When hunting season comes around, hunters will sometimes lay in wait for a few days, waiting for their prey.
Except that I am hunting the Ginger.
(Recap- Old guy – Ronaldo, son embezzled money from him and got his house seized for a slew of illegal activities. The capper is that he moved to Chicago and left behind a surprise, a hot redhead that works at the local coffee house. If I want any info about Ronaldo, his evil son, or his hot friend/girlfriend, I have to go thru the Ginger. Anyway, theres a lot of questions.)
Everybody got that?
The last time I talked with her, we got interrupted just as she was about to tell me…what?
Something about Ronaldo.
The main obstacle now is the same two things that they were last time.
A. The girl hates me like poison. Not sure why, and I have been pissing people off for so long, I don’t even ask anymore.
B. I have no idea of who or what the girl does or is outside of working at Starbucks and being stunning in that “I have no clue I’m hot” way, which, oddly enough, does me no good. (She is in her early twenties, which you would think would be ideal, but I have a thing about older women, always have.)
So that leaves me with the slightly creepy task of staking out the poor girl at her work.
Which works out well, I happen to be here a lot.
But fate seems to have a twisted sense of humor.
I had just left the underground parking fallout shelter I am forced to park in when I see a car pulled halfway into a parking space, sporting a really flat tire and an open trunk.
Sometimes I can be a good Samaritan.
But today is not one of those days.
I keep walking.
Just as I am passing the car, Ginger gets out, pulling her phone away from her ear and putting it away.
“You’re having a bad day.”
When in doubt, open with an obvious statement.
She recognizes me and frowns slightly. The lack of the dismissive attitude tells me that whoever she talked to on the phone, they are not coming to help.
“No, its turning into a pretty shitty morning.”
The fact that she is talking to me is evidence of how off balance she is at the moment. Plus I would give you good odds she has never changed a tire.
All of this is guesswork and I could be totally wrong. The wrong part happens a lot with me, but that is due mainly to the fact that I guess a lot.
“Did you call AAA?”
“I don’t have AAA.”
Ah, twenty year olds.
“What time do you have to be at work?” Most people don’t put up with prying questions, unless they are in trouble. (I actually had a work associate out himself when his computer broke down.)
The things I do for this blog.
“Then lets get your tire changed.” I put down my laptop bag and pull her spare from the trunk.
“Oh no, you don’t have to do that.” She makes no movement to stop me.
We get the car jacked up and the tire off before I begin my plan of attack.
“You know, you were mentioning how Ronaldo was doing?”
The line is leading and invites expansion. She could easily refuse to answer in any other setting but the one we are currently in.
To those that follow this sort of thing, she is now in a state of emotional obligation. Its a bad place to be with a rotten weasel like me.
“He is trying to get all of his stuff unpacked and meshed with Magda’s.”
Magda would be the old friend of Ronaldo and his deceased wife, that he has moved across the country to shack up with.
“Good. I miss him”
“Me too.” Her voice has a tenderness in it that is to be envied.
Ronaldo, you lucky bastard.
“What’s up with that kid of his?”
My tone suggests disapproval, which should put me and her on the same side, and thus, she can give me all of the tid bits and inside info on the shitty little turd of a son that stole his father blind.
Look at me, all in a snit?
I look up from the tire, which is almost finished.
Huh? A creeping feeling in my spine tells me I have critically misread something, and I think I know what it is.
“Tony took a deal, he got 15 years.”
Crap. Instantly, a lot more shit falls into place.
When I first thought that she was dating Ronaldo, it was creepy. Old, old guy and young, young girl.
And yet the thought that she was dating the son is almost more creepy.
The next few minutes are enlightening and even more creepy.
I have this “therapy effect” on people on rare occasion.
And trust me, I am the wrong one to tell. 9 times out of 10 I’ll use it against you.
The Ginger used to work for Ronaldo’s son. He owned a business of some sort. They dated briefly.
I take that to mean that they were screwing, she’s a child for God’s sake. A hot child, but a child none the less.
She left him and the business right before the business closed. Wonder of wonders, meth heads make horrid businessmen and worse boyfriends.
Ronaldo always treated her so sweetly, and he always checked in on her.
I am willing to bet Ronaldo kept the son away. Meth heads are famous for dragging others down with them. Misery loves company after all.
Here are some bullet points of updates:
* Ronaldo’s rotten bastard of a son copped a deal and got 15 years. Good, hope his cellmate is a raping beast. Think what you want on that one, he’s got it coming.
* Ronaldo’s house is still considered seized by the state as a drug house. He has hired a lawyer who is fighting to get it back. Hope he get’s it. His son is the villain here, Ronaldo’s only crime was trusting his own son.
* The Ginger, as near as I can figure, was coerced into sleeping with the son, who must be in his 40’s. She emotionally rolls with this kind of regret/guilt/affection that is exhausting, just to watch.
And the weird thing is, once I finished with the tire and we got her car all the way into a parking space, she stomped off.
That, I was expecting. Not the first “after-confession” anger I have seen. Its like an emotional buyers remorse.
She told more than she intended.
Don’t they all?
I still have no idea why she despises me.