“Who’s the tailor’s son?” asked Mr. Molti. His gaze swept over us, teens slouched outside the diner. On this warm Saturday night, we waited for girls to stroll by or the odd fight to erupt.
“Me, sir. Dominic, sir,” I stuttered as I scrambled to my feet.
“Walk with me,” he said and we ambled away. “Your father does impeccable work. Are you as detail oriented?”
“Indeed. Junior honors classes – all As.”
Mr. Molti nodded. “I have a task. Red Mullins …” he paused, “ … needs to be watched. Loiter, sip sodas, treat your friends to fries.” He passed me a fifty. “I don’t care how you do it, but keep track of diner meetings. Anything unusual.”
“Sir, verbal or written information?”
“Each Saturday morning at ten, my son will bring clothes to your father’s shop for alterations. Pass notes then.” Molti smiled and his teeth gleamed in the streetlight. As he reached in a pocket for a cigarette, I caught the glint of a gun. “Questions?” I shook my head. “You’ll be paid well.” We shook hands and he hopped into a silver Mercedes.
For a month I reported on Mullins –flirtations, altercations, obvious hangovers, and parcels behind the register - until no sign of Red for a week. I had to force times, invent activity, but then two weeks and nothing. My final pay package had a note – services no longer needed.
Shame. Sleazy money. Easy job. However, now … I think I’m being tailed.