Contributor: Gil C. Schmidt
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The words painted on the office door read "Twitchy Dick, Private Eye."
Yeah, I know. But that's my moniker and that's my gig. Snort what you want, but they pay my room and board and the occasional--okay, regular--bottle of milk of magnesia.
Broad walks in, you know the type. Mid-thirties, rounding out after a decade of underfeeding, designer duds in muted grays and tans, real jewels and a walk that says she's off limits to you and you know it. Walks right in since my secretary never got hired, looks around the office like it broke wind not long ago and saunters into the visitors chair like it was going to hug her without a proper invite. I sat forward and waited. I always let the client speak first.
"I believe my husband is cheating on me."
"That makes him a fool."
She smiled, almost warmly. "Nevertheless,...
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Author:
Gil C. Schmidt
