Redheads Won’t Wait

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I stomped into the office, brushing the early snow off my shoulders. Meg glanced up at me and then looked back at the work in her typewriter. I paused and looked at the part in her black hair. I usually get a grin, and sometimes a kick in the shins. I knew that there was something wrong.

“The boss in?” I asked her.

“Uh huh,” she answered — a quiet answer. She didn’t look at me. I began to wonder if George had sacked me again. I took a quick mental trip through the last few cases I’d handled. Outside of getting too tough with a certain Mrs. Foster, the record was clean as a lumberjack’s pockets on Sunday morning.

I pushed the door open. George had his chair turned. He was looking out his big window. He glanced at me and then continued his window gazing, tapping a pencil against his front teeth, changing the shape of his mouth so that he changed the pitch of the little tock, tock sounds. I noticed that chin number two was growing nicely, and the fuzzy blond hairline was back another half millimeter.

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