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not the police detective. I have no authority. If she doesn’t wanna come, I got no right to force her. And she isn’t gonna wanna come.”
    â€œI don’t care how you do it, just do it.”
    â€œThe only way to do it is call you and have you come get her.”
    â€œI told you. That’s not an option.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t understand.”
    â€œTry me.”
    â€œThere’s more at stake here than you know. If you’re not happy about it, I’m sorry. But I didn’t hire you to make you happy. I’ve outlined the job. It’s pretty straightforward. I want you to keep my daughter from getting hurt. How you do it is entirely up to you. Just leave us out of it.”
    She broke off, looked me right in the eye. “Now, you want the job?”
    I should have just said no. Where was Nancy Reagan when I needed her? But there I was, the knight on his white horse, the stalwart protector of all young girls, and how was I going to refuse to help this one?
    â€œYes.”

12
    Y OU EVER CARRY AN UMBRELLA SO IT WON ’ T RAIN ? I’ VE done it. Not enough, clearly, for all the times I’ve come home drenched. In point of fact, I hate umbrellas, and would rather sprint up the block dodging raindrops than be caught with one. Just the way I would never wear my rubbers, which I considered using as an example, but rejected because of the double entendre—I’m having enough problems with sex as it is. But if there was something that really mattered, something I really cared about, some occasion when I just didn’t want it to rain, like my softball game, or Tommy’s Little League game (Christ, is it only ball games?), I would bring along an umbrella on the theory that if I had it, it would forestall the event.
    And more often than not it would work. Or maybe I just remember those times, having to carry the damn thing. Or was it Alice? There’s a thought—maybe it was Alice, ridiculing me for taking an umbrella in the bright sunshine, which only Alice can imbue with the right amount of bemused tolerance or sympathetic condescension. Or maybe I’m just projecting.
    Anyway, for the number of times it worked, as well as the times it didn’t, the reassuring feel of the clumsy instrument clutched in my hesitant hand always eased the burden. At least until Alice did her thing.
    Today, Alice wasn’t there. Alice wouldn’t notice if I took an umbrella. She wouldn’t know unless I told her. Neither would MacAullif. Or Richard.
    The minute I had those thoughts I wanted to tell Alice, MacAullif, and Richard. Wanted to ask their advice. Get their opinions on the weather. Did they think it would rain?
    Of course, in all instances, I knew what that advice would be: You cannot let a client dictate terms. You are dealing with a cuckoo person. If you follow her instructions, you are a cuckoo person. No good can come of this. You need an intervention. A private eye sponsor. A twelve-step withdrawal from surveillance. The moment you get your first urge to do something not quite legal that a private eye on television might attempt, you need to activate your PI alarm. “Help. I’ve fallen for an investigative technique and I can’t get up.”
    That doesn’t quite work either as an example or as a comedy bit. Which is not surprising. My comedy routines never worked either. Yeah, I did stand-up. Only one of a number of failed careers, which included acting, writing, screenwriting, and songwriting, my stand-up career was perhaps the most abortive. My routines never went anywhere.
    For instance, I once wrote a series of Man Most Likely jokes. Yeah, I know, you never heard of the Man Most Likely jokes. That’s because there is no such thing. That’s because I wrote it. The premise was the names of the people most likely to be associated with certain actions. For example: “The man climbing into the