Billie Girl

Chapter Twenty Five

A detective called our home one morning in late January, and my mother always came alive whenever a professional man called the house. She always held onto a bit of hope that some single professional man might happen upon her and stay in her life. But I knew that she had to stop just waiting around for a moment like that. She had to put herself out on the market again. I kept trying to get her to sign up with match dot com or Plenty of Fish, or God, even Craig's list for that matter. If I got lucky meeting Blake online, she could do it too, even if she was over sixty. There was some hope if she would just try harder.

Mom was on the phone for quite a while with her dreamy detective. And it seemed to me she was mostly answering questions about me. Sounded like she was answering one of those bogus questionnaires for a political survey. But I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with her releasing so much information about me. She told the detective my age, my schooling, my extracurricular interests, and so on. I just sat at the kitchen table and stared at her.

When she got off the phone, she didn't say anything for what felt like five minutes. Then she told me that the detective was calling various homes to ask if we had seen any suspicious characters hanging around the area. She said he was calling the homes where teen girls lived and randomly questioned them as part of a police investigation. She also told me that if I could make myself available he wanted to sit down and talk with me, and assist the police investigation.

Mom said, "The detective wants to talk with a few teen girls, for one to make sure they are taking the right precautions and number two, to see if they might be willing to be of assistance."

"What does he want us to do?"

"He didn't say. He just said to talk it over with you and see if you would want to participate."

This new opportunity had great appeal to me. Ever since my mother pulled me out of school, I had to admit I missed being around an authority figure. It is just no fun being a rebel if there is nothing to rebel from. Plus, I had to admit I was not unlike my mother in my admiration for men with power, men in suits or uniform. Heck, I even admired guys who worked at Blimpie. Of course, I didn't tell Blake about my fetish for employed males since he was so vehemently against nine-to-five wage slavery.

I admired those who adhered to dress codes. Even in the supermarket I noticed that the employees had to wear khakis and black shirts. Dress codes often preoccupied my mind. We all conformed in one way or another. Even in certain coffee shops, it was clear to me that they were all were going out of their way to appear as if they just rolled out of bed.

I had to admit I was both curious and thrilled to meet a real life detective. How might he be dressed? Would he be dressed like a cop? I thought not. Would he be in a suit? Maybe. Would he be sly, and all "film noir" like...or slick and smooth like Bogart or the guys on that LAPD TV show? Heck, maybe he would wear a white shirt that he would roll up at the sleeves like he was ready at every minute for a fist fight with the bad guy. Would he smoke? I doubted it. Though I secretly wished he would, and that the smoke would hang like a cloud in front of my face and make this boring kitchen feel like a smokey interrogation room.

"I am not sure you are mature enough to talk to a detective. I am afraid it might be traumatic for you?" Mother said.

"Not at all, Mom. This would be fascinating. I have never met a detective, and I would be helping our community."

"I don't trust cops."

"He's not a cop, he is an investigator."

"Don't trust those types either. Frankly, they creep me out."

Yet, I knew she was itching to meet this virile man.

"Mom, everybody has to do whatever they can do to help out. If we help catch this guy, then they will write about us in the paper with our picture, and that would be very cool."