A Spade
09 Apr 2019Today’s prompt: “You are a private investigator. You’ve been following a cheating husband for a month. Write the report to your client – an emotionally unstable wife – telling her what you did and what you’ve learned.”
“It’s all pretty straightforward,” you say to Mrs. Childress. “The photos are there in the envelope. I wouldn’t look at ‘em if I was you. No need to torture yourself. But yeah. They were necking in the movie theater. They walked into a hotel together. I’ve got a few of them walking downtown where he’s got his hand on her a–”
“But he–he wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t.”
“Mrs. Childress. I told you up front. Sometimes it’s better not to know. If you suspect, you’re almost always right, but nobody ever really wants to know. It’s no good. You’re just going to be mad–at her, at him, at yourself, hell, at me for finding it out for ya. And you might think you want to know one day, and then when you know, you’ll wish you didn’t. But it’s all there. In black and white.”
Mrs. Childress gestures to the envelope. “Are there any photos of them. You know.”
“No. But there is a recording I took from inside their hotel room. Audio only. I, uh, bribed their room service guy to let me switch places with him. Changed into his uniform and brought their champagne up. She had her shoes and pantyhose off. He’d taken off his tie and jacket. I tucked a recorder in the closet on my way out. Rescued it later. Lotta moans and dirty talk.”
“Oh, no, no, Jimmy, no! Not my Jimmy.”
“Mrs. Childress. I’m so sorry.”
She sobs a bit. You cough a little. You’re never quite sure how to broach the remaining payment after you’ve told someone their spouse is cheating on them. And that’s why you always get half up front.
She stares at the envelope through watery eyes. She seems surprisingly calm. “Do you have a letter opener?” she asks.
“Of course,” you say, handing her one.
She opens the envelope and flips through photo after photo of her husband kissing another woman, of her sitting on his lap, of him pulling her into a hotel entrance while she laughs.
“You faked these.”
“What?”
“You set this up somehow. You faked it. He wouldn’t do this to me. Not my Jimmy.”
“Mrs. Childress, you came to me because you were convinced your husband was having an affair. My pay’s the same either way, if he’s cheating or not. I wouldn’t make this up. I’m just calling a spade a spade.”
“He wouldn’t do this to me! He loves me! You’re trying to turn me against him! But it won’t work!”
“Mrs. Child–” you sputter out as she stabs the letter opener into your chest over and over and over.
“It won’t work! He loves me! He wouldn’t do that to me! He wouldn’t!”