Spygirl: True Adventures from My Life as a Private Eye
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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.
Everyday life is the greatest detective story ever written. Every second, without noticing, we pass by thousands of corpses and crimes. —FRANZ KAFKA Money Over Broke-Ass Bitches This is written on the wall in the stairwell of my new office building. It's my first day at work, but instead of thinking about that I'm thinking about this comment. “Who are these broke-ass bitches?” I'm thinking about those broke-ass bitches, and wondering who's spending money on them and pissed off about it
thousand square feet were a vast sea of buckled, bruised, and burned wood-slatted floors and enormous windows in different stages of disrepair, most of which required a claw hammer to open. It once housed a printing factory, so there were deep black burnished grooves in the floor at regular intervals from the scorching machinery settling for thirty years into the hard oak. Some of the windowpanes in the back of the office were punched out or broken. Two, I later discovered, were fatalities of a
reported back that New York wasn't interested in going after Smythe again. He was already in jail, they said. They'd worry about it when he was eligible for parole—in six years. They did, however, seize some of the implements of his trade from his cell: a typewriter, paper, pens, a toothbrush, some chalk, some lipstick. I suspected he could figure out a way to run an international con ring with a pair of nail clippers and cinder blocks. “Mr. John Nguyen Smythe was born on June 18, 1961. For a
later. Boris called me into his office. “I don't want you to think that our buying this book has anything to do with my opinion about this book. It's still shit,” he said warily. I made a mental note to myself: Quit your shit job. Consider registering for that website called sendapieceofshittosomeoneyouhate.com. Standing outside the bookstore, I noticed another book stacked next to In the Eye of the Storm. Dozens of copies of Dot Comedy towered like a grim reminder of romantic failure.
I want, I can't turn away.” I looked up at him. “I want to forget this and I want you to never do this again.” He pulled me close and rubbed his eyes on my shoulder, and we stood outside the bar for the longest time, kissing and whispering “Never” a lot. At one point Sol ran out with a cymbal and banged it in my ear, and Evan shuffled out holding Skye's hand. Otherwise, as I stood there with Peter I put my trust not in facts, and not in dreams, but in the pure, true feeling that siphoned from