Sour Grapes

the predictable, corny joke.
    “Yes, congratulations, Sergeant Coulter,” John said, lifting his teacup, which was brimming with his own special blend of Earl Grey. “A most impressive showing on your part... and Savannah’s as well.”
    “Five wanted felons and nine guns,” Ryan added. “Good haul.”
    Dirk grunted, and his face flushed slightly. He wasn’t Particularly adept at accepting praise... receiving so little of it.
    “Mmm, yeah, thanks,” he muttered. ‘Those damned gangbangers... bunch o’ punks. I’m tellin’ you, when I see the kids today, I just wanna get myself neutered, if you know what I mean.”
    Savannah reached into a drawer and pulled out a can opener. “If you’re serious, I can take care of that right now for you.”
    “Gimme some pie instead.”
    “Say, ‘please.’ ”
    “Oh, yeah... please.”
    She gave him a double-sized piece. Might as well, she figured, and save herself a trip; he was sure to ask for seconds.
    As she joined them at the table, her own generous serving in hand, Ryan asked her, “How is your schedule now, Savannah? Do you have time for a little extra work?”
    She perked up instantly. As a private detective, she often found herself on the “famine” side of the “feast or famine” wheel of fortune.
    “Work? Real work... like for real money.” She gave Dirk a loaded, sideways glance, which he conveniently ignored.
    “Well, I don’t know how much work will be involved,” Ryan said between sips of coffee. “It’s more like presenting a presence. I’ve been hired by a beauty-pageant promoter to ‘guard’ some lovelies who are competing for the Miss Gold Coast crown.”
    “Miss Gold Coast?” Tammy asked, nearly choking on her salad. “What a disgrace... evaluating women on the basis of physical attributes like a herd of cattle.”
    “Yeah,” Dirk agreed. “Disgusting. Do they need an off-duty cop as a chaperone for those chickie-poos?”
    “I heard they have one more position to fill, and they specifically asked for a female,” Ryan said.
    “Reverse sexual discrimination. That’s what it is. A middle-aged, white guy can’t get a break in this country anymore.”
    “Hush and eat your pie, Dirk,” Savannah said, nudging him under the table with her foot. “Guarding a batch of beauties would be bad for your blood pressure.”
    She turned back to Ryan. “Is the pay good?”
    “Listen to her,” Tammy said, snickering. “Like she’s picky these days. I balance her books... or try to. Believe me, if it pays minimum wage, she’ll jump on it like a hound on a T-bone.”
    “A hound on a T-bone?” Savannah laughed. “You’ve been hanging out with me too long, New York girl. I’ll have you eating grits and gravy before you can shake a lamb’s tail.”
    Tammy gagged. “No way. No grits, no gravy, and certainly nothing to do with a sheep’s back end.”
    Savannah scooped up a big forkful of pie, dripping with the caramel and pecan sauce. “I’ll take it,” she told Ryan. “Looking out for some girlie-girl beauty queens, making sure they don’t stub their pretty toes and ruin their pedicures, maybe breaking up a few cat-fights over false eyelashes and hair mousse. How hard could it be? I mean... what could happen at a beauty pageant?”

    The beauty queen sat at her dressing table, wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and hair curlers, staring at her reflection in the brightly lit, Hollywood mirror. The dozen bulbs around the mirror’s edge illuminated every tiny blemish on her nearly perfect complexion, and she studied each one, frowning, as though it were a critical issue that demanded an immediate solution.
    The walls and shelves of her bedroom were laden with the spoils of her victories in the pageant world. Trophies, some over three feet tall, cluttered every horizontal surface. Vertical surfaces were covered with photographs—beautiful pictures, professionally taken over the years—showing a little girl who had been groomed to look like a woman at the age of six.
    The closet door stood open, and inside glimmered an array of sequined and rhinestone-studded evening gowns of every hue, jostling for space with feathered boas, a hundred pairs of glittering shoes, and miscellaneous faux fur accessories.
    Having decided on a course of action, the girl at the dressing table chose a particular cream from the dozens of bottles before her and began to dab the lotion on her “trouble spots.” From time to time, she glanced to her