Excerpt of Dirty Laundry by Tori Carrington

One of the great things about being a private dick—aside from saying those words and presuming to lay ownership to something possessed only by men—is that it gets you out of going to Sunday Mass. Well, okay. It’s not so much the Mass I have a problem with. Rather, it’s the prospect of having to attend with my mother, Thalia Metropolis, that makes me cringe. Aside from her smooshing my face into various Greek Orthodox religious icons propped up just inside the door of St. Constantine’s, I’d have to sit next to her. And thus would endure much fussing and pulling and poking to make sure my rarely worn blouse was unwrinkled and that my hot pink thong wasn’t showing through my miniskirt. And forget all the gossip I’d have to catch up on. Frankly, I didn’t care whether Mrs. Stefanou was suing her hairdresser because he turned her hair orange or that Mr. Zervas had “personal” problems and had gotten a free trial of Viagra. (Trust me, if you knew Mr. Zervas you wouldn’t want to think of him in that regard either. Especially not in church.) I have more important things to do with my time. Like serve papers. My name is Sofie Metropolis, PI. Okay, so I wasn’t born with the title, but I liked tacking it on if only because it detracts from the obvious Greekness of my name. Are you Greek American? Then that means you or one of your family members owns a café, a restaurant, a diner, or a club, sometimes all of the above (in my case my family members fell into the former two categories). Especially in Astoria, a one-time predominantly Greek neighborhood in Queens, one of the five boroughs of New York City. I became a PI five months ago (really a PI-in-training because I can’t become a certified private investigator in New York for another two and a half years). That’s when I caught my would-be groom Thomas-the-Toad with his tux pants around his ankles on the day of our wedding . . . and it hadn’t been my thighs he’d been wedged between. The moment was life changing in many ways, the biggest change being my new vocation. And while my current assignment proved that even the job of private investigator wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, it was better than dividing up the contents of the tip jar any day. And besides, it got me out of learning that Mr. Zervas was taking Viagra and chasing his seventy-year-old wife around the dining room table with his pants down around his ankles. My professional philosophy was pretty simple: Screw with me, get a bullet in the knee. That’s what happened to one of my recent clients when it turned out he had set me up as an alibi to his murderous intents on his wife, then switched his aim to me when I figured it all out. Word had it Bud Suleski would have a limp for life, which meant he couldn’t run away and was quite the popular guy at Rikers as a result. My personal philosophy . . . well, I was still working on that. And that wasn’t an easy position to be in when you’re Greek. Greeks seemed to know exactly where they are, how they feel, what opinions they hold every moment of every day, no matter if they’re later proved wrong. Look up “Greek” in the dictionary and you’ll find that “conviction” is part of their heritage, along with much spitting and shouting and interesting hand gestures. “Live and let live.” Maybe I’d go with that for now until I figured out something better. Then again, no. Because I wouldn’t mind if my ex turned up dead. “Live and let one person die”? Doesn’t have the same ring to it somehow. Anyway, on this sweltering Sunday morning in August, at just after ten, I sat in my classic Mustang convertible (read: Bondo Special) outside an apartment complex in Jackson Heights, wishing for air-conditioning and hoping to spot one very wily Mr. Eugene Waters. Serving court papers made up a nice percentage of my Uncle Spyros’ agency’s profits. And while I normally didn’t serve, the success rate of our top two servers dropped when it came to Mr. Waters. Over the past week, neither of them had been able to get the guy to accept landlord dispute papers, and the deadline was fast approaching. Yes, after two failed attempts, the agency could go the nail and mail route, meaning I could nail the papers to his door (or slip them under it), then mail two additional copies, one regular and one certified, to Mr. Waters. But the reason why Uncle Spyros and his agency were popular in the serving business was because he didn’t like to do that. The client wanted the papers served in hand? Then in hand was how they would be served. So I’d rolled my eyes and told everyone I’d do it myself. I mean, how difficult could it be? Rule number 565: Never underestimate the potential of any case to turn dangerous or complicated, or both. My uncle Spyros—the certified PI, my mentor, and owner of the agency where I work—was fond of rules. And while I was exaggerating the number of this one, the rule itself stuck in my mind. Which would make my uncle happy. Me, I made a face and determined I should come up with my own list of rules. The first of which would be to ignore Uncle Spyros’ rules. Muffy barked from the backseat as if putting an exclamation point on my ruminations. I stared at the scruffy Jack Russell terrier. It had been two months since my mother’s neighbor and best friend Mrs. K had gone on to the Big Hindu Heaven in the sky, and Muffy the Mutt had been promoted from rescued pet to my pet. And I had the bite marks to prove it. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Muffy and I had become friends. But we had reached a truce of sorts. An “I won’t mess with you if you don’t mess with me” attitude that was working out so far. Except when I was leaving the apartment. Somehow he—yes, Muffy is a he—sensed when what I was about to do might be marginally exciting, and he found a way to follow me out and jump in the back of my car. He rarely followed me when I went to my parents’ house up the block from my place, however. Then again, I didn’t much like how my paternal grandmother eyed him while she diced vegetables either. I mean, dog meat couldn’t be that far from goat meat, could it? And seeing as Yiayia had lived through some difficult times back in the homeland, like World War II, communist guerillas, and two military juntas . . . well, I decided I didn’t want to pursue that particular line of thought. “Bingo.” I switched my attention from the dog to first-floor apartment number sixty-nine. A short, thin black man had stepped outside—was that a pink satin bathrobe with feather cuffs he was wearing?—looked around, then bent over to get the Sunday Times I’d put out there. (I knew few people who could resist a paper put right outside their door, especially on a Sunday, although I suspected Mr. Waters was the type who would probably steal his neighbor’s paper.) My brand-spanking-new pair of K-Swiss hit the pavement as I got out of the car, capturing my attention where they contrasted against my jeans so that I nearly closed the door on Muffy when he followed after me. I growled at the dog then hurried the fifty or so feet to apartment number sixty-nine. “Excuse me,” I said. “I was hoping you could help me . . .” Mr. Waters eyed me warily, then Muffy. “I’m lost and need some directions.” He went inside the apartment with the newspaper then slammed the door. Humph. Maybe Pamela had tried the “plant the newspaper then pretend to need directions” angle already. I left the map around the sealed documents and sighed, Muffy panting at my feet as if waiting to see what I would do next. I knocked on the door. “Please . . . I’ve been driving around in circles for an hour. If you could at least let me use your phone to call my aunt . . .” A muffled, high-pitched male voice came from the other side of the door. “We ain’t got no phone. Go away.” “Maybe you could take a look at my map . . . tell me where I’m going wrong?” “I ain’t from around here.” “Me neither,” I said in my best defeated-tourist voice, hoping my Queens accent wasn’t too strong. “I just drove all night from Ohio, and I’m tired and I’m lost and I could really use some help right now.” “Ohio?” A spark of hope. “Yes.” “Where at?” I searched my mind for a city name. “Toledo,” I said, remembering M*A*S*H reruns. Klinger’s favorite oath had something to do with a Holy Toledo, and he was always talking about the city as home. (Okay, I’m a TV-rerun fanatic. So sue me.) I heard the lock give and the door opened on the chain. “I got people in Cleveland.” I smiled. “Nice city, Cleveland.” He slammed the door again. Okay, maybe Cleveland wasn’t nice. But I’d bet the people were a hell of a lot more hospitable. “Please,” I said again, employing a politeness that might not be natural for most native New Yorkers, but would be for an Ohioan. “My aunt was expecting me four hours ago and is probably worried sick. She’s got this heart condition . . .” “Call her on a pay phone.” “I’ll pay you for your trouble.” Silence, then, “...