The Trial Balloon

"What do you want for breakfast?" Auntie yelled.

"There are bagels in the freezer and tea in the blue drawer by the sink!"

My plush purple bathrobe was gone from the hook on my door. I yanked my spare, a worn but serviceable hunter green terrycloth, out of my closet and padded out into the kitchen.

"I've been up for hours," Auntie said. She was barefoot in my bathrobe with her hair toweled up on her head. "You snore."

I said I was sorry that I snored.

"Can I borrow your laptopto write up my resume? I'll go shop it around while you work."

"Tomorrow," I said. "I'm taking today off."

"I hope you don't slack every time someone crashes a plane into the World Trade Center."

I flipped the bagel -- garlic, from the Continental Bagel Co. in the market -- from the toaster and spread it with cream cheese. "The book's not going well. I don't know what I'm doing. It won't stay organized."

"Intellectual piracy communities?"

"How piracy on the internet has evolved basic social constructs much like those evolved by primitive man. Barter and trust in the individual to not exploit the resources to the point where they'll damage or destroy the environment -- vis, using so much bandwith that the head pirate will get caught. The implications for copyright and modern art culture. Blah blah blah. I want to take you downtown to meet a friend -- the guy who found you, actually."

"Eh?"

"Bertram. Bertram Brooker. He's a private detective. Well, he's a bartender and a private detective. Do you need to do any laundry?"

"Eventually. Not today. I need to get my hats dry cleaned."

We dressed.

Now she smelled of Chanel No. 5 and wore powder and paint -- sooty black mascara and nut brown lipstick. Her shoulders were straight back and she rustled when she walked. She wore a long white lace dress with a fussy square neck and her hair was pulled back with a wide white band of silk or satin. Gone was the edgeless dissolution of the monastery. Instead of quaint or queer or even helplessly feminine, she was chilly and absent, her every motion -- Mulliganstyle -- saying "I'm a better man than you are." When we went outside she put tiny, thin, silver framed black glasses over her eyes, with long stems.

We walked down Sussex past the Mintand the National Gallery, to the American embassy. We had to cross the street before the embassy because the sidewalk was heaped with flowers. Every flag was at half-mast. We walked past the Chateau Laurier and over the canal, past the War Memorial, to Sparks Street.

Bertram was behind the bar spraying hot water on glasses. The lunch crowd hadn't arrived yet. There were a few tourists sitting by the front window staring wistfully out at the street and fingering their disposable cameras.

Auntie held out her hand. "Hi," she said. "I've never been tracked to a monastery by a private detective and professional bartender before."

Bertram shook her hand and didn't release it. Instead he fidgeted her hard white fingers against his palm. "I'm certified in bartending. It was the thing to do after I graduated in English lit."

"Modest of you not to name the bar after yourself."

Bertram crumpled a rag and rubbed it over the bar top. "I didn't start it," he said rapidly. "I mean I didn't found it. I inherited it when Maruska died. I inherited her half. Alexei doesn't do the bar anymore. He's shooting teabags for Bliss Derringer. I mean with a camera. With a camera. I had a long night. Long night. People here watching CNN until I closed. I'm still not cleaned up yet. I need to hire some more staff. I..." The door opened and he looked up and let go of Auntie's hand. "Hi Judith. Judith, this is Auntie Dynamite. I rescued her from a monastery yesterday."

"Good for you." Judith pushed her thick, brushy brown bangs out of her eyes. Her hair was pulled severely back into a braid halfway down her back, but her bangs burst up like fine beach sand. She had dark eyebrows streaked thick over vivid black eyes, eyes deep set in skin that looked as if it had been brushed. Her mouth was expressive and pointed. Like Bertram her movements were both sure and ungainly, as if she knew where she wanted her limbs but they kept snagging invisibly.

"Hi Bert. Nice to meet you, Auntie." She clutched her dark red knit purse over her midsection and played restlessly with the knots. "Listen Bert, I was wondering if you had any spare time sometime."

"Are you moving again? The bar's been packed. You should hire movers. That bedframe is murder."

"No, I'm not moving. I, well, I was wondering." She twisted the purse strap hopelessly around her hands. "I want to hire you."

"To host a stag party? Because I'm already booked for tonight, but--"

She flung down her purse. "Do you have to! For a private detective you certainly don't know much about people!"

"You want to hire me as a detective?"

"Obviously! What else would you think?"

"Funny," Bertram said. "Usually when you say 'detective' it sounds like a four letter word."