by Spawn of Beachgoat, 4/3/2004
It was a hundred-degree-plus summer afternoon in Fresno when she walked into my office. As usual, the landlord refused to allow the air conditioner to kick in and relieve the weather. Upon entry, she looked hot.
“Are you Mr. Guyra Wells?” she impolitely blurted out in a non-dairy queen blizzard of sweat and inquisition.
“The one and only,” I told her. It was my specific hope that this one could pay the bills I’d generate.
“I’ve got a problem. With my husband, I think,” she hurriedly blubbered next.
“Tell me his name,” I proposed. “Within two weeks I can tell you whether or not you’ve really got a problem.”
“I sure hope you can, Mr. Wells. I’ll pay you whatever it takes.”
“Sold!” I exclaimed. As far as I was concerned, at that hourly rate, her problema es mi problema, right?
She agreed to come back the next day with her checkbook. I agreed to wake up earlier than usual and be there to meet her.
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The next day, several things were apparent. For one thing, she was a nice-looking redhead. Another thing was that she spelled trouble. Without technical accuracy.
“Mr.Wells. I had been hoping that you could help me find out why my happy and content marriage has failed to include me lately.”
“I’m afraid that will require my daily rate plus expenses plus phantom fees plus taxes,” I told her.
“Sounds fair enough,” she said.
As of that moment, I was on the case.
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Over the next two weeks, the task of following her husband through the hot streets of Fresno during the summer was both un-fun and un-productive. After watching his behavior for a few days, I was nearly convinced the guy could end up canonized.
That was, until the Tuesday of the second week of surveillance.
The carnal acts I captured on film that day were certainly wrong. I felt a hole burning in the swatch of film as the photo snapped, and I felt a corresponding singe in my soul for having witnessed those acts. Even if she hadn’t been an oversensitive woman, I would have felt terrible for my client.
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The day after the best surveillance, I felt there was plenty of evidence to go ahead and call her into my office to show the photos.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am; it seems that your suspicions about your husband and the sordid love triangle were correct after all.”
It was just then that I noticed the hand gun she carried. Blam blam ouch.
