All day the woman did not make her appearance, and Anders, his arms and shoulders sore from bearing up under the weight of the equipment, was driven to the terrible realization that she might never show. Next came to him a surprising thought: how much would it cost? He had been prudent in what he had selected, renting not the newest and smallest technology, which cost quite a bit more but which, as a result of increased demand, could only be taken for a day or two, during which whatever he managed to collect would be the entirety of the case. Instead he had opted for an earlier generation of it all, the binoculars, the directional microphone, the shoulder-strapped recorder, which was cheaper by the day and which the man behind the counter, tall and stooped, who was reputed to have been a honest-to-goodness spy in his day and, some said, maybe even an assassin, seemed to favor. “The older stuff is sturdier,” he said. “And you can keep it as long as you want.” Anders had called the client immediately and passed along this intelligence. The client, a prominent businessman who was surveilling the woman his son planned to marry, sighed heavily. He was always sighing. The enormity of what he was doing was clearly always in the process of undoing him. After he sighed, he offloaded his guilt by repeating what the phrase that Anders had given him: “as long as you want.” Prudence was in the phrase, and thrift, and even philosophy. Everything had seemed in place. Anders had gone to the diner for breakfast, hot coffee, cold cereal, feeling the change in temperature traverse his teeth. The job had seemed, in its own way, leisurely. He had already made one-way contact with the woman, standing behind her in a convenience store as she bought a motley of items: a large bottle of soda, lottery tickets, prophylactics, a candy bar, car wax. A hint of citrus levitated off her hair. He had set up across the street from the place where, his client believed, her other lover lived, and where Anders might discover information that could save his son from a lifetime of trouble. He was ready to wait as long as he wanted. But now he was reconsidering. As long as he wanted might mean a mounting outlay. He patted his pocket absent-mindedly. He was getting six hundred a week, and the initial charter had called for one day’s surveillance, which even at the higher rates for newer equipment, would have left him with five or high fours. He could have submitted the report with information or none, left the young man to his life. There were fates worse than citrus. The cheaper equipment might be on him all week and wear away fully half of his fee. And what did he care anyway? He was by trade a lawyer. He was only doing this until he could practice again. He believed himself to be sick, deeply so, something to do with his liver he suspected. And if he searched his soul, the notion that this woman might be running around on the young man gave Anders a slight thrill. Freedom still meant something to him. He pressed the binoculars to his eyes. No sign of anyone anywhere. His arms and shoulders denounced him.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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