Tom Fowler [Fowler - Daughters and Sons

A ringing cell phone is an occupational hazard in my line of work.

I ignored it. Tonight, I was off the clock. My girlfriend Gloria and I had just come from a play at a community theater. It was so memorable I forgot the namewithout the assistance of adult beveragesas soon as we walked out into the night air. Gloria wanted to go to a fancy place for dinner. Had we gone to the Hippodrome, I might have agreed. A local production, however, called for Brick Oven Pizza in Fells Point.

The name of the place tells exactly what it is and how they prepare the pies. The lady who takes orders at the counter reminded me of my grandmother. Like many places in Fells Point, Brick Oven Pizza operated out of what had been a rowhouse long ago. Tables had little space between them and a large group could clog the whole floor.

Despite these apparent shortcomings, the place possessed a ton of charm. The wall featured articles testifying about the quality of the pies, and even a signed picture of some celebrity chef I felt glad not to recognize. Also on the walls, and covering the tabletops, were pictures of Baltimore as it existed decades ago. Gloria and I placed our order, walked past the arcade machine in the corner, and snagged a cozy spot for two. The people in line would need to fight for the sole remaining open table.

I cant believe the business this place does, said Gloria. Shed barely unwrinkled her nose since we entered.

A combination of quality and location, I said. Its easy to get to when you stagger out of a bar.

Speaking from experience?

Not much. We usually stayed near Towson.

A few minutes later, a short man served us our pizza. It came on a pan with a wedge-shaped spatula for lifting and paper plates for eating. Gloria looked at the single-use platters as if the man plopped a dead rat atop the table. Paper plates? she said.

Only the finest for my best girl, I said. Gloria still bristled when eating at places she thought beneath her. Shed gotten a lot better about this minor snobbery in the time Id known her. I used to find her entitled nature annoyingand I knew it made me a hypocritebut it grew on me, and Ive long thought it part of her considerable charm. To Gloria, tales of how the middle class lives are found in books.

I served us each a slice, then refreshed both our teas. True to form, Gloria cut hers with a knife and fork. I let mine cool for a minute, then picked it up and ate it. A group of six college-aged kids left, and a group of hipsters seized the table as soon as it became available. I considered this a downgrade. The two girls with them looked unimpressed, both with the hipsters and the restaurant. I sympathized with the former.

What did you think of the play? Gloria said as we ate.

I think I would never have gone to see it if you hadnt sponsored the theater group, I said.

She smiled. Theyre friends of a friend, and they needed the help.

I bit off a reply heavy with suggestion of some other help they needed. Instead, I opted to say, Your career as a matron of the arts is off to a good start.

Baby steps. I think what you do for people is great. If I could find some work with a charity, Id do it. The idea of working used to be anathema to Gloria. Shed softened her stance when she saw how my pro bono PI service helped people. Somewhere beneath the entitled exterior, flawless skin, and bewitching curves beat an altruistic heart.

Gloria ate one more piece and stopped; I devoured another three. She made delicate oinking noises at me. This almost spurred me to a fifth slice, but I abstained. I got a box and put the remaining slices in it. Gloria and I walked out onto Broadway and headed toward Thames Street, where I had parked in a garage a few blocks down. As we turned onto Thames, my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID, prepared to ignore the phone. It was Rollins. I took the call. C.T., hows it going? he said.

I just finished a late dinner, I said, and now Im going to drive home and ravish my lovely girlfriend. It still felt strange thinking of Gloria as my girlfriend. Wed formalized our formerly fun and casual relationship about six weeks ago.

Before you do, I think we need to talk. I need your help.

Rollins didnt ask for help often. Ravishing Gloria would have to wait a while. Come by my house in fifteen minutes, I said.

Ill be there, he said.

* * *

A few minutes after Gloria and I got home, we heard a knock at the door. Gloria said she would leave us to our business and headed upstairs. I opened to find Rollins on the doorstep. He wore a salmon button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his well-muscled forearms, dark blue skinny jeans, and dark brown loafers (with pennies). I beckoned him inside. His black head was still shaved as smooth as a bowling ball, but I noticed traces of blond in his beard stubble. "This must be serious," I said. You put coins in your shoes.

"How could I not?" he replied.

Rather than offend Rollins fashion sense further, we went to my office. Id rented a proper office in the CareFirst building but still maintained the remnants of one here. My small desk held only a single computer and monitor, but I still rocked the leather executive chair. Some things cannot be sacrificed, satellite location or no. Rollins sat in a guest chair. "Thanks for seeing me on short notice," he said.

"Of course. What's going on?"

"You were right... it's pretty serious. It's work I'm not really cut out to do.

"I can't imagine there are many jobs you can't handle.

He grinned briefly. "A few."

"What's so hard about this one?"

Rollins crossed his legs. The skinny jeans hugged his calves. He didn't have socks on under the loafers. "A hooker hired me to look after her."

"Isn't that what her pimp is for?"

"Theoretically. She felt someone was stalking her."

"Eager john?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "I haven't seen a stalker. I haven't seen anything to alarm me."

"How can I help you, then?"

"The hooker is convinced she's being followed. I can't watch her all the time. I can handle a stalker as long as he shows up, but finding people is more up your alley than mine."

"True. Have you talked to the hooker about this?"

"I told her I might have to refer her case to an expert."

"Are you talking to an expert after you leave here?" I said.

He chuckled. "You're the best I could find this late."