Word Count: 2353
Introduction
With retirement looking like a dim future for Hort, the Kitchener P.I. takes on a job for a particular client.
Under the typical dreary, drizzly weather that appeared the usual element of Hort’s trade, the Kitchener P.I. wondered if the fact the world was one big camera flew over everyone’s heads.
He would answer this particular question a dozen times and would do so again – snug in his warm car, cracked window for clearer lens view – click, click – a dozen shots of the duo stepping from the hotel. They led him here after following them on a romantic hour through town, crisp in the even of autumn, dark and starless night. They mingled between the bodies of a dog show and festival and twice he nearly lost them away from the streetlight.
At least they tried to blend in somewhat. Bar to bar, he ordering on the rocks and she some white wine, at one point something tropical, blue as a Cuban shore – and out there a fire twirler sang for his sweet – O honey, where be my darling honey. Nice slow walk from there, eye some venues along the way, her petting a few dogs passing by. He followed them through Victoria Park, the air getting darker, colder and Hort would tell Rusty to head back and wait in the car so the kid could keep warm. He would insist on staying but Hort wouldn’t budge.
He heard little of what they were saying save her laughter. He’d say something that would turn her head up to the ceiling with hysterics and her hand would run up his arm and he’d pretend he didn’t notice. Of course he would – they both knew where they were going from here.
The sky was spitting before the sun had risen the next morning while he waited for the kid to pull up in front of his apartment and office with the window open and him smiling and shouting good morning, all chipper and youth and, with a little time before college, needed some steady pay no matter the odd hours.
Too young, Hort thought one day. Too eager for a job like this.
Old and grumpy Hort, one could say, but there were enough people in his life that knew he didn’t really believe that.
“Where to, Mr. Scotride?” asked Rusty.
“Coffee first.”
Then he saw Rusty lift a blessedly steaming cup from the holder. “Figured you didn’t want to risk missing them,” said the kid.
“Off to the hotel then.”
“I don’t see why we need to go back,” from Rusty after a few blocks through the dead quiet streets. “You already have a lot of pictures.”
“More the better for this kind of work,” sipping his coffee. “Especially if the client wants to use them for court.”
“Good thinking.”
“You don’t have any coffee?”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Dad taught me a tall glass of ice water was the best way to start the morning.”
Hort was looking at his cup cutting from light to dark each pass beneath a streetlight. “Maybe I should take that advice.”
It was a waiting game, being a P.I. Lots of sitting around, cracking windows, closing them. Hort let the kid read if he wanted to but Rusty settled for a defilement of blue light blasted into his eyes while Hort kept his on the hotel, periodically adding to the crosswords on his lap.
The sun was up but hidden behind a sheen of vast gray clouds by the time they stepped outside. Tired, the both of them. Late night, was it? He snapped the necessary pictures. The held hands, the goodbye kiss. Then they were off, scattering in opposite directions and melding into the now lively roads as if the night had never happened.
Rusty dropped him off at the law firm a couple days later. Hort told the kid to hang back.
“I want to see how you work with the clients,” insisting.
“Not yet. They see I got a kid driving me around and they won’t take me seriously.” Truth was Hort wanted the kid involved in this kind of work as little as possible. The more he’d see, the more he might start considering it a serious career. Better off in college and the better roads it offered.
Maybe Hort would have been more inclined to encourage little Rusty if the job had a little more spark to it – each sizzle bringing with it a big bag of money like it was sleight of hand. But that was never the case, right? Of all the jobs he’d done, he’d lost count how many of those were for games of adultery over a corruption thriller.
Hell, he once thought, I think I had more hope in marriage before I took this job. Seems like everyone and their mother is getting dicked down by someone behind another’s back.
It paid the bills, at least. Still, times were tough. His fault, he had to confess. He wasn’t thinking about his pension when he got a little too friendly with his nightstick back in the force. These days, Hort was praying for a big enough payday to see him off somewhere warm – maybe Florida, sipping scotch and listening to waves over the sand.
He had never seen the fancy lawyer stand. It was the second time Hort had met him and it was always at the office, always sitting across from the man where he curled over the documents of his cherrywood desk. Mr. Howard, forty something, dark hair combed forward. Skinny, pear shaped with a greasy forehead sheen to go along with blue cheese complexion.
“Mr. Howard.”
“I presume you have something.”
“Have quite a bit of something,” sliding the envelope across the desk. “You can keep those.”
“It’s really happening then,” hands reaching – almost with greedy haste – to tear open the envelope like it were a Christmas present. But he checked himself, Hort noticed, and took his time opening it, taking on an air of delaying the inevitable and scanning every inch of every photo. Sitting at the bar, one leg wrapped around the ankle of another, locking lips by city hall fountain. Mr. Howard laid the photos on his desk. He would not look up. Did he wonder how it had come to this?
“I can give you some time,” Hort rising to go. “I’ll call later.”
“Did he make her laugh?”
“Pardon?”
“Did he make her laugh at all?”
“Yeah, sure. A few times.”
“How did she laugh?” asked Mr. Howard. “If she was really laughing, she’d turn her head up. Did she do that?” Silently he tilted his head back and made a face Hort could not much distinguish between laughter or pain.
“Look… does it matter?”
“It matters to me. I’d like you to get some more photos. Try to get some of her laughing, if you could.”
“Mr. Howard,” said Hort. “I don’t think any of that is necessary. You have enough to make a case, I’m sure you know.”
“I’d like you to catch them at my house.”
“What?”
Mr. Howard never took his eyes from the P.I. “I travel for work a lot. I want to know if she’s brought him, or any man, into my house.”
“Look, sir, I really don’t think any of that is needed.”
“Please, Mr. Scotride,” a sort of plea. “I just… we’ve been married twenty years, you know…”
Hort knew well enough. Bit of greased palms and promised favors got him access to the right files – that and the man wouldn’t stop talking about it the first time Hort sat down in front of his desk.
“… I just… as a man… I’m sure you understand.”
“I understand,” said Hort. “I’ll be charging more hours.”
“I’ll cover it all.”
“Very well then.”
“The hot tub is open.”
“Pardon?”
“I said,” Mr. Howard licked his chops, “the hot tub is open. She very much likes to use it.”
“Ah.”
“I think if you were to catch them in there…”
“Yes.”
“More than just a dip over a glass of wine…
“I got it.”
“…would have a stronger case.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m leaving in two days, Mr. Scotride. Maybe that will be your chance.”
Almost like it was prearranged. Hours after the fancy lawyer had left for whatever trip it was he had sorted, out went the wife to pick up the younger stud, drifting back into the driveway with a calm ease. It was night by then. Rusty, a champ at the wheel, followed them without detection and pulled up to the side of the road just when the garage door closed.
“This one might be a late night,” said Hort. “I could call you a cab home.”
“Come on, Mr. Scotride. I want to see you work.”
“It’s nothing special.”
“Still.”
“You should be getting back into a more regular sleep schedule for college anyway.”
“You want to get rid of me so quickly.”
“You’ve got to go to college, kid.”
“Then there will be no one around to drive you.”
“Hey, there’s always a kid that needs money. Plus, my probation won’t last much longer.”
“But you got to quit the boozing if you want to keep it off.”
“All right, you little shit.” But Hort smiled in the shadows of the backseat. Truth was his probation had ended a month ago. Partings were tough.
“I see them in the window,” said Rusty. “Looks like they cooked a nice dinner.”
Dining table in full view, curtains parted for any nightly wanderer to see. Has no one heard of being subtle? Whatever meal they made was quickly forgotten, however, when the two lovers pounced, leaning on the table until she sat her ass down on the placemat, pulling him towards her, faces meshed in her blanket of hair like a Rodin sculpture.
“They’re really going at it, Mr. Scotride.”
“Yeah, yeah, advert your eyes, kid. I best get to work.”
It was a quiet night. Fair weather, moonless and equally mute in stars – a kind where deep suburb sidewalks stirred with walkers awash in their solitude, staring at the deep dark between house and tree, maybe a nod to another that passes by, suffering no despair nor fearing for the future in these hushhush moments away from the momentary burdens of whatever life they had waiting for them back home. Far from nihilistic, gazing at that deep nightly world, watching rabbits dash from bush to bush or bats dance from streetlight to dark with a sort of wonder that lightened their shoulders.
Photos snapped from the dark brush. He watched the lip-locked grinding progress from dining room to hallway into kitchen, bumping, tripping, laughing – her face turned up for that great big laugh Hort was sure to get a few shots of.
All roads lead to the hot tub. Drenched in kitchen light and phosphorous bubble glow they stripped and settled into the steaming water, wine in hand – drink that didn’t last long before they were on each other. At some point you’re asking to be caught.
“Mr. Scotride.”
Hort almost fell from his perch. “Jesus, kid.”
“Sorry to sneak up on you.”
“The hell you doing here? Go back to the car.”
“Wanted to see you in action.” The pale light of the hot tub caught Rusty’s peeking eyes. “Looks like there’s plenty of that going around.”
“You shouldn’t see this.”
“Why are they wrestling in the water, Mr. Scotride?”
“Are you serious?”
“Nah, I know they’re fucking. Giving it to her good, sounds like. Good for him.”
“Come on. Back to the car.”
“Don’t you need more photos?”
“Got everything I need. I swear if your parents hear about this…”
This time, Mr. Howard didn’t betray his haste to tear open the envelope the moment it reached his hands. After some silence, Hort rose.
“Well, I’d say, as a guy who used to be in the force, you’ve got all you need. I’ll reach out with my bill.”
“Excellent work, Mr. Scotride.”
“Well… thank you.”
“What about my bed?”
“What?”
“Did you catch them in my bed?” He would not raise his chin when he spoke, as if he were hiding.
“No. I don’t think they would have made it.”
“And… did you see him… with protection?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
“I’d like you to catch them in my bed,” said Mr. Howard. “It shouldn’t be hard, being only a bungalow. The gate around the side is easy to open. You can get to the backyard and have a full view of the window.”
“I can gather that. Really, I don’t think you need anymore evidence.”
“It’s not just that.”
“I’ve been putting that together, yeah.”
“As a man…”
“Understood.”
“I just need to know… if she would really do that to me.”
“I don’t think there’s any reason to doubt now.”
“I’ll really know if it happens in my bed…”
“Well…”
“If he gets a little rough with her.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t now how I can explain it further, Mr. Scotride.”
“Explain no more.”
“I want to see her get piped over my comforter, Mr. Scotride. If you catch my drift.”
“Yeah, got it,” said Hort. “Look, Mr. Howard, I don’t know what this is, but I’m starting to think it doesn’t follow too much in my line of work. I think you can probably be… satisfied through some other means of business. I’ll forward my bill. Have a good day.”
“I’ll double your pay.”
“What’s that?”
“And pay overtime. Whatever you need.” Those eyes, so intense and moist and desperate. “Change your rate, if you feel you must. I just… feel you are the right one for the job. Name your price.”
Back in the car, scaring Rusty from deep immersion in his phone. He put both hands on the steering wheel and eyed Hort through the mirror. “How’d that go, Mr. Scotride?”
“Get going, kid.”
“Looks like you got a lot on your mind,” Rusty mentioned a few blocks down.
“Just a little,” said Hort, settling into his seat to watch the ever steadily growing Kitchener high-rises. “Thinking about the beach right now.”
As always, a bit of pennies to help myself kick on is always appreciated. Thanks again.