Page 16 of ClickBack

“I need to call him. Different thing.”

I take another fry. “That distinction sounds expensive.”

“You always auditing people?”

“Only the ones who put their problems beside the hot sauce.”

He smiles, but it takes him a little longer this time. “Trying to have a night off.”

“Then put it where you can’t see it.”

He does. I take my own phone out of my bag, check that nothing requires me, and put it away again. The catfish is cooling, his knee is close to mine beneath the table, and I can’t remember the last time I have been this interested in what a man might say next. I keep expecting to have to work harder at this. So far, the hardest thing has been leaving the fish alone until I can eat it without burning my mouth.

We eat. I tell him about a client who delivers receipts in a shoe box and considers that a filing system.

“What kind of shoes?” he asks.

“Why?”

“Some boxes are better than others.”

“You’re defending him.”

“I’m gathering information.”

“Then gather this. Half the receipts are curled around cash-register ink that has faded into a personal insult. He assures me every one is deductible.”

“Even the shoes?”

“Especially the shoes. He wears them to work.”

Jarrett laughs into his napkin. “I’m starting to understand why you needed a minute.”

“He’s a good client. Pays on time. He just believes a business expense is anything purchased while thinking about his business.”

“That would open up a lot of possibilities.”

“And close down a lot of people.”

I find myself telling him the parts I usually edit out when somebody asks about work. He listens past the punch line. I like my work, and I’m accustomed to watching people lose interest in it while I’m still answering their question. Jarrett asks whether I enjoy it. I set down my fork because I want to answer properly.

“I do. I like finding the thing that’s wrong. Sometimes it’s one number somebody has moved into the wrong column, and they’ve been working around it for months. I like being able to say, here. Start here.”

“What about when they don’t listen?”

“I send the email again so we all remember I said it.”

He lifts his glass. “You keep the evidence.”

“Always.”

Near the jukebox, two women get up to dance. One knows the steps. The other knows just enough to argue about them. They occupy a narrow stretch of floor between the tables, laughing when they have to separate for a server carrying a tray.

My foot starts moving beneath the booth.

“You know it,” Jarrett says.

“I used to skate to songs like this.”