Detective Stories: "Laisser Faire"

The night was . . . somewhat dim. It was kind of drizzling, just a little overcast. On this fateful night, everything would change . . . for a very short while, then inevitably revert back to the status quo, probably . . .

     My day could have gone better, but I've had worse. I sat at my semi-tidy desk in my well-lit office, the fan was working better than it had been, no longer did it squeak or shake as it spun. That was actually a nice change, the repairman came by the night before and worked on it, was a real cheery fellow. We're gonna get together and play some Scrabble™ next week. It ought to be real fun. The kind of fun that ought to be illegal.
     I smoked a cigarette, it was a slim menthol brand, filtered for minimal health risk. I only smoked maybe two cigs a day, been trying to cut back and, eventually, quit, but the goin's been tough. I tried the patches, you know, but they just didn't help. My brother-in-law—that amazing bastard whom I love dearly—suggested those pills that I see advertised for sometimes. Said they worked for him . . . just fine. I noticed the ashes were piling up in the tray on my desk, so I dumped it into the dustbin by my feet—wouldn't want it to get too dirty, ya know?

Then, she walked in, at a casual stride, not in any particularly remarkable fashion . . .

     She was the most absolutely average dame I had ever laid eyes on, her fair-to-middling curves did not really illicit much of any interest whatsoever. I instantaneously felt drop-dead apathetic about her, with her medium-length, brown, unspectacular hair reaching down to her straight, covered-up shoulders, her basic, brown eyes came to meet mine and I knew, just then, that I would forever be destined to forget I ever met her.
     She wore a green t-shirt and some blue jeans, with a pair of Nike brand tennis shoes—white, like . . . a napkin that was partially-used, dirty with grease. Her t-shirt read across the front, over her very typically sized and unamazing bosom, in plain-face text: "Myrtle Beach Surfing." She had a simple, golden wedding band on her finger, which I had no real intention of ever undermining or challenging the meaning of its presence. She had a cheap, black umbrella, which she compacted and wrapped, then put into her moderately sized purse, made of denim with a considerable number of zippers and pockets.
     I noticed she had a faux gold watch on, which ticked away the time like a ticking time-keeping mechanism designed in a . . . factory by a factory worker on an assembly line somewhere in China—or maybe Korea. Those darn Asians and their cheap labour force and their complete lack of government regulation on industry.

     "My husband . . . he's trying to . . .," she spoke in a mildly accented voice, in a matter-of-fact and straightforward tone, "He's trying to . . . irritate me to death."
     "What, ma'am?" I inquired, leaning forward and chewing on the end of my cigarette, thinking that maybe I should really try those pills (almost six bucks a pack, now, geez Louise). "How do you . . . . me-e-e-ean?"
     "He never does the dishes and he always comes home drunk, throwing his dirty laundry on the floor and expects me to clean it!" she ejaculated, gesturing wildly with her rough, worn, sort of man-like hands. "Like I'm his maid or something!"
     Perhaps I ought to hire a maid service to clean my office every once in awhile, I thought to myself, then I wouldn't have to do it myself anymore.
     "And he's always talking about his job! Work, work, work, is all he ever goes on about! Am I supposed to care?!"
     I wonder how much a reasonably cheap but good maid company charges for a monthly clean-up? Ten, maybe twelve an hour? I'll have to call around, get some quotes.
     "And I bet he's sleeping with his secretary, 'cause I found some lipstick on his shirt collar once, and he sometimes smells like a woman's perfume! I bet he's messing around with her and thinks I'm just too dumb to notice! Just his dumb, stupid, ugly maid, there to cook and clean for him all day long, and do his stinky laundry!"
     Maybe my secretary knows someone good, get a discount or something. I could keep the glass on my door cleaner, don't like it when it gets all smudged, harder for people to read my name.
     "So, I want you to follow him and find out if what he's doing all these nights he's out so late!" She huffed and rested her hands on her hips, indignantly staring at me. I scratched at the inside of my ear, as the ash on my cigarette grew longer. A fly started buzzing around my head, so I swatted at it absently.
     Darn bugs, maybe I need an exterminator, or just a good fumigation. Wouldn't hurt none, don't want insects deterring from business, and—
     "HEY, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!"
     "What? No? I mean—er, yes, I am, ma'am, yes," I stuttered and flicked the ash of my cigarette into the tray on my desk. Reaching for a pad of paper and a freshly-sharpened pencil (I kept about ten or so sharp and ready for any occasion) from my top desk drawer, I began to scratch down details. "Right, right, husband, secretary, drinking, dissatisfaction in bed—"
     "WHAT?!"
     "Er, I, uh—er, no, I meant . . . . Possible affair, of course," I corrected myself, then began asking her for her name and information. Could maybe squeeze twenty-five an hour from this broad.

And that was the story of the case that would prove to be the one which occupied next Wednesday, for, like, six hours.
SPOILER ALERT: The husband was cheating on the wife with the secretary, so they got a divorce and she took the house and half his stuff in the settlement that ensued. As usual, the only ones who truly suffered were the children.