Here are my scientific field notes:
The Male is uneasy, caged. He sits and taps his foot incessantly, then gets up and paces. He has put a little effort into grooming today, in anticipation of seeing the Cougar, who enters the room.
She wears a white laboratory coat and too much makeup. She smells like the perfume inserts in magazines that are so overwhelming you are tempted to lob the whole issue across the room, even if it means you’ll never find out the Ten Things Guys Want in Bed or What Makes Jennifer Lawrence Mad! She is a blond with dark roots, and someone needs to tell her that pencil skirts are not doing her ass any favors.
The Male makes the first move. He uses dimples as a weapon. He says, Wow, Lulu, long time no see.
The Cougar rebuffs his advances. Whose fault is that, Victor?
I know, I know. You can beat me up all you want.
A subtle but measurable change in the atmospheric pressure. Is that a promise?
Teeth. Lots of them.
Careful now. Don’t start something you can’t finish, the Male says.
I don’t recall that ever being a problem for us. Do you?
From where I am sitting making my observations, I roll my eyes. Either this is the best argument for contraception since the Octomom … or this crap really works between men and women, and I will probably not have a date until I’m menopausal.
The Cougar’s senses are better than the Male’s; she radars my snark all the way across the room. She touches the Male on his shoulder and flicks her eyes toward me. Didn’t know you had kids.
Kids? Virgil looks at me as if I’m the bug he’s squashed on the sole of his shoe. Oh, she’s not mine. She’s actually the reason I’m here.
Duh, even I know that’s the wrong thing to say. The Cougar’s painted mouth pinches tight. Don’t let me keep you from getting down to business.
Virgil grins, superslow, and I can practically see the Cougar start to drool. Why, Tallulah, he says, I’d like to do just that with you. But you know I have to take care of my client first.
The Cougar’s cell phone rings, and she looks at the number flashing on the screen. “Jesus on a cracker,” she says and sighs. “Give me five minutes.”
She slams out of the examination room, and Virgil hops on the metal table beside me, running one hand down his face. “You have no idea how much you owe me.”
This surprises me. “You mean you don’t really like her?”
“Tallulah? God, no. She used to be my dental hygienist, and then she quit and became a DNA squint. Every time I see her I think about her scraping plaque off my teeth. I’d rather date a sea cucumber.”
“They throw up their own stomachs when they eat,” I say.
He considers this. “I’ve taken Tallulah out to dinner. Like I said, I’d go for the sea cucumber.”
“Then why are you acting like you want her to plug and play?”
His eyes widen. “You did not just say that.”
“Ride the baloney pony.” I grin. “Storm the trenches …”
“What the hell is wrong with kids these days?” Virgil mutters.
“Blame it on my upbringing. I had a profound lack of parental guidance.”
“And you think I’m disgusting because I have a drink every now and then.”
“(A) I think you drink all the time, and (b) if you want to get specific, what makes you disgusting is that you’re totally playing Tallulah, who thinks you’re planning to ask for her number.”
“I’m taking one for the team, for Christ’s sake,” Virgil says. “You want to find out if your mother was the person who left that hair behind on Nevvie Ruehl’s body? Then we have two choices. We can either try to sweet-talk someone at the police department to order up a test through the state lab, which they won’t do because the case is closed and because the backlog is over a year’s wait … or we can try to get the test done at a private lab.” He looks up at me. “For free.”
“Wow. You are taking one for the team,” I say, all fake wide-eyed innocence. “You can bill me for condoms. I feel bad enough, you know, without having to worry about her trying to trap you in a pregnancy.”
He scowls. “I’m not going to sleep with Tallulah. I’m not even going to ask her out. I’m just going to let her think I am. And because of that, she’s going to do your buccal swab and fast-track it, as a favor.” I stare at him, impressed by his plan. Maybe he is going to turn out to be a decent private investigator, if he’s this wily. “This is what you should say when she comes back,” I instruct: “ ‘I may not be Fred Flintstone, but I can make your Bed Rock.’ ”