Baited
“Neither did he teach me to throw a ball or ride a bike. He occasionally showed me his backhand, though. So any resentment I have about missing those rites of adolescence remained trapped on the tip of my bloodied tongue. Fishing expertise would have come in handy that morning. A guy I dubbed “Matchstick” strolled into the offices of Wells and Collins Investigations just as I was indulging in my third smoke break in thirty minutes. I’d had nothing to look forward to that day besides filing, and... filing made me cranky.
“Can I help you?” I asked, eyeing the snappy slogan on his T-shirt—It’s not the size of the rod or how deep you fish, it’s all in the way you wiggle the worm. “Uh, yeah.” He frowned at the mess distinguishing my office from the reception area; folders heaped on the desk, fashion magazines strewn on the floor, the anodized ashtray overflowing with crimson tipped cigarette butts. “I’m looking for Kevin Wells.” “Sorry.MoreLess
“Can I help you?” I asked, eyeing the snappy slogan on his T-shirt—It’s not the size of the rod or how deep you fish, it’s all in the way you wiggle the worm. “Uh, yeah.” He frowned at the mess distinguishing my office from the reception area; folders heaped on the desk, fashion magazines strewn on the floor, the anodized ashtray overflowing with crimson tipped cigarette butts. “I’m looking for Kevin Wells.” “Sorry.MoreLess
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