LITMIR.BIZ

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without a second thought. Standish’s was known for its burgers the size of a large dinner plate. The place was a Portland institution, the original tavern located out Sunset Highway, past Hillsboro, which in my mind, is halfway to the beach. Its satellite offshoot is on Macadam Avenue which runs north from Lake Chinook proper to Portland, right across from Hayden’s office.

      “Be a good girl. I’ll give you an extra buck or two for delivery.”

      “Oh, yeah, sure. Sweet-talk me. Where do these notices need to be posted? I’ll bring you a burger if it’s on the way.”

      “I don’t know where the hell they’re supposed to go. You’re not gonna make me wait.” He sounded disbelieving.

      “Yes, I am,” I stated succinctly and clicked off.

      The Volvo started right up but it was warm inside, the worn black leather seats infused with heat. I flipped on the air-conditioning and left my house on West Bay, heading into Lake Chinook proper so that I could drive the road which runs alongside the Willamette River straight up to Greg Hayden’s office and Standish’s.

      Greg needed to alert several defaulting renters that they had 72 hours in which to vacate their premises. Usually by the time Greg decides to pay me to post the notices, these deadbeats are way past due. For a few extra dollars I will also traipse to the county courthouse to file the paperwork. When I’m low on cash I start looking for work as a process server. My friends see this as a personal flaw. Maybe it is, but the real jobs I’ve tried haven’t worked out all that well. Even my bartending gig had its drawbacks. I need flexibility and mobility or I’m doomed.

      Greg’s office is an older house off Macadam that has resisted the commercial development surrounding it on all sides. It looks cute on the outside, smells like dog on the inside and is a deathtrap of sloping floors and haphazard furniture. When I walked in Greg was rummaging through his desk, talking on the phone and tossing around loose papers. He makes Dwayne look like a man of the 22nd century as Greg still doesn’t use a computer at all. When I entered he motioned to an untidy stack of stapled papers. I scooped up the forms, sent him a high sign and headed back to the Volvo, breathing deeply as soon as I stepped onto the porch. There is no dog any longer. The cotenant with the back office and his Basset hound are gone, thank God. Dogs are fine, but they smell. And shed. And dig. And bark. Not to mention the fact that they do not have designated indoor toilet facilities. My idea of pets is the geese and ducks that paddle around on the lake. However, if they flap onto my property in a group, as they’re wont to do, I’ll shoo them off faster than you can say “group duck poop.”

      Glancing at the addresses, I realized one of the soon-to-be evictees wasn’t that far outside my neighborhood. I had just enough time to grab Dwayne’s burger, speed over to his place, tack up the notice, then buzz downtown to meet Marta and Tess. Maybe I even had time for a quick stop at the grocery store. I could head home later and make myself a sandwich, thereby saving myself a few bucks on lunch/dinner. As soon as this thought crossed my mind, I nixed it. Better to buy a Standish burger for myself and charge that to Dwayne, too.

      Standish’s was packed. I edged to the bar and placed a take-out order. As much as I love those huge burgers, I settled for a more moderate size. The bag smelled of juicy beef, onions and grease. I paid with some crumpled dollars and coins and was on my way within fifteen minutes.

      I ate in the car. I covered my lap with extra napkins and chowed into the burger, one handed. In New York it’s against the law to hold a cell phone while driving. Other states may soon follow. But as yet you can still eat a burger. I know a woman who applies eyeliner on her way to work each morning while driving. I call it multi-tasking.

      By the time I pulled up to Dwayne’s place and parked behind his car I was finished with my burger. Dwayne lives in a cabana on Lakewood Bay. The cabana is still pretty close to its original style which is basically one-story shotgun. At one time there were a row of like cabanas sitting side by side, two-bedroom homes built on stilts over the water, but most of the others have long since been purchased and redone. Now Dwayne’s looks like a stunted step-cousin surrounded by towering heirs to the throne. Its pebbled roof is faintly mossy; its gray paint blistering and peeling. Still, its waterfront location means it’s worth a mint. Dwayne’s neglect is more part of his style than a matter of his pocketbook, though you’d never know it by his cheapness.

      Hurrying up the cracked concrete walk, I pounded loudly on his dark-stained front door which is weather-worn and splotchy.

      Dwayne answered. He was wearing a pair of low-riding faded denim jeans, a straw cowboy hat and not much else. My eyes were level with an expanse of hard flesh. I could make out the muscles sliding beneath his taut skin as he threw open the door without giving me much notice. He was on his cell phone and he turned his back to me almost instantly, heading the way he’d come.

      “Don’t bother,” he said to the caller. “It’ll work itself out.”

      Dwayne has this slow way of talking that other women seem to find irresistible. Me, it just bugs. “It’ll work itself out” is “It all wook itsalf aut” rolling off Dwayne’s tongue. He sounds all western or Texan or just plain cowboy. I have this sneaking suspicion he’s from somewhere like Philadelphia or Columbus. One of these days I’m going to find out.

      Tentatively, I followed after him into the condo. His long strides had already placed him at the far side of the room but I stepped inside more carefully. Instantly my sensitive nose picked up the faint scent of someone’s lilac, and decidedly feminine, perfume. A female visitor? I glanced over Dwayne’s chunky tan leather sofa and chair, his boxy coffee table, end tables and massive desk, currently masked under a mound of papers. Not a sign of any visitor.

      My curiosity meter rose into the red. I’ve never known Dwayne to be with a member of my gender. Not that he isn’t interested; hell, no! I’ve seen his eyes wander over a lovely set of breasts, legs, etc. more than a time or two. But to date he’s been very, very circumspect about letting me inside his dating world. I’ve got to say I was hoping to run straight into her, whoever she was, so it was with a degree of impatience that I waited for someone to appear from the short hallway that led to Dwayne’s bedroom and bath—not that I dared head down that way myself, I mean, God knows what you’ll discover lurking inside a bachelor’s abode. Whatever it is, I just don’t want to know it about Dwayne, potential girlfriend or no.

      Cradling the cell phone on his bare shoulder, he swept off his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, jammed the hat back on and said succinctly, “We’re done.” He clicked off and threw the phone on the leather chair. “Got my burger?” He gave me his full attention for the first time.

      “Hello to you, too,” I said, tossing the sack at him. Dwayne’s jeans have to be decades old and he doesn’t give a damn. It kinda bothers me how good they look, low slung on his hips. No sign of undershorts. I wondered briefly if he went commando style.

      “You owe me twenty-one fifty,” I said. “You bought mine, too.”

      Dwayne grunted in disbelief. He still thinks a burger should cost $1.95 on all occasions. Muttering something about highway robbery, he jammed his hand inside the bag. “Where’s yours?” he demanded, pulling out one burger.

      “Ate it on the way.”

      He took a healthy bite, the kind that makes any woman marvel. It looked like he swept in a pound of ground beef, I swear. Like a chaw in his cheek, he moved it to one side and mumbled, “Need something to drink?”

      “A little early for me.”

      I was standing by the desk which was pressed up against the sliding glass door, making it possible only to open the door about twelve inches. Dwayne squeezes himself in and out of the door when necessary to stand on his deck/dock. Beyond lies the lake—dark green and gently restless. You can literally step off his dock and sink into the water.

      I could see a .38 peeking out from the teetering stack of papers. I know he’s licensed, and given his profession he probably needs the handgun, but the sight of a firearm just lying around unsettles me. He swears he only loads it when he’s on a job,

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