Endless Summer & Derek Winter
©2012, JCT
Love Letters
"Are you listening to me?" The veins in Max Valentine's square head were throbbing as he asked the question, his perfectly coiffed white hair a calming contrast to the red in his face. Considering Max is my boss and that he was chewing me out, it was to be expected.
As to the answer to that question, it was 'No.' I was not listening to him, because 1. there was someplace else I wanted to be and 2. he was chewing me out for doing my job.
My job has no exact title and just a few specific parameters. They are "Figure out what's going wrong" and "Fix it." The reason my job description is so roomy is because Max owns many different enterprises of varying states of legality and I am the caretaker of all of them where those two questions are concerned.
The most recent job involved someone using Max's business to smuggle drugs. To solve the problem I had to bring in the authorities. The problem with that is that the business involved was a strip club and John Law is bad for the booby-shaking business.
"If this is how you're going to do your job now, then maybe I should reconsider having you on my payroll!" Later, after he'd had drinks with Evelyn Dusenberry, his secretary, and listened to that 40s music he loved so much, he'd realize that if I could have fixed the problem any other way I would have.
But right now he was having none of it and frankly, neither was I. I walked out of his office in mid scream, nodded to the long-legged Ms. Dusenberry in the anteroom, and rode my Yamaha Striker back to my condo. Max wanted us to have some time apart and I was going to take it.
Identity Crisis
He could have seen that the frustration in my face matched that of my voice, if he had, in fact, been looking at me instead of staring at Jill's breasts.
To be fair, Gillian Sweeney's breasts commanded attention. They were dramatically large, an asset in her earlier career as a stripper (Gigi Chesterson) turned house mother at the self-same club that Max V. was so angry about. And even though she was not dressed to highlight them, in a modest, pale blue blouse with a high neckline, they still had the effect that the Good Lord intended them to.
She and I were in the lobby of the Sea Breeze Hotel in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, trying to check in for an impromptu summer vacation in a quest to keep from punching my boss in the face. However there was a problem, as the hotel was insisting that I had, in fact, already checked in.
"Mr. Winter, our records show that you changed your room to one with handicapped access and checked in a few hours ago."
I leaned across the counter. "Do I look like I need handicapped access?" At this point he actually looked at me.
"No. You don't. There must be some mistake. Mary!" A hotel employee came in with an unfolded towel in her hands. "It says here you checked in Mr. Winter"
She snapped her chewing gum. "Yeah. I did."
"Well, this is Mr. Winter."
"No, it's not."
"I ought to know who I am, ma'am."
"Well, you might be a Mr. Winter, but the Mr. Winter I checked in is a black guy in a wheelchair."
"Did he show you ID?"
"Yeah, but he had a different credit card than on the reservation."
"So there must be two of us booked for this weekend."
"That's what it's looking like, Mr. Winter."
Just then two young men in their early twenties walked in. One was a short, elf-like white guy and one was a taller, square black guy. "Excuse me," he said, "but there are people in my room."
"And you are, sir?"
"Derek Winter."
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