Copyright © 2011 Herschel Cozine. All rights reserved.

Audrey Melvin pounded her fist on the desk and expelled a stream of oaths that would impress a longshoreman. I marveled at her vocabulary and waited for her to calm down. Years of experience told me that this would take between five minutes and several days. Audrey was, in my estimation, one who would regain her composure in minutes. Practicality required that, and Audrey was a practical woman.

I’m a private eye. I spend most of my working hours sitting in a cramped car drinking cold coffee from a Styrofoam cup. I know the location of every sleazy motel between here and the border, down to the name of the desk clerk and the AAA rating. It’s mind numbing, boring to the point of agony. But it’s a living. There are precious few opportunities in this country for a high school dropout.

My current job was to keep a professional eye on a John Melvin, suspected by his wife, Audrey, to be engaged in extranubial bliss, if you will. Of course, this meant countless hours in a parking lot across the street from one of the aforementioned motels, waiting for...what? It was apparent that the gentleman was dallying. I had followed his Lexus to the motel, where he and a lady had checked into Room 211. The motel, "Nightingale," was close to the bottom of the food chain in quality. But then they weren’t there for the continental breakfast or the mint on the pillow.

About the only thing I could accomplish by tailing them to the motel was to record the time they arrived and the time they left. What they did in that amount of time I would leave for Audrey to decide. She hadn’t asked me to get photographs—not yet, anyway. So I duly noted the arrival time: 8:17pm. If history was any indication, they would remain until 9:30. If I may speculate, that was about ten minutes for recreational activity, an additional ten for showers and the like, and the balance of the time to rest up. Not that I felt the lady needed it, but John was on the far side of forty and not in the best of shape.

I was wrong by eleven minutes. The door to the room swung open at 9:19. The lady, for whom I did not yet have a name, came out first, walking daintily on three inch heels. She was followed closely by John, who appeared to be on three inch heels, but in reality was tottering from the sheer exertion of remaining upright. I left this fact out of my report to the missus.

"I’ll get him for this!" She paced the floor, arms folded, eyes burning with fury. I stood by silently. Years in this business taught me that the old proverb, "silence is golden" was tailor made for this occasion. And, if experience meant anything, I knew what the next words out of her mouth would be.

"Is she pretty?"

Bingo!

She didn’t really want to know, and I didn’t want to tell her. But the task went with the territory. I started to make a "so-so" gesture, which would have been ludicrous. The lady was a knockout. Thankfully, she spared me the little white lie.

"Never mind," she said. "I know his taste. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women. He wouldn’t settle for anything less than beautiful. Even if he has to pay for it." She let out a scornful laugh. "And believe me she’s getting more than a roll in the hay out of this. I’ll bet the whore is taking him for a very expensive ride." She laughed again, louder and edged with anger. "I hope she takes him for all he’s got and leaves him with his goddamn pants around his ankles." She folded her arms tightly and paced back and forth.

"Who is she?" she said.

"I don’t have a name yet."

"Never mind. I don’t care who the bitch is. This isn’t the first one, but it sure as hell is going to be the last, at least while he’s married to me. After that he could bang the Queen of Sheba as far as I’m concerned."

I stood by silently. There was nothing I could add to the conversation. I waited for her next order. Again, experience told me what it would be.

"I want pictures," she said.

"Internal or external?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Will pictures of him entering or exiting the room be sufficient? Or do you want..." I left her to fill in the blanks. However, I already knew the answer to that as well.

"Shoot the works," she said.

This, too, was what I expected. They always wanted the actual "event". Why, I don’t know. Self flagellation comes to mind. Masochism. Or, on a more mundane note, evidence to set before a judge in divorce court. It wasn’t for me to question the one who was paying the bills. However, the difficulty and, to some degree, the danger of getting pictures of the actual event added to my cost.

"I’ll have to charge extra for..." I started.

"I don’t care what it costs," she snapped. "It’s his money." She laughed derisively. "It’s poetic justice that he pays for it." She pounded her fist on the table and set her jaw. "And he’s going to pay. God, how he’s going to pay." She sat down angrily, arms folded, legs crossed and stared straight ahead, one foot swinging up and down in a tapping motion. I stood silently by, waiting to be dismissed. Caught up in her anger and hurt, she forgot I was there. She glowered at a spot on the wall. Finally she stood up.

"Pictures," she said. "Lot’s of them. I’m going to hang his ass from the flagpole."

I took my leave.

***

I arrived back at my office, or at least what I call an office—a phone booth sized room on the third floor of a former bank building. But the rent was cheap. And it suited my purpose. I spent very little time in it, having a second office in my walkup apartment a few blocks away.

I, myself, didn’t do photography. I had neither the skill nor the equipment, nor did I have the inclination to enter bedrooms and other private places in order to get the goods on philanderers. But Joe Sanders did. And he was good at it. Reliable. Discreet. Inexpensive. What more could a private eye ask?

I was about to dial his number when the door to my office swung open and a well dressed man strode through it with the determination of Alexander the Great. Without introduction he put his fists on my desk and leaned on them, his eyes at the same level as mine.

"I want to hire you," he said.

I rose to shake his hand, but he turned and crossed over to the window. Looking out with a scowl that would boil an egg, he snorted.

"I want you to get the goods on my wife."

"Goods?" I repeated, knowing full well what he meant.

"She’s screwing some jerk and I want to know who."

I waited for him to go on. Conversations such as this are best left for the injured party to pursue. He turned from the window and paced back and forth, if pacing is the word for a ten by twelve room. After three or four laps he stopped and faced me, his scowl deeper than before.

"I want to know who the guy is. Get me a name, a place. Hell, I want pictures, too."

"What’s your wife’s name?" I asked. "For that matter, what is your name?"

The man allowed a trace of a smile to cross his lips. "Phelps," he said. "Jason Phelps."

"Mister Phelps, do you have a picture of your wife?"

He snorted, louder than before and reached into his pocket. Extracting a 4x6 photograph, he threw it on my desk. It slid across the surface, coming to rest against the telephone.

"Her name is Julie."

I picked the photo up, looked at it and expelled a deep breath. The woman smiling back at me from the black and white glossy was none other than the paramour of John Melvin!

I had to admit she was a beauty. The innocent smile and laughing eyes in the photograph gave no indication that she was anything but a devoted wife. Who says pictures don’t lie?

I was on the proverbial horns of a dilemma. I already knew who Julie was cozying up to. In a few days I would even have photographic proof. But I learned all this on Audrey Melvin’s nickel. I could not in good conscience reveal this to Jason Phelps. And yet, I could not charge him to find out something I already knew. In all my years in the business I had never been in this situation.

My first inclination was to give the photo back to Phelps and tell him I couldn’t take the case. But this would require an explanation that would only complicate an already thorny situation. I needed time to come up with a solution.

"Mister Phelps," I said, glancing at my watch. "I am late for an appointment, and really must leave at once. Could you come back tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock?"

Phelps grunted. He shrugged, looked at his wife’s photograph laughing back at him from my desk, and nodded.

"Yeah," he said at length. "I guess it can wait another day." With that he turned on his heels and strode through the door, leaving a trail of anger that was palpable. I sat down heavily, picked up the picture of the missus, and let out an audible sigh.

"Wipe that smile off your face you two-timer," I said and slammed the picture face down on the desk.

I had eighteen hours to come up with a solution to my problem. I could turn Jason Phelps down, claiming conflict of interest. But it wasn’t really a conflict, since I had nobody’s interest to protect. I could introduce Phelps to Audrey Melvin and let them work out the details. No. That didn’t seem like a good idea. They were both too angry and too hurt for me to trust them to act rationally if they got together. I could talk to Audrey, ask her permission to tell Jason Phelps what I knew. While that was the most reasonable solution, I wasn’t comfortable with it. Eventually Audrey would want to meet Jason, and that was the very thing I was trying to avoid. If they met on their own, fine. But I would not be a party to it. Accessory to whatever mayhem that resulted was not on my list of "wants".

I turned my attention to the miscreants. Was there any way I could confront them, make them aware of their respective spouse’s suspicions? Not likely. That may scare them into behaving themselves, but the horses were already out of the barn. It appeared to me that Audrey and Jason were in no mood to forgive.

I leaned back in my chair and heaved a sigh. As much as I disliked it, I decided that I would tell Audrey about Jason, get her permission to fill him in on the case, and return a part of my fee. Accordingly, I would charge Jason a reduced amount, thus coming out even, or close to it. In essence I was rolling two cases into one. As imperfect as it was, it was the best I could come up with and keep my conscience, and my license, clear.

The idea appealed to Audrey. But she wanted to go much further. She wanted to meet Phelps. This is exactly what I did not want to happen. It could only lead to trouble and, while I am no stranger to trouble, I did not want to be the cause of it.

Audrey wouldn’t be denied.

"I love it!" she said. "He could give me the dope on his wife, and I could tell him secrets about John. Just think," she said with a gleam in her eye, "we could make them squirm. Delicious!"

Having come this far, I was unable to stop it. If I didn’t get them together, they would certainly do so on their own. I promised to talk with Phelps and see if he was agreeable.

"You already know who the guy is?" Phelps said.

"Yes," I replied. "You see, I was hired by his wife to tail him." I leaned back in my chair, crossed my hands behind my head and looked Phelps in the eye.

"You can understand my problem," I said. "I only know about this affair because someone else paid me to investigate. It wouldn’t be fair to divulge this to you when she paid for it."

"Hell," Phelps said, pulling a checkbook from his pocket. "I’ll pay for it as well." He took a pen and started to write, but I stopped him.

"I can’t let you do that. I can’t be paid twice for the same job." He started to protest, but I silenced him with a wave of my hand.

"We’ll iron out the finances at a later date."

"Who is this guy?" Phelps asked, still clutching his checkbook.

"I can’t tell you that at this time," I said. "But I talked to my client and she would like to meet you. She has an idea that may interest you."

"What is it?"

"I’ll let her tell you," I said. "That is if you are agreeable to such an arrangement."

Phelps frowned thoughtfully as he considered the proposition. I frowned as well, although not in thought. My frown was born from fear of what might happen when two injured parties put their heads together.

I was about to express my concern when Phelps slapped his hand on the desk and straightened up.

"Why not?" he said.

I could tell him "why not", but decided against it. Instead I nodded silently and reached for the phone.

"Her name is Audrey," I said as I dialed the number.

He pursed his lips in what appeared to be approval of the name. I’m sure he would approve of the face as well. While Audrey was not the beauty that Julie Phelps was, she was more than passing in the looks department.

I arranged for the two of them to meet in my office the following day. Audrey was early, her eyes sparkling with anticipation as she twisted nervously in the small overstuffed chair. I busied myself with non-existent client files, hoping that Phelps would be early as well. I was never any good at small talk, and I didn’t want to discuss the case.

Phelps crashed into the room a few minutes later, his anger still painfully evident as he nodded curtly to me and frowned at Audrey.

"Are you the. . .?"

She nodded. "I am."

I marveled at the conversation. They had just met and already they understood each other. I wasn’t certain if this was bad or good. Having straying spouses as a common denominator was "understanding" enough. They really didn’t need any more glue to bond them. I shuddered to think of the potential disasters that such a condition could foment.

Well, the die had been cast. I was no longer in charge, and could only stand by and wait for my orders. I would veto anything illegal. But other than that I was an accomplice to any mischief these two would dream up.

I thought of dismissing myself, giving Audrey her money back, and washing my hands of the whole sordid affair. But that was a copout. I was responsible for their being together, and anything that happened now was as much my fault as theirs. Besides, I had already spent Audrey’s fee and my bank account couldn’t support the noble gesture of returning it.

Jason and Audrey hit it off immediately. I wasn’t certain whether it was because they were both the victims of straying spouses or if they would have found each other attractive if circumstances had been different. I sat back and watched as they talked about the mutual problem. I might as well have been in Borneo for all the attention they paid to me.

"Is she a good sex partner?" Audrey was saying.

Jason grunted. "I used to think so. But now I’m not so sure."

Audrey smiled weakly. "John likes to..." she started, then blushed and looked away.

Jason reached over and put a sympathetic hand on Audrey’s arm. "Let’s go have lunch and talk about this."

***

I made a hard decision while Jason and Audrey were at lunch. I could not in good conscience be a party to the unpleasantness that was certain to follow. Having been responsible, albeit not willingly, to their getting together, I felt responsible for whatever may happen as a result of their meeting. I would remove myself from any further involvement. I had no obligation to Jason since I had not agreed to take his case. As for Audrey—well, I had done what I had contracted to do. I had tailed, observed and reported on his conduct, or misconduct in this case. I would write up the final report and bow out. Case closed. Audrey Melvin and Jason Phelps were on their own. Most spouses react as Audrey had. Tears, recriminations, and ultimately divorce usually result and I had become immune. I couldn’t afford to get emotionally involved.

Audrey shrugged at the news. Obviously I could be of no further use to her, especially since she had Jason.

But she had one last request.

"Could you recommend a photographer?"

I gave her Joe Sander’s name and phone number, wished her luck and watched her leave the office a far happier woman than the one I had come to know.

***

A few weeks went by. I had put the case behind me, and had almost forgotten about it. After all, except for the problem of dual clients the case was pretty routine. After years in the business, one becomes accustomed to amorous misadventures and sees little difference among them.

The newspaper account of an incident that had taken place the night before at the Nightingale Motel caught my eye over my second cup of coffee. The Nightingale was the love nest of Julie and John.

I put the paper down with a chuckle. Picturing the amorous couple sitting in the office of a motel with only towels for cover while police and reporters questioned them was true justice. I’m certain my friend Joe Sanders was involved in the theft of the clothes. Joe was an expert in picking locks. In his line of work, this was an essential skill.

There was no doubt that Audrey and Jason were the instigators of the incident. My suspicions were confirmed the next day when the paper reported that Melvin’s car had been found in the lower end of town that people of his social standing never visit. It had been stripped of tires, stereo, GPS and other accessories of value. Various articles of clothing were recovered from the trunk, including intimate female garments that were believed to be those of Julie Phelps.

I clipped the articles from the paper and filed them in Audrey’s case file.

I suppose I should call the police and let them know what happened. It’s my duty as a citizen. Upon further thought I decided against it. The main loss was the car, and that was as much Audrey’s as it was John’s. And, except for their dignity, no one was hurt. Besides, I was sure John and Julie knew the score. But they couldn’t prove it.

Whistling softly I placed the folder in the file cabinet and closed the drawer.

I’m a sucker for happy endings.