Chapter 3

Finding the FBI headquarters was no problem as I had spent years running around the city delivering freight. That was what I thought. I had to use my computer. It was not where it is in 2017.

The aliens had done a superb job. The little Blondie at the desk even knew me by sight. “Mr. JR, Mr. Nat is waiting on you.”

I looked to the side saw the sign on the door, ‘Nat Drew S.A. I. C.’.

As I walked through the open door I said, “Nat, what can I do for you?”

“JR this is my sister Sara McMasters. She is sure her husband is two timing her. We would like you to tail him for us.” Nat said pointing to a full figured red head sitting in a chair across from him.

“It will cost you $10 bucks an hour not counting expenses.”

“I will hire you just let me know the amount when you finish.” Sara extending her hand to me as she handed me papers containing the information on her husband.

I left shortly after and went back to my pad. Inside I made all the preparations to begin a full surveillance job on the poor chat. It just seemed that Nat wanted to pass the buck to get his sister off his back.

I looked around the garage to find the proper car to spy on this poor chap. There was a paint faded 29 t model coop that sounded like any old t model. Heading down South Main where this garage was, I soon found there was alien intervention. It had the horsepower of a modern day fusion.

I found a little place called Nat’s diner across from the garage. Was that a coincidence? I found a corner booth facing the proper way.

The waitress came over and asks, “Sir, may I get you a coffee while you look over the menu?”

“I will take your best meal with the works on it. Surprise me. Also bring me a black coffee.”

She was in her middle thirties, and very polite. I could see though she was in a major depression. When she came back with the coffee I said, “You looked depressed. Do you not like being a waitress that much?”

“I am sorry. My husband just left me and our three kids saying we hated him after he came home from the war.”

It sounded like the modern day term, PTSD to me. “Sounds like he came home from the war depressed.”

“You hit it right on the head. He came home six months ago. This morning he left. He said he was going back to Texas.”

“I take it that leaves you holding the bag?”

“That ain’t half of it. We moved out of our house into a little apartment last month. He drained our bank account of what little money we had, and left in our only car.”

“Well I am going to be here for a while. You keep the coffee coming and I will keep the tips,” I said handing her a $100 dollar bill.

“Oh my, this is too much!” she exclaimed.

“No it is not. When you get a break, I have a job offer for you.”

“Just a minute.” She said stuffing the money in her pocket and walking away. I watched her walk with pride. She had a style about her that read real class.

I watched her go to the man behind the counter. They talked a moment. He nodded his head, and said something to the other waitress. While she was there I Googled wages for 1947. The well to do made about 60,000.

She came back to my booth and sat down across from me. “I am all ears.”

“I just moved into the area. I have a 10,000 square foot home. I need a butler/ household manager who hires, fires, and trains the staff for the property. If you want the job, you will train new staff, maids, security, setting up job descriptions, duties, and schedules. You and your children will have your own place. Your wage will be $50,000.00 a year plus room and board.”