks and stay out late. Then he'd take a cab home, take an aspirin in the morning with about a liter of water, then get back to work to make the money flow. He wrote everything down as she spoke. But did the fact that she couldn't pay immediately affect things?

He stopped. He looked up at her. “I don't think that'll be a problem right now. But what I'd recommend is stopping over at the bank where you guys keep your money and talking to a real, live person, or at least a friendly, helpful bot. If that doesn't go anywhere, then I'm sure your husband has a lawyer or something. Find him and see what he can do for you. He's probably got more access to your money than you do right now.” He looked down at his notes. “I think I have enough to get started, but if you remember anything else, please let me know. Do you by any chance know the name of the police who notified you?”

Dolores took another tissue and dabbed at the corner of her eye. “I think his name was Buddy.”

Joe refrained from saying that he had no idea who that was. He just nodded, wrote it down. “Thanks. I'll let you know if I figure anything out as well.” He slid the table over toward her. It had a contract on the screen. “Give this a look-see, and if it's all in order, give it a sign. We'll figure out about payment later, once you've sorted everything out.”

Dolores’ eyes danced over the screen. For the most part, she was pretending to read it, but didn’t want anybody to know. Joe had seen enough in his life to pick up on it immediately. “It's all pretty straightforward. I'm not trying to swindle anybody.”

“I just needed to make sure,” she said, her voice confident in a way that impressed Joe. She picked up the stylus and signed her name at the bottom of the screen, adding today's date.

“Thank you, Mr…” She trailed off, his name a minefield of consonants.

“Czeslaw,” he said. “But you can just call me Joe.” He stood from behind his desk, a wastebasket in hand. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. She deposited the used tissues there. “There's a mirror over there if you'd like to check yourself before you leave,” he said, pointing to the wall, where a mirror sat behind a ficus. “You can move the plant if it's in the way.”

“Thank you,” she said. She pocketed his card and stood. After straightening her jacket, she looked over at the mirror. She stepped over to it, and while bobbing around the ficus leaves, she checked her reflection.

“I have some business in the back to attend to,” Joe said. “Feel free to let yourself out.”

She looked over at him and nodded. “Thank you, Joe,” she said.

“Not a problem,” he said.

She sniffed the air. “Do you smell burning toast?” she said.

Joe rushed through the back door and into the diner. A blackened bit of bread sat there waiting for him, alongside March. “You burnt the toast again, Joe,” she said.