The Girl Is Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page A

the dark. She preferred it that way. While she didn’t seem to mind being lied to, she wasn’t comfortable with doing the lying herself. If he gave her false information about his whereabouts, all she was doing was passing on what she’d been led to believe was the truth.
    “Your father, he leave interesting work for you?” She knew I was working for Pop, though I’m not sure what she thought about it. Mrs. M. wasn’t the kind of person to make her opinion known.
    I looked at the notes waiting for me atop the desk, but a quick glance didn’t tell me much of anything. “Hopefully.”
    She put the soup on the desk and worked her hands into a ball. “There is something I want to talk to you about.”
    Anxiety tugged at my shoulders. Mrs. M. was much more than a landlady—she’d become a dear friend to both Pop and me. As our friend, she was more than patient when it came to things like late rent and light envelopes. I thought Pop was doing better—he seemed to be making more money, anyway—but what if that wasn’t the case and Mrs. M. had finally had enough?
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    “Tomorrow is when Hanukah starts, yes?”
    I think the relief must’ve shown in my face. Boy, howdy— that’s what she wanted to talk about? “Right.”
    “You don’t celebrate, though.”
    Apparently, the word was out: Iris Anderson was a bad Jew. The relief I’d felt moments before was eclipsed by a knot in my throat. “Not really.”
    “Every year I have tree.” She gestured toward a window in the parlor, where blackout blinds obscured the lamplight from the street. “Is okay with you?”
    She was asking me for permission to have a Christmas tree? Seriously? “Sure.”
    “And your father?”
    “Pop won’t mind a bit,” I said.
    She smiled, and the lines that had crisscrossed her forehead when her query first began grew shallow. “Is good. You will share a meal with us on December 25? I make big feast.”
    I said yes, even though agreeing to it only increased my guilt. If we celebrated Christmas, did that mean we were no longer Jews?
    She left me and I sat down and tried to put questions of faith out of my mind. The desk was littered with the usual banal tasks, save one: Call the following hotels and find out if a Mickey Pryor is staying there or has recently stayed there. On the Q.T. Most of Pop’s work involved tailing spouses suspected of infidelity. He spent a lot of time calling and visiting hotels, hoping to catch a glimpse—and hopefully a photo—of the couple together. His instructions, though sparse, were clear: come up with a story to use when calling the hotels that will convince the desk clerk to pass on what is considered confidential information.
    I cleared my throat before picking up the phone and asking the operator for the first hotel’s exchange. Two rings later and I was greeted by a chipper woman at the hotel’s switchboard.
    I put on my best little-girl voice, full of rounded vowel sounds and a lisp that softened the attack on all of my words. “Mr. Pryor’s room, please.”
    There was no Mickey Pryor staying there.
    Nor was he at the next ten hotels on the list.
    I filled the time waiting for each receptionist to respond by practicing opening a series of locks Pop had mounted on a board for me. I had the hang of getting them open with the picks, but my speed wasn’t particularly impressive. This, he kept telling me, was the most important part of gaining entry to forbidden places. You had to get in fast so you could get out fast.
    By the time I called the twelfth hotel, I was growing weary with both the calling and the lock picking. But I soldiered on, determined to complete the task set before me. After being greeted by the switchboard operator, I again stated my query in the same juvenile tone.
    She told me she would check the register. When she came back on the line, she hesitated before telling me, “I’m sorry, there’s no guest here by that name.”
    I took a chance. I