BTB, Incorporated

There are a few things in this world I have no patience with: clients who don't pay, women who cheat on their husbands, and husbands who put up with their wives cheating on them.

Unfortunately, in my line of work, I deal with a shitload of all three. I'm a private detective.

I make one exception to my list: I put up with a cheating woman if I'm the guy she's cheating with. I don't do that too often, but I have done it. I'm not proud of it, I guess, but I'm not ashamed, either. There are some women out there who are going to cheat, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. They might as well cheat with me.

I handle a lot of cases about infidelity. It's a specialty, you might say. After a while the cases all started to look the same. But one came in last week that was different.

The case involved an old client who, years earlier, had stiffed me my fee until I got tired of it and grabbed him by the lapel and pushed him up against the wall. I told him who was who and what was what and read him the riot act in three languages upward, downward, and backward. He paid after that. You don't mess with Sonny Biggs – that's me -- over money.

Myron Hansfield was the client's name. He'd inherited a lot of wealth from his old man, a bigwig in the local real estate business, and somehow he'd managed to hold on to his money despite having, from what I could see, no obvious talent and no force of personality whatsoever. Myron put the sniv in sniveling and the milque in milquetoast.

He had hired me several years earlier when he thought an employee was swindling him. The employee was clever, and it was a long, complicated job, but we finally caught the SOB and turned him over to the cops. I even managed to get most of Myron's money back. Myron was a client, and I always do my best for my clients, even when they're limp-wristed sissy men like Myron. The final fee was a big one, and when I finally pressured him into paying it and he forked over the dough I had to admit I was feeling somewhat better about Myron. But only somewhat. I wasn't too disappointed when the matter was done. It was years until I saw him again, and all during that time I never missed him. Seeing guys like him with that kind of money is a constant reminder that the world is a shit shed out of toilet paper.

Last week, Tuesday morning, I saw him again standing outside my office door when I was on my way to work. He was turned away from me looking at my name etched on the door: Sonny Biggs, P.I., Inc.

"Hello, Myron," I greeted him with no warmth. "Social visit? Or business?"

"Business, I'm afraid, Mr. Biggs," he said. "My . . . ." I interrupted him before he could finish.

"Call me Sonny, Myron. You know that."

I opened the door and ushered him in. We walked into my personal office and closed the door. I sat at my desk and kicked my heels up and he slumped in the rickety wooden chair on the other side. His thin, spineless body seemed to twist and collapse on itself in the chair. He was pathetic.

But, still, he was rich. And I could always use more money.

I looked at his face and his eyes were red and his face was splotchy. Shit, he'd been drinking and crying. My respect for him, low already, disappeared like steam over bad coffee.

"O.K., Myron," I said to him. "Spill it. What's going on and what do you want me to do?"

"Sonny, I think my wife is having an affair."

To say that did not surprise me would be an understatement. There's a certain kind of man, a man with money and no guts, that attracts a certain kind of woman, a woman that knows that once she's got the man's money she can do whatever she wants and the man's not going to do a damn thing about it. And Myron was that certain kind of man.

He laid a color photo of a hot blonde woman on my desk. His hand was shaking. Really, I was not going to be able to take much more of Myron. I glanced at the photo but I knew everything I needed to know by looking at his face.

"So what do you want, Myron? Stakeout? Photos? Stained clothing?" I stared hard at him across the desk for what seemed like a very long time. I stayed quiet while Myron obviously was trying to suppress the snuffling sounds welling up from his spindly chest.

Myron finally spoke up.

"I just need to know, Sonny. I need to see, see the proof. I'm not sure what I'm going to do."

That's because you're not a man, Mr. Hansfield, I was thinking to myself. But I didn't say it.

"O.K., Myron. I think I've got the picture. Let me handle this. It will take three days. I'll meet you again on Friday. Lunchtime."

"So soon?" he said. "How can you know you'll be done by then?"

"Myron, I know where you live. I know what she looks like. And I know what I'm doing."

"Do you need a retainer?" he asked me.

"No, Myron, I know you're good for it this time. We'll settle up when it's all over."

I saw him out the door quickly. I wanted to get him out of my sight before I couldn't control the urge to slap him. That would be bad client development, as they say.

It didn't take me long to figure out how I was going to handle this. I handle these cases all the time, and I've got a routine. Stakeout, tracking devices, zoom lenses – I've got it all.

I did what I had to do the next couple of days, and, sure enough, by Thursday afternoon I knew I was ready to meet my client. We made an appointment for noon the next day.

Friday morning I stopped as I always do at my favorite diner before getting to work. I had my usual breakfast, the way I liked it: eggs runny, bacon greasy, coffee black as tar.

Two hours later I was at my desk, putting the last touches on the proof I had in a manila envelope, big block letters HANSFIELD CASE stamped on the front, when my secretary Vera showed Myron in. He limped over to the chair in his fancy shoes and thin-shouldered suit and sat down.

He quivered. He'd known what was coming, and he'd had three days to prepare for it, and still he shook like a baby in the hands of a psychotic day care provider.

Finally, he steadied himself enough to speak. "Was I right?" he asked.

"Yes, Myron, you were right. Your wife is having an affair."

"Oh God!" he cried and his mouth opened wide and let out a sob. I wanted to stuff the red paperweight, sitting on my desk and shaped like a '66 Mustang convertible, into that big open mouth, but I didn't.

"It's Wilson, isn't it" he asked. "Goddamn Wilson. My project manager, beside me all these years. He always had an eye for Svetlana. I could tell. Was it him?"

"Myron, listen to me," I said to him. It was rough for him; I knew that. He was a contemptible, spineless little shit, but he was my client. He had rough news coming to him, and it was my job to make it go down without him heaving it back up all over my Pledge-shined mahogany desktop.

"I have evidence, Myron," I explained to him in my best explaining voice. "It's solid evidence. It's good evidence. But you don't close the case until you've got all the pieces in the puzzle. You understand?"

He looked at me. There were a lot of things in that look: betrayal, fear, uncertainty. Understanding wasn't one them.

"No. I don't," he said.

"Myron, what I'm trying to tell you is this. There's one more thing that has to be done here. One more step to take before I can close this case. A man like me has a reputation. A code. I'm not going to make an accusation of cheating against a person until I've done everything I have to do. And there's one more thing to do here. We need to go see your wife. Right now."

Myron's twitchy face at that moment was a pasty, damp battlefield between one side that didn't like my advice and another side that didn't want to contradict me. Fortunately, the side that didn't want to cross me won.

"O.K., if you say so, Mr. --- Sonny. I'm not sure why you want to do that, but if you say so we can."

"I do say so," I said. "Right now."

I was up and on my way to the door before he could change his mind.

"You drive, Myron," I said.

Myron had a nice car, I'll give him that. A Mercedes sedan. He couldn't drive worth anything, but it didn't matter. I didn't say much to him on the way to his house, 15 minutes away. He didn't say much, either, at first. Then, five minutes from the house, he let loose.

"Sonny, I don't know if I can do this. What are we going to tell her? What's she going to say? I don't know if I can stand it."

You can stand it a hell of a lot better than me pushing you out the car door, I thought, but I didn't say it. Or do it.

"Myron, you don't need to say anything until I tell you to," I said. "I'll do the talking. I know what to say. You just take your cue from me."

I didn't have to do too much more of this sort of thing because by that time Myron had pulled into the driveway of his house. It was a big house. He pulled up to the front. We got out. We walked to the door, him in front, me behind.

"It's your house, Myron," I said. "You don't have to knock. Let's surprise the missus."

We went in. We started walking toward the kitchen. Before we got there, out of the kitchen doorway popped Svetlana.

There are some damn fine women in this town, but not a lot of them as fine as Svetlana. She looked like she'd just walked off the pages of a pinup magazine. A thick mane of wild blonde hair. Eyes of blue flame. Full cherry lips. A figure that made hourglasses blush, and legs that made dancers weep. And she was showing a lot of her figure, too, because at that very moment Mrs. Myron Hansfield was wearing an ice-blue satin chemise and four-inch heels, and she had an opened champagne bottle in one hand and two champagne flutes in the other. It was obvious she'd been expecting something, or someone, but we were not it, or him.

Her mouth made the most perfect O I'd ever seen on a human face. And I've seen some good ones.

She looked at me first, then she looked at Myron. Then she looked at me again. Then Myron.

"M-Myron," she said at last. "What are you doing here?" She looked back at me as she said it.

Myron, of course, couldn't say anything.

"I'll do the talking here, Mrs. Hansfield," I said. "Come with me."

I showed them where to go – through a large opening into the living room. It was huge, with a vast polished plank floor, dark-stained oak paneled walls, and an arts and crafts-style furniture set I knew probably cost more than I make in a year.

"You can set the drink down," I told her. She did, on a coffee table. "Take a seat there, Myron. Mrs. Hansfield, you can stand right there." I pointed to the middle of the room. Myron was seated on the end of ridiculously long sofa, and Svetlana and I were standing in front of him.

"You've been cheating on your husband, Mrs. Hansfield," I said to her.

She didn't look shocked or indignant so much as quizzical.

"But –" she started to say.

"No," and I held up my forefinger in front of her face. "Don't say anything. I'm going to do the talking. If I ask you a question, you'll answer it. If I tell you to do something, you'll do it. But otherwise you will not talk. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes," she said.

"Good," I said. "Mrs. Hansfield, your husband hired me because he suspected you of cheating. I took the job, three days ago. I know you're cheating. And you know you're cheating. And now, Myron here knows you're cheating. So everybody's in the know. I've got proof." I held up the manila envelope, then I tossed it to a large table next to us.

"But that doesn't mean the case is closed, Mrs. Hansfield," I said. "I'm not a marriage therapist. I'm just a private dick. But I don't close a case until I've seen it though and the job is done. There's a little more of this job to do, and I mean to do it."

It was as plain as cheese on pizza that neither Mrs. Hansfield nor Mr. Hansfield had any idea what I was talking about, but I was about to make it clear to them.

"Mrs. Hansfield," I said. "Take your clothes off."

"What?" they both said at the same time.

"Sonny," Myron started to say, "What is this? I don' t think this is --"

I held up a single finger inches from his face, and it stopped his flapping lips cold.

"Myron, don't speak. Don't think. Watch. Just watch."

I turned again to Svetlana. "You heard me. Do it."

She looked at me and half shook her head. But she didn't stomp off and she didn't talk back to me. Then the half shake became a half nod and I knew I had her.

In a single movement she lifted the chemise from her body and over her head, and she threw it to the floor. Then she stood there with her hands on her hips.

It was quick, but it was one of the best damn strip shows I'd ever seen. One of the most beautiful women in this town was standing before her husband and me in nothing but four inch heels. She was spectacular. Discerning people would pay good money to see what I was seeing. For all I knew, they probably had.

I looked her in the eyes to make sure she was listening to me. She was. I looked down at Myron, who was staring bug-eyed and quivering at Svetlana like a scared rabbit at a fox, or a hungry rabbit at a carrot, or maybe a mixture of both. Myron wasn't going to be a problem, I could tell.

"Come here, Mrs. Hansfield," I told her. She came. Slowly, deliberately, with hips swaying – but she came.

When she got close enough I cupped the back of her golden-maned head with my hand and pulled her face to mine. I kissed her roughly, with an open mouth. My tongue pushed hard against hers, and she pushed her tongue back against mine. With my other hand I reached up and grabbed her breast and pinched her hard, jutting tit. Then I pulled my face away, and my hands now grabbed both her tits. Mrs. Hansfield looked at me like a feral animal in heat. But I looked at Myron. He didn't utter a word. He just looked at us with his jaw dropping fast to the floor.

"Myron, when you came to my office, you said you thought your wife was having an affair and you just wanted to see. You didn't know what you wanted to do, but you wanted to see. Well, I'm going to let you see. I knew your wife was having an affair before you came to me. Because she was having an affair with me. I've been fucking your wife, Myron. And I'm going to fuck her right now, and I'm going to let you see. Because that's what you want, Myron. And you're the client."

Myron said nothing, just as I knew he would.

"Turn around Mrs. Hansfield, and grab the edge of that sofa," I told her.

I shucked off my pants in a jiffy, and I took off my socks and shoes too, because dark socks and shoes on a man's bare legs is not a good look, and looking good is part of what I do.

Svetlana was leaning over with her hands on the sofa. Her ass was pointed up and toward me, and her legs were spread wide. I could see everything.

I took her then, hard and fast and rough and right in front of her husband. I held her just so, so her husband could see me entering her. I didn't have to look at Myron, but I could see him from the side of my eye held rapt by the sight in front of him. I knew my client.

I wasn't saying much, just concentrating on the task at hand, but Svetlana was panting and moaning with no restraint. I'd fucked her before, but I could tell that being fucked in front of Myron was taking her to a level of ecstasy and excitement she'd never reached when we were alone. I'd be lying if I said I was surprised.

I'd never felt her as wet as she was now, and my cock, though somewhat large for her tight pussy, moved smoothly and easily in and out of her. Soon I could see trails of moisture flowing down from between her legs.

We fucked like that for a few minutes. Then it was time to give Myron a different view. I scooped my arms under and around her and lifted her easily, then walked a few steps back and set her, supine, in the sofa across from Myron. I took a calf in each hand and spread her wide. Her large breasts were full and ripe and shaking. My cock, still hard and standing straight out from me, needed no help finding her wet opening. I plunged in again and resumed fucking her, making sure I was holding her so Myron could see every stroke of my entering her.

I had no need or interest to prolong this appointment. I sped up and pushed and pulled harder. I angled my approach into her so my shaft pressed against the pert nub of her clit. That did the trick, for her and for me. I could hear the tell-tale quickening of her breathing and the heightened pitch of her moaning. A few more even harder strokes pushed her over, and when her back arched and her mouth opened in a loud gasp I knew she was done. I pulled out of her, moved my body forward over her, and let go. I let loose a thick, ropy spray of cum on her tits and chest.

Cum and high heels – no more suitable outfit had ever been made for Mrs. Myron Hansfield.

She lay back and didn't move. Her husband sat as still as a garden gnome on the other sofa. I, however, had other work to do, and I quickly put my pants, socks, and shoes back on.

I snapped my fingers at him to get his attention.

"Myron," I said. "Listen to me. Your wife is a certain kind of woman. She is the kind of woman who's going to cheat on you. There's not a damn thing you can do about it. Looking at you right now, I don't think you want to. You are going to adjust to this fact. And you are going to like it."

I turned to Svetlana.

"Mrs. Hansfield," I said to her. "There's no point in pretending that you are going to be faithful to your husband, because you're not. You're going to keep fucking around. But from now on, you are going to tell him. You are going to tell him, in great detail, about every guy you fuck. You will take photos of yourself being fucked, and you will send them to him. You will text him when it's happening. Sometimes, you will invite him to watch you being fucked. You will let your husband know everything you do to cheat on him. And when your husband is man enough to want you for himself, you will give yourself to him. Without reservation. Do you understand?"

At that very moment Mrs. Myron Hansfield, nude and spread out on the sofa, was not at her most highly functional self, and a forensic psychologist testifying at trial might have said she responded out of duress, or without being fully in her right mind. But she said yes, and that was enough for me.

Then she looked at me and said, "How does this affect –"

I stopped her, with my finger again. It was a damned effective finger.

"Us?" I said. "Mrs. Hansfield, we are done. I have greatly enjoyed our relationship. But your husband is my client, and I take conflicts of interest very seriously."

It was time to get out of there. I'd done what I could do. They'd have to work out the rest.

"I think this engagement is done, Myron," I said to him.

He turned his gaze away from Svetlana, with evident effort, and toward me.

"Uh, Mr. – Sonny, I mean. Do I owe you –"

I had to stop him again. More finger.

"No, Myron, you don't owe me anything. This one's on me. We're good."

I let myself out.

I had a ways to walk back to my office, but it was a pleasant day, it was early afternoon, and the walk would do me good. It didn't seem right under the circumstances to ask Myron to drive me back.

As I walked along the streets back to my office, I looked at the houses on either side and wondered what secrets their shut doors held back.

There's a dirty job to do every day in this city, and I might as well be the one to do it.