Jafard Is Real Estate -1-

     Days tended to be longer for May when his boss was in, which was why he hated check-up days. Eddie was quite likeable, really, but he was at his best when he was far away.
     “You call that pizza, kid?”
     May considered the saucy crust he had just buried under a layer of cheese. “Yessir.”
     Eddie rolled his eyes. “Not in this city, it isn't. Maynard, what am I going to do with you?”
     Inwardly, May cringed at the full effect of his name. “Nothing, I hope.”
     Eddie stared at him and May wondered what was on his face. Then the large man laughed loudly and turned to leave.
     “You're lucky I like you, kid. Have the night off. Heck, it's late anyways, and a kid like you shouldn't be out past your bedtime.” His own joke evidently amused Eddie, since his booming laugh proceeded him out of the kitchen.
     May watched him leave, before sighing and removing his floury apron. He hung it on the rack, trading it for his much-loved leather jacket before walking out the back door.
     “Didja get fired?”
     “No, Fred, I didn't.” May didn't turn to face the smoking dishwasher. He heard a groan.
     “You mean I lost again? Damn, even Danny thought you'd be outta the store by the end of the week.” Fred flung his cigarette at the ground and stomped on it irately. “Who'd a thunk a brain-drain like you'ould make it a month? Stoopid... it's not fair.”
     “It's only Thursday,” May said in a forced attempt at politeness. “The week doesn't really end until Saturday.”
     Fred gave him an odd look, before slinging an almost-friendly arm around his shoulders and leaning in. “See, only a brain-drain'ould believe that. Every good ole American knowssat the week really ends on Friday, cuzzat's when you get laid.”
     May returned the stare. “You don't mean paid, do you?”
     Fred winked. “'At too.”
     May sighed and stepped out of the embrace. “I'll see you tomorrow, Fred.”
     “Yeah, yeah.” Fred lit up another cigarette and waved him off, cursing when he singed his finger in the process. “Don' get mugged on you' way home.”
     Even for Fred, this was an odd farewell, and May turned to look at him, walking backwards. “What are you talking about?”
     “Ha'n't you heard? Some crazy on the loose's robbing rich folks.”
     “I'm not rich, Fred, you know that.”
     The cloud of smoke laughed. “How'd'ee know?”
     May turned to walk away, the odd warning encouraging him to hug the spots of lamp light. He suddenly realized that it would have been safer to take the main streets. But as a six-foot-tall twenty-two year old in reasonable shape, it had never occurred to him to avoid the vaguely shady back alleys of the city.
     His eyes swept from side to side, taking in his surroundings and tensing slightly at the scuttle of mice in a service exit. A crashing sound from one doorway startled him into spinning around at enough of a velocity to make himself dizzy. The rush of adrenaline subsided when the source made himself obvious: a janitor from the building, who was now looking at him oddly, his hands resting on a metal garbage can.
     “Excuse me, sir,” May mumbled in embarrassment, shoving his fists into his pockets to hide how much they were now shaking. He stepped up his pace a bit, eager to get home before anything else happened.
     After a few moments of complete silence, he began to think he heard a noise. At first, he ignored the quiet tapping behind him, praying it was the echo of his own footsteps and refusing to be scared by his own shadow. When it began to grow louder he whistled to drown it out. But when it took on a separate beat from that of his own footfall, he panicked. Something – or someone -  was approaching him rapidly. He noticed suddenly that he was running, and though he couldn't remember when he had started to do so, he thought it seemed like a good idea. He put on an extra burst of speed, his sneakers slapping the cracked pavement loudly as his lungs fought to get air into his body. He glanced at his feet, which was why he saw the cat who had been following him take the lead and why he didn't avoid the man who ran into him.
     “Ouch,” May said, prone, from his new position on the tarmac.
     The person sprawled across his legs moaned in agreement. “Why weren't you watching where you were going, idiot?”
     “Sorry. Thought someone was following me.” The wheezing was subsiding, and May sat up. “It was just a cat. Are you okay?”
     The man blinked. “I've always hated that question.”
     May offered his hand, which the stranger took, and they managed to stand. May brushed himself off, sighing when he discovered a new scuff in his beloved jacket.
     He was distracted from his grief by the stranger's sudden intake of breath. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his knee delicately. “That stings.”
     May stepped forward and bent over, but the man waved him away. “Are you – um, do you need a doctor?”
     “I'm fine. Just wait a minute.”
     May nodded uselessly and let his eyes roam the ground beneath his feet, searching for the cat. Instead of a smug tabby or sprightly ginger, he found a black duffel bag, its zippers hastily shut and its handles not velcro-ed together. Curious and otherwise useless, he bent over to pick it up.
     A suddenly tight grip stopped him. He looked up into the stranger's face and noticed the glittering brown eyes that were partially concealed behind a black mask. “Leave it be, stranger.” The man released his hold, passing a hand through his short dark hair before grabbing the bag and limping swiftly past May and down the alley.
     Startled, May watched him leave. “Are you sure you don't need a doctor?” When he heard no reply, he turned around and ran home.

     The best thing about a night job, May thought, was the ability to sleep late.
     It was past ten o'clock when he finally made it to the kitchen of his microscopic flat to eat donuts and read the newspaper, so it wasn't until past ten o'clock that he found out all about the latest criminal to take the city by storm.
     “Jafard.” May said the name aloud, even though he was the only one in the entire house, with the exception of the fish. Probably French, he thought. It kind of fit in with his mental picture of the mysterious man. Further perusal of the article told him that Jafard's latest successful heist had robbed an international company of a few million dollars – practically spare change for the company, but a good profit for a night's work, especially considering what May had earned the night before at Eddie's.
     Nice for him, May thought.
     He shrugged and ate a thoughtful donut, washing it down with some tea before folding up the paper and tossing it into the recycling pile. After washing his mug and returning it to its home in the cupboard, he took his customary position on the couch and turned on some cartoons.
     In traditional cartoon style, the coyote was getting his ass kicked by the roadrunner when the telephone rang.
     May reached over the arm of the sofa to grab the telephone. “Hello?” he said, and winced when his voice cracked.
     “MayMayMay! Did you get her phone number? Tell me she gave it to you!”
     “Ugh. Hello, Andy. How are you?” May ignored the current of babble in the background, knowing from experience that his dear friend would never shut up.
     “Finefinefine but give me the damn phone number!”
     “It is Friday morning, you know.”
     “Yeah, and I been up for four hours. PHONE NUMBER!”
     May hung the phone over the back of the couch and stood up, taking two steps to the door before he was close enough to reach into the pocket of his leather jacket. He felt around for the slip of paper. To his surprise, he felt metal instead of paper, and he carefully withdrew the object. Examining it closely, he reached into the other pocket and removed the paper he had been searching for. He returned to the sofa and lifted the receiver.
     “- is so wonderful. You know I think I'd like -”
     “Andy? Andy, shut up.”
     “- okay I'm shutting up. Phone number?”
     “Andy, I just found a watch in my pocket.”
     “Yeah? That's nice. I hope you found the phone number as well.”
     “It's a really nice watch.” May dangled it by its strap and examined the dial closely. There was no doubt in his mind as to whose it was, since it wasn't his, and no one ever touched his coat on pain of death.
     “I'm sure you just put it there along with the phone number and forgot.”
     “No, it's not my watch. It's much too nice.”
     The voice snapped. “Well, maybe you stole it then, I don't know! Just tell me the phooooone numbuuuuur! Please?”
     May gave the watch one last look, then picked up the paper. “315-”
     “Wait wait wait! Okay, 315-”
     “...”
     “May? Ma-ay?”
     “... It's a really nice watch, Andy-”
     “PHONE NUMBER!”
     “277-4396. Happy?”
     “THANK YOU. LOVE YOU. BYE.”
     The line went dead, so May returned it to its cradle. His eyes returned to the watch sitting in his lap. Its crystal clear glass winked at him.
     “You are very nice,” May said, bringing the watch nearer to his face. He frowned as he pondered Andy's comment.
     “I didn't steal it,” he said to himself reassuringly. “It's his own fault if it ended up in my pocket.”
     “But it was partly your fault that he ran into you.” He glared at his reflection in the watch.
     “He's a criminal. It's probably stolen, anyway.”
     “Is that an excuse not to give it back?”
     “...”
     “If you don't, you'll be just as good as he is.”
     May slumped back into the sofa. “How the heck am I supposed to get a stolen watch back to its criminally inclined owner? It's not like I can call the police.”
     He focused his attention to the television. He pondered what he would do with the rest of the day, since he had no plans, no dates and above all no work, Fridays being his night off. His thoughts returned to the watch and its presence in his house. He could spend the afternoon wandering the city streets on the off-chance that he would encounter Jafard once again, but he would be highly unlikely to succeed in his mission.
     “Is your spouse cheating on you?” asked the television. May's brain snapped to attention, and he examined the man in the commercial. “The best way to find out what he or she is up to is to hire a private detective. We keep your information completely confidential! Just call this number on the screen!”
     May picked up the phone and hastily punched in the number. It rang two times before a female voice picked up.
     “Hello, Johnson and Johnson private detective agency. How may I help you?”
     “Hi, I was wondering what your rates are?”
     May listened carefully, then thanked the receptionist and replaced the receiver. Thier price was much too expensive for his meagre budget, but he felt like he was on the right track. He took the phone book off the bookshelf and opened to the business pages. Apparently, there were about ten agencies in the area.
     He dialed the first one.
     “Annigan's Private Eyes.”
     “How much do you charge?”
     This time, the number shocked him into dropping the phone. He immediately called the next one, and then the next, but neither had a price tag he could afford.
     “Come on, there has to be something,” he muttered as the telephone rang at the eighth listing.
     “Good morning, Jones Affordable Detective Agency. This is Zeek speaking, can I help you?”
     May twisted the phone cord around his wrist. “Just how affordable are you?”
     A chuckle came from the other end. “We are very flexible. Would you care to come into the office today? We can negotiate a payment which would be suitable for both you and my employer.”
     I hope this is worth it. “Sure. What time?”
     “Is one o'clock good for you?”
     May glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was almost noon. “That would be great.”
     “Then we will see you in about an hour. Our address is -”
     “-In the business pages,” May finished. “Thank you very much.”
     “Good-bye.” The receptionist hung up, and May bolted into the bathroom, where he took a three minute shower and brushed out his dark, messy hair, before throwing open the tiny closet in his bedroom and putting on clean pants and a neat shirt. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that 'Zeek' sounded really cute and that May wouldn't mind taking her on a date.
     May mused as he stuffed day-old pizza into his mouth. He washed it down with a can of lemon-lime soda and then brushed his teeth vigorously. He checked the clock. It was approaching 12:30, and from experience, it would take him a good half an hour to walk to the agency building. The shoes which had been sitting innocently by the front door suddenly found themselves moving down the hallway of May's apartment building, having had a pair of size-eleven feet shoved into them.

     Sure enough, it was five minutes past one when May showed up on the steps of the run-down office building. It was in a nice enough part of the city, but it was evident that the exterior was in need of a little loving care before it would be restored to its full glory. He stepped into the vestibule and then climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, where a bright red door with letters spelling “Jones Affordable Detective Agency” tacked onto it waited for him. A small, handwritten sign was taped above the door knob, reading “Please enter.”
     The door opened on a waiting room and secretary's office. The girl sitting behind the desk stood up when she saw him and crossed the room to shake his hand.
     “Good morning, sir. You must be the man I spoke to on the phone.”
     “My name is May,” May said. The girl beamed.
     “Pleased to meet you, sir. Will you take a seat? I will inform Jonesy that you have arrived.”
     May sat gratefully in one of the comfortable chairs which were placed around the room. His surroundings were neat and tidy, but the mismatched chairs made it obvious that the detective did not charge a huge fee.
     “Jonesy will see you now, Mr. May,” Zeek announced. She held the door open while May stepped into the inner office, then let it close behind him.
     “Do sit down,” said a voice, once the door had shut. May took a seat on the sofa beside him. There was a large chair behind the wooden desk; it spun around, revealing a small figure with short blond hair which was pulled into a tight pony tail. Despite the masculine clothes the person wore, May decided that the sunglass-ed character was female, due to her lack of facial hair and her tiny hands. She stood up and leaned across the desk, one such hand outstretched.
     “Hello, Mr. May. It is a pleasure to meet you. I'm Dan Jones, but you should call me Jonesy. Everyone else does. With the exception of my father, who calls me Danny, and my mother, who calls me- well, it doesn't matter. What can I do for you?”
     May, bemused, shook the proffered hand. Jonesy sat back in her chair and watched him as he spoke. “Well, Jonesy, I am in need of a detective's services, but I don't make very much money, so I was wondering how much you would charge to take a case.”
     “There's a reason we're the 'affordable' detective agency, Mr. May.” Jonesy grinned widely. “Name your price.”
     “I don't know. Um, I don't suppose you'd take twenty dollars?”
     Jonesy looked at him for a moment, then threw her head back and laughed.
     May looked curiously at the evidently insane woman. "I'm sorry, did I say something funny?"
     This sent Jonesy into a fresh fit of giggles. "I'm sorry to say we aren't that affordable."
     "But I don't have any money! Is there anything you can do?"
     "No, but you can do something." May shrank away from the rather predatory gleam in Jonesy's eyes. "We could make an... arrangement."
     "What would such an ... arrangement entail?"
     Jonesy smiled. "I like you, kid. Awrighty then, you will work for me five days a week, four hours each day. This will last until I find the person you're looking for, or until a year passes, whichever comes first. In return," she leaned back and crossed her arms over her head, "you get the best detective in the city working her magic."
     Obviously not modest, May thought wryly. It was a tempting offer. Working for a private detective had to be better than the pizza parlor, or at least more interesting. Maybe she would take him out on assignment or something. Feeling only vaguely like he was signing his soul over to the devil, he nodded. Then realizing Jonesy might have her eyes closed, he cleared his suddenly froggy throat.
     "Yeah. Yes, I'll do it."
     She smiled pointily. "Excellent. I look forward to doing business with you, Mr. May. Is that your real name, by the way?"
     "No. My name is Maynard Ahlawat." He had forgotten that he had never been fully introduced.
     Jonesy shrugged. "Pity."
     May barely had time to ponder the odd response before a sheet of paper was placed before him. "If you'll just sign this, Mr. Ahlawat."
     May took the pen from her hand and carefully signed his name to the contract. The next year - or however long it took to find this Jafard guy - of his life now belonged to this eccentric woman.
     She removed the paper and placed it in a file on her desk before standing. May stood as well and shook the offered hand.
     "You'll start Monday at noon, Mr. Ahlawat. I trust that will be satisfactory?"
     "Oh. Um, perfectly."
     "Well then. Would you please give this to Zeek on your way out?"
     He took the folder handed to him and practically dashed out the door. Zeek stood as he entered the outer office, leaving her desk to open the door for him. May handed her the folder. "Do you work here every day?"
     She nodded, smiling. "Ten to four."
     "Then I'll see you Monday," May said, wishing he had a hat to doff. Zeek nodded again, and showed him out.