“That could take a day or two,” says Esther
Moskins, looking up from her smartphone.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m sure it won’t take that long,” says
Doorman Dave. “We’ll be fine.”
“We could take Timmy with us if you
want,” offers Mrs. Moskins. “Show him around
Chicago. Probably be more fun for him than
being stuck here.”
“No, it won’t. No, it won’t. No, it won’t,”
I interject, contemplating the epic tragedy of
traveling with Molly Moskins.
“Timmy,”
my mom snaps at me.
“That’s very nice of you, Esther,” says Door-
man Dave. “But we don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble,” says Esther Moskins.
“Molly would love to spend time with Timmy!”
Molly smiles.
I am horrified.
“I’ll tell you what,” says Esther. “Why
don’t we all spend the night here at the E-Z
Daze, and if by tomorrow morning the tow
truck hasn’t come, we can take Timmy with us
to Chicago and you can meet us there later.”
“The tow truck will come! The tow truck
will come!” I chant.
My mother covers my mouth with her hand.
“You’re very sweet, Esther,” says my
mother. “Let’s wait and see what happens with
the tow truck. In the meantime, spending the
night here might not be a bad idea. At least it
will break up the drive.”
A condemned man, I exit the vehicle, my
only hope a wayward tow truck in the valley
of Nowhere.
With no one to turn to, I look up at the
neon man on the E-Z Daze sign. And he looks
much too happy to be sleeping at the E-Z Daze
Motel.
Clearly, he wasn’t facing a trip to Chicago
with this person:
Total and I are sharing a sofa bed in my mom’s
motel room.
And he spends no time on it.
Because he has found his happy place just
down the hall.
Pity the poor E-Z Daze guest who wants ice
and finds a fifteen-hundred-pound polar bear.
Now while it may be hard to believe, there
was a point in time when Total was the most
reliable business partner a detective could
have.
He made the coffee.
He did the filing.
And he did the billing.
But at some point something changed, and
when he made one mistake too many, I had no
choice but to let him go.
And that is when Total turned to the fine
print of our partnership agreement to point
out language that I do not remember being
there in the first place:
I suspect the contract has been altered.
But I cannot prove it.
And so Total is now in a better posi-
tion than he was when he was working.
And Failure, Incorporated, is spending more
money on bonbons than it brings in.
It is a financial arrangement that cannot
continue.
But for now, I must endure my unfortu-
nate fate.
Just like the E-Z Daze guest who wants ice.
And the guests relaxing outside.
By Total’s
other
happy place.
Doorman Dave knocks on my half-open motel
door.
“You coming to dinner, Mr. Failure?” he
asks.
I like that he calls me that.
It is a sign of respect.
And it maintains a certain professional
distance between me and the man who used to
be my doorman.
“Will Molly Moskins be there?” I ask.
“Probably,” he says. “I assume she eats
food, too.”
I consider that. And the fact that when she
is in prison, she will be given her meals for
free.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“The door’s open,” I answer.
He walks in and sits in the chair by the
small table. And looks around the worn E-Z
Daze room.
“I didn’t see you by the pool,” he says.
“Molly was there,” I answer.
“Shuffleboard?” he asks.
“Molly was there.”
“I sense a pattern,” he says.
He plays with the TV remote on the table.
“Well, you can sit by me at dinner if you
want,” he offers.
“What for?” I ask.
“We can get crayons and draw funny pic-
tures of everyone on the back of the place
mats,” he answers.
I imagine what I would draw.
Doorman Dave leans forward and lowers
his voice. “And besides, it’s either that or I
have to talk to Mr. Moskins about maps.”
“I heard that,” my mom says, stepping
into the room.
She looks pretty.
So I tell her.
“You didn’t have to get all dressed up for
dinner at the E-Z Daze Motel, you know.”
“I’m not all dressed up. But thank you for
the compliment. If it was one.”
“And I’ll second it,” says Doorman Dave.
He kisses her on the cheek. She puts her
arms around his waist.
I walk past both of them out the door.
And safely down the hall, I turn and call
back to Doorman Dave.
“You can draw your own pictures.”
At dinner, it becomes clear that not everything
Mr. Moskins says is about maps. As I record
on a series of place mats:
I get to hear all of this joyless indoctrina-
tion because Mr. Moskins is sitting next to me.
And on the other side of me is Molly’s
little brother, Snot.
And it is Snot’s birthday.
So the restaurant gives him a birthday hat
and gives the rest of us paper crowns. Though
I don’t know why. And my mother makes me
wear mine.
That’s about the only time she’s spoken to
me. Because she’s spent the rest of the time
yapping with Mrs. Moskins. The two of them
are having quite the time.
So I interrupt them.
“King Timmy wants to know if you’ve
heard from the tow-truck people.”
My mom gives me a look and then turns
back toward Mrs. Moskins. “Excuse me for a
minute, Esther.”
“Did you hear from the tow-truck guy?” I
repeat.
“No, Timmy.”
“Do you want me to call?”
“No.”
“Is it time to go back to our room?”
My mother leans down, her face in mine.
“Timmy, you’re being rude. Now go talk
to Micah.”
“Snot.”
“What did you say?”
“They call him Snot.”
“Don’t be gross, Timmy.”
I look back at Snot. He is writing his name
on the table.
No one says anything to Snot. But Mr.
Moskins does talk to his other child.
So I take an extra piece of cake and walk
outside, where I f
ind my business partner.
In his third happy place.
“Cake?” I ask.
His large head lunges toward me and swal-
lows the piece whole.
Then he stares at me. Sad.
“What now?” I ask. “That’s all the extra
cake there was, you greedy malcontent. We’re
in the middle of nowhere, you know.”
But I can see it’s not the cake.
So I go back inside the restaurant.
And bring him what he wants.
Alone with Total under the glow of the E-Z
Daze man, I hear music.
“Oh, great,” I complain. “How am I going
to go to sleep tonight with all that racket?”
And then I hear another racket.
“Want to dance?”
It is the far-too-chirpy-for-this-late-at-night
voice of Molly Moskins.
“Oh, please, Molly Moskins. What is going
on
in that restaurant?” I ask.
“It’s fun. They have a flamenco guitar
player. Your parents and my parents seem like
they’re having a good time.”
“
My
parents? Doorman Dave is not my
parent, Molly Moskins. He is a doorman my
mother is dating. Well,
was
dating. Because
now we are moving him to a city far away. And
the sooner we can get him there, the sooner I
can return to a detective business that is suf-
fering grievously from my absence.”
She smiles and sits down on the curb next
to me.
And taps her feet to the music coming
from the restaurant.
“Rollo Tookus says you think I stole all
the money.”
Her abrupt change of topic surprises me.
“You know,” she adds, “the money from
YIP YAP.”
“Stop right there,” I say, holding up my
index finger.
“Stop right there, Molly Moskins.”
“What’s wrong?”
“If this is a confession, I need to read you
your Carmen Miranda rights.”
“Ooh. What are those?”
“It’s something I have to say to you before
you blab. Otherwise, I think something bad
happens.”
“How exciting,” she says.
I fumble through my detective log and
find the words I’d written down in the back in
the event I ever had to formally charge Molly
Moskins with a crime.
“Okay,” I tell her, “here it is.”
“
‘You have the right to remain silent,’
” I
read aloud from my detective log. “
‘And except
for your confession, you should always remain
silent, because you talk too much and it’s very
annoying.’ ”
“Is that it?” she asks.
“I think so,” I answer.
“So now what?”
“So now you confess.”
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I stole all the money.”
The music from the restaurant comes to a
sudden stop, as though even the flamenco guy
has been stunned.
“All right, all right, slow down,” I tell
Molly as I grab for my pen.
“The money’s right here,” she says, hold-
ing out five twenty-dollar bills. “Here, count it.”
I take the money from her hand.
“Okay, Molly Moskins. Start talking. I
want to know everything that happened.”
“Okay,” she says. “But first, we dance.”
“We
what
?”
“First, we dance,” she chirps.
“Absurd!”
I
retort.
“You don’t like to dance?”
“Molly Moskins, you have just confessed
to a felony that could put you in the big house
for the rest of your life! It is hardly the time to
dance. And besides, I am the arresting detec-
tive! Do you have any idea how that would
look to the general public?”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Molly,
NO
. I am not going to dance with
a known criminal.”
“But you look so handsome in your
crown.”
“Oh, my God,” I cry, smacking my fore-
head. “People can
hear
you, Molly. My
partner
can hear you.”
I look over at Total. He is doing his best to
not hear us.
“Molly Moskins, we are going to march
back into that restaurant and I am going to
call the police and we are going to end your
felonious reign of terror.”
She shakes her head.
“Why are you shaking your head?” I ask.
And like the cunning felon she is, she
springs upon me, grabbing me around the
waist.
“AHHH!” I cry. “What are you doing?
What are you doing?”
“We’re dancing,” she answers.
With her hair in my face, my nostrils
are overwhelmed by creeping tendrils of
tangerine.
For backup.
And in the corner of my eye, I spot Total.
Who once again is doing his best to respect
my privacy.
So I am trapped.
At the mercy of a merciless felon.
Whose only goal is humiliate an officer of
the law.
“You’ll regret this,” I tell her, my arms
pinned to my side.
She hums in my ear and rests her head on
my chest.
“It’s so wonderful,” she says.
I close my eyes, for fear I will be recog-
nized by someone. My logic being that if I can’t
see them, they can’t see me.
“Look at the stars,” she says, far too close
to my ear. “It’s so romantic! Like Rome! Or
Paris! We should travel somewhere together,
Timmy! I have my own debit card, you know.”
I squirm, but it is no use. She is an expe-
rienced felon and has been abusing the justice
system for as long as she has walked.
“I AM DANCING WITH TIMMY FAILURE!”
she yells to the half-empty motel parking lot.
“I’m Timmy Fiminal!” I yell. “Timmy
FIMINAL!”
“Who?” she asks, still swaying from side
to side.
“It’s another detective!” I yell to anyone
who might hear. “Another detective who is
definitely NOT Timmy Failure.”
And suddenly the music ends.
Molly lets go, steps back, and smiles.
“There. Was that so bad?” she asks.
“It was worse than bad. It was tragic. It
was epically tragic.”
She laughs. “You just don’t like dancing,”
she says.
It is more than a detective can take. And
I snap.
“No, Molly Moskins! I just don’t like danc-
ing with
you
!”
Molly stares at me with her big mis-
matched pupils.
&
nbsp; And runs back inside the restaurant.
Watching her go, I feel a slight sting.
For detectives are tough men. But decent
men.
And even felons have feelings.
I contemplate following her back into the
restaurant. But I don’t.
For as a detective, I know to let the sins
of the night be forgiven by the bright light of
morning.
So I sit back down on the curb, under the
neon glow of the E-Z Daze man.
Who right now looks far from forgiving.
“We can talk for as long as you want,” I tell
Rollo. “I’m on the phone in my motel room.”
“I think they charge money for that,”
answers Rollo.
“The phone’s
in the room,
Rollo. They can’t
charge for something that’s in the room. It’d
be like charging money for the bottles of water
on the table.”
“Timmy, those are like six dollars each.”
I glance at the now empty bottles.
“Listen, Rollo, I didn’t call you to talk
about bottled water. I called to tell you I solved
the case.”
“Which case?”
“YIP YAP.”
“You solved YIP YAP?”
“Yep.”
“Yep, YIP YAP?”
“YIP YAP. Yep.”
“I am so confused,” says Rollo.
“The stolen treasury,” I bark. “I solved the
whole thing.”
“That was quick.”
“I know. The bill is in the mail. And pay
promptly. I’d hate to have my bear shake you
down.”
“So who did it?” asks Rollo.
“Molly Moskins. She confessed to the
whole thing.”
“She did?”
“Of course she did. That criminal master-
mind is finally finished.”
“That’s surprising,” says Rollo.
“What’s surprising?”
“That it was Molly.”