One thing that Nash never got used to was the rain. A Nevada boy for almost his whole life, he knew it rained in Florida, but never figured it would be this often. So much for the Sunshine State. If the inuits had a thousand words for snow, he figured the locals would probably have a thousand words for rain. "Drizzle", "Sprinkle", "Dribble", "Water Spout", "Thunderstorm", "Rainstorm", "Hurricane", "Torrent", "Downpour". Even the most backwater and uneducated man in that state would have a scholar's vocabulary when it came to describing precipitation.
He poked a cautious finger into his order of French Fries, presented in a plastic basket lined with wax paper. Sandy's Bar and Grill was cheap, and it showed. Appropriately built right on the sand dunes, in a larger city it would be prime real estate, but here it felt more like a retrofitted pier than a proper restaurant. It had a nice view of the beach, currently shrouded in rain, as well as an outdated polynesian motif that felt about fifty years too late, but it was a good a place as any to meet up with co-workers after a long day. At this time of night with this kind of weather though, it was rather empty, maybe only a dozen patrons total.
A stocky man sat in the stool next to Nash, slapping him on the back.
"Howdy stranger! Fancy seeing you around here. Sorry I'm late, how about this fucking weather, huh?"
"How do you people drive in this, Rich? I felt like my car was being used for Curling."
"What's that?"
"The sport? Curling? They do it in the olympics I think."
"Oh, huh, yeah." Richard stuttered, feigning knowledge.
A small aging asian man shuffled his way over to their side of the bar.
"What will it be, Gentlemen?" he croaked in a thick accent.
"Two Guinnesses!"
"Actually," Nash butted in "One Guinness and one Bourbon"
"Who said anything about the other beer being for you?"
"Fair point"
Half an hour later, the two were well and buzzed. Nash's skin shivered just looking outside. It was a great sensory juxtaposition, seeing the cold winds and rain outside yet feeling the sticky warmth of intoxication indoors.
"What case has Linda got you working on?" Nash asked.
"Amazingly enough, not a divorce case. Some rich parents want to make sure their kid isn't doing coke or heroin. I'm not used to shadowing fucking teenagers. Makes me feel like a pedophile."
"Hm. Well at least it's safe and pays well. Commission on that one must be good."
"You know what my father always told me were the two most important things about a job? That your check comes on time and it doesn't bounce. No such thing as a perfect job. That doesn't mean I can't bitch about it though."
"Yeah but what's whining going to get you? Hell, unions make an entire industry out of whining and they barely get more benefits."
"Are you shitting me? I would kill for dental. Or whatever the hell construction workers in Jersey get for going through all the union shit."
There was a short pause, the light din of those watching a game on one of the oversized televisions. Nash only caught it out of the corner of his eye. Baseball or Football or Soccer or something. All he could make out was small colorful dots parading onto a green
field.
"When I was in Vegas," he started "there was a guy at our office... I can't remember his name for the life of me. Eric or Eddie or something. Anyways, he always went all out when he had a case. He was only ever assigned to surveillance, and he seemed thrilled about
that fact. I went inside his office only a few times, but I remember he had at least half a dozen wigs on a shelf, a small closet in his office full of clothes. Apparently he used to be a makeup artist back in LA. He would come up with some crazy pretext, lengthy backstories, but it didn't matter since half the time his job was to just sit in a restaurant and tail someone. It was like he did it all for his own amusement. He cared less about the case and more about his ability to slip into different characters and identities with a snap of his finger. He was good at it too. Could barely recognize him. He could look young, old, tall, short. Looked like a woman more than once. Hell, once he was even a mexican for a few weeks. Thank god the client never found that out, or else she
might've sued us."
Richard looked a bit confused. Nash took another sip of Bourbon and explained;
"She was a mexican too, Rich. See, I- ok listen, the point is, even though most of it was pageantry, I always kind of envied the guy's abilities. But at the end of the day, would you rather be a hundred different people with concrete appearances and identities, or a
single person who blends into a crowd perfectly? Y'know, someone who is a perfect 'Everyman'. I don't know why, and it kind of horrifies me to think about, but ever since I was young I had an obsession with being the most normal generic human out there. It's
easy. It's easy to never let yourself pick up an identity, to never let yourself become strange. People think being 'normal' is hard, but it really isn't, Rich. Expression is contrary to remaining hidden, and being hidden means seeing all the things the world typically hides from you."
"Jesus Christ, Nash! You're really talking out of your ass now. Who the fuck are you, a sociology professor? Just cause you're a Dick doesn't mean you can't have a fucking life."
"I don't know about that. My father was a big believe in that old expression 'Find a job you love, never work a day in your life'. I'd rather make my life my work than constantly try to separate them."
"That ain't healthy. You're allowed to be lazy sometimes."
"Richard, I love you, you're a good pal, but if everybody in the world thought like that, it would be one shitty world to live in."
The bartender shuffled over once more and turned to Nash.
"Sir! Sir! That lady at end of bar wants to talk to you. She say you Private Eye! She pay for your drinks."
Both men eyed the woman at the end of the bar. An older woman, late 50s or so, vainly attempting to look like she was in her 30s. It might've worked if she wasn't 100 or so pounds overweight, but with all the extra fat her body just sagged. Nash recognized her, but he couldn't remember from where.
"Linda will be happy to hear we have a new case." said Richard.
"Linda wouldn't be happy if we brought the office 10 cases. But given her age, I'm guessing this is just another marital situation."
As he walked over to her stool, he noticed she hadn't ordered anything. Did she come here
specifically for his services? Did she know he was here?
"Everett Nash? Nice to meet you! Barbara Donaldson"
"How did you know I'd be here?" Nash said abruptly, forgoing any attempt at formalities for someone approaching him outside of work.
"I come here a lot. You and your friend over there come every Friday, right?"
"Hm." Nash grunted uncommitedly. He crossed his arms, feeling a little exposed and offended. He wish he had kept his guard up.
"...you know you could've just called our offices, Miss. We have procedures in place for a reason."
"Yes, but they told me they would've randomly assigned the case. I wanted you Mr. Nash. Remember my friend Marjorie? You helped her out tremendously last year. I'm willing to pay extra to make sure that you specifically give me a hand."
"You haven't told me what it is you want yet. I can't rightly make a promise without knowing what's at stake."
"I'm almost certain my husband is cheating on me"
Yes, thought Nash, a marital case. A wave of relief washed over him. Barbara continued;
"I want you to see what he does. He has so much freetime during the day when he's not at any of his sites, I have no idea what he's up to. It always feels like he's putting on a facade with me."
"I can't make any guarantees, but I'll speak with my higher-ups, alright? Besides, most cases like these land on my desk anyways. I think I can help you, but promise me you'll go through the proper channels?"
"Of course." Her voice sounded authentic enough to him.
When he returned to Richard, he sounded more excited than Nash.
On the drive home, he couldn't think about the case though. He just kept thinking about how lucky he was to have wound up in this sleepy beach town, a far cry from destitute skidrows of Vegas. He saw some bad things there. Things a man can't unsee. He saw people at their worst; desparate, helpless, clawing for a chance to live a normal life. He was thankful that it appeared that didn't exist in Citrus Point.