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I called my dispatcher, Donna. She said, "Mario, let me run a name
past you: Cheryl Palmer. Does that name ring a bell?" "No, should
it?" I asked.

"Yes. She's a customer that you serviced just a few days ago and
she's already calling back complaining that her pipes won't stop
leaking since you came out there."
I scrolled through my mental rolodex of customers that I'd serviced
in the last few days. I remembered Cheryl Palmer. She was a fox, quite
a few years older than me but sexy as hell and very flirtatious.

I said, "Donna, I apologize about the pipes, but they were working
fine when I left and she seemed happy. She even gave me a twenty-dollar
tip."

"Regardless of that, she still made a re-call, so this time I want
you to get it right. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She read off Ms. Palmer's address. I don't have the best memory in
the world, but for some reason, that address didn't sound right.