The Night Detectives by Jon Talton Read Free Book Online

the window was open and a faint sea breeze was coming in. So far, so good: I pulled the other tab, folded it in on itself, and lowered the front of the soiled diaper. Immediately a little fountain of urine shot all over my tie and shirt.
    It was a boy.
    Pleased with himself, he kicked and flung his arms. Back to it, I used wipes to clean off his front, between his legs, and under his scrotum, wadding them up and putting them on the soiled diaper. Feeling pretty good about myself now, I folded the diaper in on itself to provide a clean surface, lifted his legs, and cleaned off his backside. That took another four wipes. Then I slid out the bad diaper, rolled it up, and, voila, he was safe and sanitary on the new one. I hooked the tabs and lifted him into my arms, which did nothing to stop his wiggling and crying.
    â€œBetter?” I smiled. The big baby head stopped crying for a moment, then started squealing again as if I were torturing him with hot pokers.
    Instantly, the silent-but-deadly cloud of odor hit me. The new diaper was heavy again and I felt something oozing out onto my hands.
    â€œWell, hell.”
    I know a few things: the socio-economic issues of the Progressive Era, the revisionist arguments regarding the causes of World War I, how to prepare a class syllabus. I have some skills, including reloading the Python under pressure, properly tying a necktie with a dimple in the center, and effectively swinging a hammer. I know how to make a dry martini and make love to a woman. Here, I was over my head.
    Muttering a lesson in profane oaths for the young master’s linguistic instruction, I carried him into the bathroom and deposited him in the sink. The din of his crying was magnified by a power of ten.
    So much for my clever first attempt, filled with hubris and baby-shit.
    It took another fifteen minutes, a facecloth protectively placed over his dangerous little penis, much clumsiness on my part, and two diapers, but the baby was finally clean, powdered, and back in his crib. I put a rattle in his hand and shook it. He looked at me with a surprisingly grown-up expression, dropped the rattle, and conked out. After what we’d both been through, it seemed like a good idea to me, too.
    I wished that Lindsey’s face would stop flashing across my vision.
    After I washed up and cleaned my tie, I retrieved Tim Lewis, who had slumped against the bedroom wall, silently watching my learning curve.
    â€œGet up. We need to talk.”
    â€œHave you been crying, dude?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThanks for the help.”
    I said nothing.
    A few minutes later, he was back on the sofa and I was sitting across from him on a dining chair.
    He stared at me over an icepack that I had improvised for his traumatized nose. A nasty black left eye was also materializing. He started shaking.
    â€œAre you going to kill me?”
    That’s me: the diaper-changing, first-aid-giving hit man. I said, “I will kill you if you abuse that baby.”
    â€œI take good care of him! I love him! AFP wouldn’t let me go back and change him. Since Grace left...”
    He blinked and I knew he was hoping I hadn’t noticed his slip.
    I said, “So who was this Scarlett?”
    He cursed at himself. “That was Grace’s business name. Her brand.”
    I pulled out the photo again, turned it toward him, and tapped my finger on the pretty face.
    â€œHer name is Grace Hunter,” he said.
    â€œIs that her baby?”
    â€œIt’s our baby.” Somewhere under the icepack, I heard a long sigh. “This has gone so wrong.”
    â€œWhat, that you’re living with a prostitute?” I was careful to keep Grace in the present tense.
    â€œShe’s not a prostitute.” His face flushed with anger.
    â€œThen what do you call it when a woman works for a pimp?”
    I waited and he told it. It wasn’t easy telling.
    They had started dating as freshmen at San Diego State. He was