I was lying in bed and the record player was playing American Jesus by Bad Religion. Nasty thoughts were traveling through my mind. Guilt mingled with fear and regret. I didn't pay attention. Instead of doing something about those feelings, I took the keys to my car and the photos and left my house. There was so much traffic from my house to the hotel that I wanted to leave my car and start walking. I looked at the buildings around me through my windshield. They were ugly, silent and looked like they had been vacant for a lifetime, although they were full of people. As I was I driving I looked at my suspenders which were black, at my hat which was brown and at my spectator shoes which were mine and nobody else's. I had my Luger in the passenger seat, sitting neat and quiet. Not that I needed it at that particular moment, but you never know what will happen. I fired the gas pedal and went out on the large boulevard the same time that I was lighting a cigarette. There was a sound in my head like a wah wah guitar pedal. It must have been the joint that I had smoked earlier I thought. No point in getting alerted. It will fade away at some point eventually.
Finally I reached the hotel where my client was staying. I put my Luger in my gabardine's pocket and stepped out of my car. A man in a coal black tuxedo and clouded grey bowtie opened the door for me. He had a broken nose that had been fixed sloppily, two very small lethargic eyes and a forehead that you could grill a T-bone steak on. He opened the door with a pleasant but totally pretentious gesture. I stepped inside the lobby where people of all sizes and manners were having their brunch. I could hear knives, forks and spoons cluttering like small bells on a Christmas tree. I walked towards the elevator, got in and pressed the 8th floor where Miss Lucy Verbenger was staying. I got to the door and pressed the bell.
A man in a blue suit, glossy tie and shiny shoes like the ones that bluesmen wear opened the door and informed me that Miss Verbenger was in the other room behind the closed door. From the walls of the main room there were pictures of musicians hanging. There was Louis Armstrong, Fats Domino, Herbie Hancock, Miles Davis and Curtis Mayfield. There were three trumpets, all very shiny and beautiful standing in front of the window. Sound came from two golden speakers. Curtis Mayfield was singing "educated fools, from uneducated schools". I felt pleased that I might be in the right place and that my client had at least good taste and peculiar flavor.
I knocked at the door, and a pleasant voice was heard saying "come in". Miss Lucy Verbenger was sitting leisurely on a couch with both legs upon the couch. Next to her was a frozen Margarita cocktail that had seen better days. It had melted and turned into water. Lucy was holding a copy of The Little Sister by Raymond Chandler that she apparently was reading before I came in. Her fingernails were painted red and there was purple lipstick on her lips. She was wearing a feather boa. A pink feather boa to be exact. Besides that, she was naked as a baby ready to take a bath. She took a cigarette from a Camels pack and after she played with it for a few seconds, she lit it with a huge lighter that had the shape of a penis.
"Your Margarita is destroyed" I said to her smiling.
"Oh, don't worry about that honey. I'll get another. Did you bring the photos?"
"Sure, I did."
I took out an envelope from my inside pocket and put it on the table in front of the couch.
"That's wonderful honey. Tell Gerald to pay you, alright?"
"Yes, thank you Miss Verbenger."
"Don't mention it honey. Thanks for the photos. See you around. Till the next time that I will need a private eye."
I left the hotel and returned to my house. My stomach was in a bad shape and I badly needed a drink. My house was empty and depressing. I felt the same nastiness that I was feeling when I left my house. The same empty feeling wondering through my soul. Thoughts scattered inside my brain like soup with too many vegetables. Nothing seems to make sense. Nothing seems to matter. Nothing seems to make any fucking difference to anyone, including myself. My body was crying for food, but I resisted. Instead of food I took out the bottle of tequila and poured myself a courageous drink. I also lit a stogie.
Funny thing was that it was raining again. It was raining for four fucking days now, nonstop. At one point I threw away the book that I had started to read and relaxed on the sofa. Depression and desperation hit me hard. A little bit later I fired the gas stove with a long and thin, all red kitchen match and brewed some coffee. I was smoking the fourth cigarette and drinking the second coffee, watching the rain for another day, when the bell rang. I pressed the button for the door to open. I was sitting at my desk thinking of my horrid life when she stepped in.
She walked peacefully to the chair that I had for clients in front of the desk. She wore a green, felt, retro cloche hat and a pair of maroon cat eye glasses. She had long blonde hair, a French nose, two lips that could eat a shark and she was carrying a bag that had colorful triangles all over. She sat on the chair with the air of a fairy. She was the prettiest thing that I had seen in a fucking long time. I was totally flabbergasted by her beauty.
"How can I be of assistance?" I asked her.
Before she even spoke she took out of her bag a cigarette case with Elvis on it and she lit a cigarette. The cigarette was a joint.
"Would it be a problem Mr. Akerlung if I smoke a joint at your office?" she asked in a heavenly Blossom Dearie girlish voice.
"No, if we smoke it together" I said smiling.
She passed the joint to me and started talking.
"There is something wrong with my husband, Mr. Akerlung."
"Please call me Tom" I interrupted.
"Well Tom, there is something very wrong with my husband."
"Could you be more specific?"
He is not himself lately. He is always distracted. He talks in his sleep and has horrid nightmares. He never has sex with me and he scarcely pays attention to what I'm saying."
"Are you thinking of an affair?"
"Oh, no Tom. That wouldn't be the case with us, you see we are in an open relationship with my husband all these years and has served us well. You see if my husband wanted to taste another woman I wouldn't stop him. No, there is something else. Something that bothers him deeply. Something that has turned his life into a nightmare. When I'm asking him, he cleverly changes the subject, but I know him more than that. I'm afraid for him Tom, that something has gone wrong in his life and I cannot be a part of that."
"I see. I think I can help. Give me a photo of him, tell me the address that you are living and you haven't told me your name also."
"She took out an envelope, and she passed it to me. Inside there was a photo of her husband and her address written on a small yellow paper.
"My name is Lisa. Lisa Grandhill."
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