Copyright 2012 Tricia Owens
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"Pack your bags. We're going to ISC West."
Ethan lowered the Styrofoam cup he was about to sip from and studied his boss questioningly. "ISC West? I'm not familiar with that."
"I'm not familiar with that," mimicked a balding man who brushed past Ethan to reach for the handle of the refrigerator sitting behind Ethan. "Just say, 'What the hell is that'? You gotta rub it in that you're going to college and the rest of us didn't?"
"Oh, shut your hole, Bob. Ethan wasn't doing any such thing." Ethan's boss, Larry Winnaker, a licensed private investigator in the state of Indiana, loosened the wide striped tie he wore and dabbed at his forehead with the end of it. "Don’t take the pop that’s in there. I bought those. That means they’re for me. "
"Larry's a cheap SOB," Bob complained as he closed the refrigerator with a plastic-wrapped sandwich in hand. "If we want anything good around here we gotta buy it ourselves."
"I said, shut your trap, Bob." The owner of Winnaker Investigative Services gave the middle-aged investigator a dark look. "Maybe if you managed to do your job right I wouldn't have to give clients their money back, huh? Then I'd have the money to buy pop for everybody."