9

 

There was a knock on the door. No, it was 5 rapid knocks, loud, insistent.

I can always take a reading on a knock. Sometimes when I get a bad reading I don’t answer.

This knock was only half-bad.

“Come in,” I said.

The door swung open. It was a man, mid-fifties, semiwealthy, semi-nervous, feet too big, wart on upper left forehead, brown eyes, necktie. 2 cars, 2 homes, no children. Pool and spa, he played the stockmarket and was fairly dumb.

He just stood there, sweating just a bit and staring at me.

“Sit down,” I said.

“I’m Jack Bass,” he said, “and…”

“I know.”

“What?”

“You think your wife is copulating with somebody or somebodies.”

“Yes.”

“She’s in her twenties.”

“Yes. I want you to prove that she is doing it, then I want a divorce.”

“Why bother, Bass? Just divorce her.”

“I just want to prove that she…she…”

“Forget it. She’ll get just as much money either way. It’s the New Age.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s called the no-fault divorce. It doesn’t matter what anybody does.”

“How come?”

“It speeds up justice, clears the courts.”

“But that’s not justice.”

“They think it is.”

Bass just sat in his chair, breathing, and looking at me.

I had to straighten out the Celine matter and find the Red Sparrow and here was this flabby ball of flesh worried because his wife was screwing somebody.

Then he spoke. “I just want to find out. I just want to find out for myself.”

“I don’t come cheap.”

“How much?”

“6 bucks an hour.”

“That doesn’t seem like much money.”

“Does to me. You got a photo of your wife?”

He dug into his wallet, come up with one, handed it to me.

I looked at it.

“Oh my! Does she really look like this?”

“Yes.”

“I’m getting a hard-on just looking at this.”

“Hey, don’t be a wise guy!”

“Oh, sorry…But I’ll have to keep the photo. I’ll return it when I’m finished.”

I put it in my wallet.

“Is she still living with you?”

“Yes.”

“And you go to work?”

“Yes.”

“And then, sometimes, she…”

“Yes.”

“And what makes you think she…”

“Tips, phone calls, voices in my head, her changed behavior, any number of things.”

I pushed a notepad toward him.

“Put down your address, home and business, phone, home and business. I’ll take it from there. I’ll nail her ass to the wall. I’ll uncover the whole thing.”

“What?”

“I am accepting this case, Mr. Bass. Upon its fruition you will be informed.”

“‘Fruition’?” he asked. “Listen, are you all right?”

“I’m straight. How about you?”

“Oh yeah, I’m all right.”

“Then don’t worry, I’m your man, I’ll nail her ass!”

Bass rose slowly from his chair. He moved toward the door, then turned.

“Barton recommended you.”

“There you go then! Good afternoon, Mr. Bass.”

The door closed and he was gone. Good old Barton.

I took her photo out of my wallet and sat there looking at it.

You bitch, I thought, you bitch.

I got up and locked the door, then took the phone off the hook. I sat behind my desk looking at the photo.

You bitch, I thought, I’ll nail your ass! Against the wall! No mercy for you! I’ll catch you in the act! I’ll catch you at it! You whore, you bitch, you whore!

I began breathing heavily. I unzipped. Then the earthquake hit. I dropped the photo and ducked under the desk. It was a good one. Around a 6. Felt like it lasted a couple of minutes. Then it stopped. I crawled out from under the desk, still unzipped. I found the photo again, put it back in my wallet, zipped up. Sex was a trap, a snare. It was for animals. I had too much sense for that kind of crap. I put the phone back on the hook, opened the door, stepped out, locked it and walked down to the elevator. I had work to do. I was the best dick in L.A. and Hollywood. I hit the button and waited for the fucking elevator to come on up.