Spygirl: True Adventures from My Life as a Private Eye
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
While her friends are making mad cash and getting massages at their dot-com jobs, Amy Gray quits her low-status publishing position to realize her girlhood dream of being a private investigator. Joining a small Manhattan agency, she finds herself plunged into an intriguing world of “con men, lunatics, narcissists, polygamists, sociopaths, felons, petty thieves, and pathological liars”—a description almost as apt for the men in her social life as for her on-the-job subjects. Working with a gang of misfit colleagues (a former zookeeper, a one-time child star, an avant-garde philosopher, and other eccentrics), Amy discovers even more about herself as she detects uncanny parallels between her investigations and her tumultuous love life.
he was wrapping up eight years of work on a biography of Ted Nugent. “Yeah,” he said, “I'd put him up there with Dylan, and Springsteen for sure.” He was shortish and square-jawed, and he was wearing Tevas with socks. It was snowing out. “So, when does it get cold enough for, ya know, shoes?” I asked him. He laughed. “When hell freezes over, man.” He turned around and faced the rest the group, crowded in front of the bar. “Hey, can somebody get this girl another drink—she needs to relax!” I
contortionists.” The picture was gravity-defying. My air passages narrowed, while my internal diagnostic scope of Wilbur's sick mind expanded to cosmic proportions. What was the point of a stolen wedding? The risk-versus-reward-ratio was a gazillion to one. The circus wedding, I read, had no master of ceremonies. No one addressed the audience or deciphered the twisted pageantry for anyone present. This spectacle was created for an audience of two. The others present were just seat-fillers, like
Minutes later we were laughing—Renora about her two-week-old fling with a Brooklyn bar owner who was a lot older than her (forty-three), Wendy about her boyfriend, Rocco, of three years. “I was single for, like, ever before I met Rocco,” Wendy said wistfully, making the kind of pitch that girls with boyfriends make to their deaf-eared and loveless friends. “I was like the single girl. And it was fun.” I confessed that I feared Elliott had forever polluted the way I see men. “Oh, come on,” Wendy
does it mean?” I asked, darkly. “I choose life.” “What made you decide on that? ” I croaked. Just as I was beginning to ask all kinds of questions I had no answers to—like why was this a present for me? in what fiendish twilight zone did I inspire men to tattoo their thighs? what was up with that aphorism “I choose life”? and why me?—he gave me one. “You did, baby,” he said, sweeping me onto the bed, bare feet and all, and reminding me silently why I'd chosen him. Yes, I recall thinking, I
Especially his employees. It's a callous but effective mind game that weeds out the bullshit, which is exactly what he wants. Unfortunately, it still made me nervous, so I stuttered a bit and generally sounded stammering and unintelligible. I think I even called him “Sir” at the end, and I noticed a kind of bemused flicker pass over his face. All the while he continued typing on his computer, staring directly at the screen in front of him and maintaining the most astonishing composure,