Getting Old Is a Disaster Read Online Free PDF

got done early and he's already here. We're waiting for you two lovebirds to finish sparking."
      Sparking? I haven't heard that obsolete word since the 1930's. Is Jack really turning purple, or am I imagining it?
      He sputters, "How do they do it? How do they always know where we are and what we're doing?"
      I grin. "They just do. That's what makes them such good private eyes."
      I call up to Bella, "We're on our way."
      I start to walk toward the front of the building.
    "Come on, Jackie, your cover's blown. Now's your chance to tell the whole world, including your son, that we're sleeping together tonight."

    * * *
    Young, handsome Detective Morgan "Morrie" Langford is waiting for us, seated at a patio table on the lawn, with my girls gazing at him adoringly. Which makes him most uncomfortable. He is dressed casually for his lecture today. Chinos and a cotton plaid shirt and a tie, instead of the usual suit.
      Whenever I gaze at him, I see the young man my Jack used to be. Many a proud grandma in Lanai Gardens has shoved photos of their unmarried granddaughters into his unwilling hands, hoping to make a match. He hasn't ever followed up. Very wise, I'd say. I've seen some of those granddaughters.
      Spotting us, Bella and Sophie immediately jump up and take each of Jack's arms and cuddle into him. They lead him to an empty chair. Poor darling—trapped again.
      Morrie is clearly surprised to see his father being greeted so familiarly. But before Morrie can open his mouth, Jack waves his arms at him, warning him. Don't ask. I'll fill you in later.
      Our police detective shrugs. I guess he isn't used to seeing his dad flustered.
      "Hand Morrie what we've got," I tell Evvie in my business voice. She takes the article as well as the envelope and offers both to him.
      "Thanks," he says. He briefly glances at the article, then places the papers in his shirt pocket. "We'll look into it." He changes gears. "So, girls, how are you all?"
      "Wait just a minute. Not so fast," I say. "After all, Grandpa Bandit reached out to us. "
      "Don't bother your pretty little heads. It's minor stuff."
      I persist. "Maybe we can help you catch him."
      "Don't waste your energy. This is small potatoes."
      Evvie chimes in. "But according to that newspaper article he's robbed six banks. Isn't that a big deal?"
      "This is police business," Morrie says severely, obviously trying to end the conversation.
      Don't bother our pretty little heads? Translation: We should mind our own business. What a put-down. Yet again our earlier successes as private eyes mean nothing. And why? Because of the usual prejudicial attitudes—we're old, and assumed senile. And invisible. Who would take us seriously? Even Morrie still doesn't get it—and he's seen us in action. But that's precisely why we succeed—people don't see us as a threat. They assume we've lost our marbles. That's why they're careless of what they say around us. And then we nail them.
      "But it's our case," Sophie says stubbornly, as she refills Morrie's glass of iced tea.
      He's just as stubborn. "You have no case."
      "Yes, we do, now." Bella says sweetly. She
    reaches over to pick an imaginary bit of lint off his shirt.
      Morrie is getting hot under the collar. "You have no client. A client meets with you face-toface."
      Bella smiles at his naiveté. "Now, isn't that silly? If he met with us, we'd know who he is."
      Sophie jumps in. "Yeah, and we wouldn't have a case anymore."
      "Where is it written that he hired you?" Morrie crosses his arms, determined not to let us steamroll him, which we are about to do.
      Ida points. "In the article that you just pocketed. In his very own handwriting. He wants us to catch him, not you."
      "Yeah," says Bella. "If he wanted you to catch him, he'd have written to you."
      Morrie's face stiffens. Jack shakes his head, trying to signal his son. I can tell he's warning him to get out while