Five Uneasy Pieces

“I’ve never heard that expression.”

She looked floored. “You’re kidding, right? You never heard

it in movies or TV shows?”

“I don’t watch much TV. And I don’t like crime shows. Too violent.”

Roz snorted and shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

“Do you really think I need to hire this ... this PI?” I knew it would cost, and I hated the idea of raiding my piggy bank to spy on Ed.

“Well, he’s not going to cough up the details, is he?” In a theatrical gesture, Roz swept the air with her arm. “So unless you feel like following him around with a camera, I’d hire a PI now.”

“Then what?”

“Then he gives her up or you divorce his ass.”

I wasn’t good at delivering ultimatums. I pictured Ed laughing at me. Bottom line, even if Ed was cheating on me, I wasn’t sure I had the guts to divorce him. We had a comfortable relationship. It wasn’t exciting, but we knew what to expect of each other. Even so, I couldn’t keep this up. Something had to change.

Roz gave me the name of a detective who had helped her when she divorced Marco. It took me a couple of months to work up the nerve to call him. I’ll confess I did sneak a look at Ed’s cell phone, but most of the numbers were familiar. I found no women’s names other than mine, Ed’s mother and Alice, a co-worker who was almost as old as Ed’s mother. So unless Ed had some kind of maternal fixation, I didn’t think Alice was a threat.

As for his email, I tried looking over his shoulder. My feeble attempts rankled Ed and he snapped at me for “breathing down his neck.” I felt like an idiot and guilty as hell.

The sad truth? Roz was right. I needed someone to do the dirty work for me.

The morning I met the PI, I put on one of my best suits, the one I wore for interviews. It was tailored and flattering without, you know, going overboard. I pulled my long, blonde hair back into a barrette and put on some makeup. Not too much. Roz makes fun of me because, unlike her, I go light on cosmetics. She says I hide my assets. I just tell her I’m married. She laughs and lets it go.

The office was downtown, in a neighborhood that had seen better days. I might have been tempted to choose another PI in a better neighborhood, if I’d had any idea where else to go. Dreary neighborhood aside, I felt better going to someone recommended by a loyal friend like Roz.

Still, I wondered why anyone would have an office in such a depressed part of town. Maybe it was a way to maintain a low profile. Or pay low rent.

His office was in a four-story, brick building, wedged between a hardware store and a funeral parlor. The building directory listed “Greeley Investigations, Suite 23,” in white plastic letters. I noticed several other businesses which had “consulting” or “associates” in their names and little else to suggest what they were.

The stairs seemed dark and forbidding. I’d just read in Women’s World that a lot of rapes take place in dark stairwells. From the look of the place, I would have staked my last paycheck that at least one rape had taken place in the building. I opted for the elevator. The door slid open in slow motion. The ride to the second floor seemed to take forever. I could have run up and down the stairs twice and made a quick visit to the ladies in less time.

I got off and walked down a long hallway marked by identical doors. I stopped at “23,” nailed into the wood like an address on a house. A business card for “Greeley Investigations” was wedged in a metal frame beneath the number.

I walked in. To one side was an unoccupied desk across from a red vinyl sofa, a chair covered in worn, yellow fabric and a fake wood laminated coffee table.

The sofa vinyl made an audible “crunch” as I sat. My reading choices included Soldier of Fortune and Redbook. I picked up the latter and flipped through it. The inner office door opened.

“Mrs. Hastings?”

I looked up. A short, pudgy man in an ill-fitting gray suit filled the doorway. I could smell his sweat from the twenty feet or so separating us.

“Yes.”

“I’m Hugo Greeley,” he said, looking me over. He didn’t budge or invite me in. He showed no interest in shaking my hand. I have to confess, the feeling was mutual.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” he said and closed the door again.

I checked my watch then turned to the book reviews and had déjà vu when I read the titles. Checking the date, I realized why. The issue was 10 years old.

The door opened. “All right, Mrs. Hastings, I’m ready for you now.”

I followed him in and sat in a straight-backed chair facing his desk. A small metal fan whirred from its perch on a corner file cabinet. The stale air reeked of cigar smoke and Scotch (my husband’s drink of choice too). Mr. Greeley lumbered over to the chair behind his desk and dropped into it. The springs squealed like a chorus of stuck pigs.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.