Mary, Queen of Scotch

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

“He’s not cheating on you,” I told my client, Arthur, the next day as we sat at a coffee shop a few miles from his house.

“And you know this how?”

I sipped my espresso with nonfat milk and a sprinkling of cinnamon. It seemed like something a drag queen would drink—since, apparently, I now was one, though where on my résumé that would go I hadn’t yet decided. “Um,” I said, mainly because I was treading in choppy waters here and was determined to stay afloat. Meaning, best not to tell your paying client that you attempted to lock lips with his husband and was summarily rebuffed, even if telling him such a thing would prove just what he was paying you to prove. And so, “Um,” I repeated.

Arthur looked less than happy with my reply—or lack thereof. “I have another appointment, so if you would…”

I nodded. “Right, right.” I flipped through my notebook. The pages were blank, but I’d learned in online school that you were supposed to take copious notes. I’d gotten as far as purchasing the notebook. I stole the pen from my bank. Still, the clients seemed to appreciate the effort, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. “I’ve been watching your husband for some time now, sir, following him when he leaves the house, when he’s away from you, even at his place of employment.”

Arthur smirked rather meanly. “He’s a drag queen two nights a week; I wouldn’t say he’s employed so much as sporadically tipped.”

I continued to flip the blank pages in my notebook. “In any case, sir, though I have seen men hit on your husband, his response is always the same.” I closed my notebook. I pointed at the finger next to my pinky, the one on my left hand, the one sadly naked. “He always points at his wedding ring and shakes his head no. When he’s at home, when he’s shopping, when he’s out for a jog, when he is, as you say, sporadically getting tipped, he is, at all times, faithful, not even a hint of anything untoward.” I’d also learned in detective school that using fancy words made you seem more credible. Untoward was one of those fancy words, something you saw in the New York Times crosswords, but never heard on an episode of the Real Housewives-of-pick-your-city. Troublesome might have also worked here, bothersome, too, but untoward is what I went with.

Arthur seemed less than impressed. “He’s cheating. I know it. He’s just really good at it.”

I sighed. “Maybe his libido is simply down.” Libido. Good one, Barry.

“Chad’s twenty-three. Chad’s libido is fully charged, trust me. Chad’s libido could give the Energizer Bunny a run for its money.”

“Or hop.”

His eyes rolled. “You’ve missed something, Barry.” He said my name as if he’d just eaten something bad. Barry. Sounded like Brussels sprouts.

I nodded. I was taught to nod. It made it look like you were listening. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why did you marry him in the first place? I mean…” I paused. There was that choppy water thing again, threatening to pull me under. “Well, you know.”

Now it was his turn to sigh. It came out wheezy. He was a smoker, I figured. His fingernails were a tad yellow, teeth as well. Maybe that’s why Chad didn’t want to have s*x with him. Sucking on an ashtray is never fun. Like eating Brussels sprouts. “You mean, why would I marry a kid like Chad? Or why would Chad marry an old man like me?” Again, I nodded. Only, this time, I really was listening. Intently. “He liked my money. I liked his youth. Everything has to start somewhere. That’s where we started. But then it veered into somewhere unexpected.”

“Love,” I said.

“In the dark, we’re the same age. Just two people. I’m simply Arthur. He’s simply Chad. We can talk for hours. Chad went to a good college, Princeton, in fact. He’s bright, sensitive. We enjoy each other’s company. So, yes, like you said, love.”

“But the lights have to come on sometime,” I said, hoping that the truth would set me free—though not free of a paycheck.

“Love is blind.” He said it, but he didn’t seem to believe it. Or at least his frown said as much. Plus, was Chad really blind? Or was it a case of temporary blindness, like when you see a sudden flash of light. Or a sudden flash of do-re-mi dough. Call me a cynic but come on. After all, Jack Tripper never slept with Mr. Roper. Then again, he never slept with Janet or Chrissy, either, so maybe the analogy didn’t hold water, choppy or otherwise.

I smiled. “Perhaps, sir. In any case, I see no evidence of his duplicitousness.” Ooh, that was a good one. Graduate-school level. Too long for even the New York Times. I prayed I’d used it correctly. Sometimes, I got too big for my britches.

“Evidence,” he said with a snap of his fingers, followed by a pained wince. “Sorry, arthritis.”

“Excuse me?”

“Arthritis,” he said. “Snapping with a bum joint or two can sometimes be painful.”

“No, not that,” I said with a heavy exhale. “Evidence. What kind of evidence? How can I prove that I’m not seeing anything? I can’t take you with me, right? That’s the whole point of this undercover business.”

He nodded. “Yes, but I think there might be a way.” He stood and finished his coffee. “Meet me at my house in two hours. Chad has a yoga class then. I think I might have a way for you to prove what you’re seeing.”

“Or not seeing.”

He touched fingertip to nose. “Exactly.” He turned to leave. “See you in two hours. Don’t park anywhere near the house, just in case.”

“Two hours, sir. See you then.”

One last nod and he was gone.

I watched him walk down the sidewalk, a strange chill running up the length of my spine as I stared.

I finished my own cup of Joe. I remembered one of my lessons: if a client doesn’t believe what you’ve found, they’re probably in denial and won’t ever believe you; if such is the case, cut your losses and move on. I normally found what I’d learned to be valuable. I normally followed my lessons to a tee—apart from the whole taking notes thing—but nothing about this case was normal, and so, for the time being, I decided to roll with it.

Which meant that, yes, two hours later, I was parking a few blocks away from his house. It was a nice neighborhood, most everyone living behind large gates, like monkeys in a zoo. We’d evolved only to unevolve, to return to what we’d started out as. And, no, I’m not usually that deep, but it was a longish walk and I had nothing better to do than to ponder the fate of mankind. Plus, of course, I was still very much fully-caffeinated at the time.

I arrived at his gate and rang a buzzer. The gate didn’t open. Instead, he came sauntering out a moment later, a bag in hand. Proverbs 29:4-5 says to beware the man who comes bearing gifts. I wasn’t a religious man, but, like those big words, a good quote every now and again puts the client at ease, lets them know that they’ve hired a capable man. In any case, I stared at him. I stared at the bag. That chill up my spine returned, only going down this time, in the opposite direction. It, like the monkeys, had gone full-circle—or full-line, as it were.

“Here,” he said, handing me the bag. “Don’t open it here. Smile. Act like this is just me returning something to you.”

I nodded. I smiled in return. “Thanks, Arthur!” I shouted, as his shoulders bunched up. “I appreciate your returning this! I was looking forward to using it tonight! While the wife is away!” I winked at him. “How was that?” I whispered.

“Really?”

I nodded. “Just two pals exchanging a brown paper bag in the middle of the street.”

He sighed. He turned. He didn’t say another word.

I turned. I smiled. I started the longish walk back to my car. FYI, I was intentionally being a d**k. FYI, it was fun, if not a tad risky. My lessons taught me that being risky was sometimes a good thing, that you occasionally had to be a little risky to solve the case. Just don’t get too risky. Or too dicky. Though that latter thing was just inference on my part.

I hopped back in my jalopy, closed the door, and opened the bag.

I took out the devise. “Spy cam.” I stared at myself in the rearview mirror. “He wants to watch me work. Evidence, he’d said.” I twirled the object around between my fingers. My eyebrows rose and lowered. “Fine by me. Let him see what I’m seeing. Namely nothing.”

And yet, something about this didn’t sit well with me. I’d met Chad. I liked Chad. Chad wasn’t cheating. But now his husband wanted me to film him, to spy on him. Which, fine, was what I’d been doing, but still.

I pulled out my cell. I dialed Arthur’s number. He picked up on the first ring. “I have the cam.”

“Bravo for you.”

“My price just doubled.”

“We had a deal.”

I grinned at myself in the mirror. “We had a deal. I did my job. Your husband isn’t cheating. This, therefore, is a new gig. Hence the doubling of the price.”

He didn’t reply. Not right away. “You don’t strike me as the type of man who uses the word hence.”

I chuckled. He was right; I wasn’t. “The doubling was a deal, sir, for a repeat customer. I have other jobs. I already did yours. If you want to find someone else to help you, be my guest.” This little maneuver was also in my online textbook. A client is becoming difficult? Threaten to end the case before they do. Keep control of the situation. Odds are good, they’ll bend.

FYI, he bent. Bent like an ice-laden birch. Which is a James Agee quote, bitches. Suck it!

Sorry. Cocky is a no-no in the detective game. Still, I’d won. Plus, I was still on the case. Meaning, Mary, Queen of Scotch was soon to make a triumphant comeback.