Jack Kilborn & J. A. Konrath by Suckers Page A

my desk was named Norma Cauldridge. She had the figure of a Barlett pear and so many freckles that she was more beige than Caucasian. She also came equipped with a severe overbite, a lazy eye, and a mole on her cheek. Not a Cindy Crawford type of mole, either. This one looked like she glued the end of a hotdog to her face. A hairy hotdog.
    Plus, she smelled like sweaty feet.
    Any man married to her would certainly have to raise the dead every time she wanted sex. But I didn’t become a private investigator to meet femme fatales. Well, actually I did. But mostly I did it for the money. And hers was green just like anyone else’s.
    I took a can of Lysol aerosol deodorizer from my desk and gave the air a spritz. Now it smelled like sweaty feet and pine trees. With a hint of lavender.
    “I get four hundred a day, plus expenses,” I told her.
    I put away the air freshener and tried to sneak a look behind her large round Charlie Brownish head. When she walked into my office a minute ago, I’d been watching the National Cheerleading Finals on cable. The TV was still on, but I had muted the sound to be polite.
    “I didn’t tell you what I want you to do yet.”
    She was a whiner too. Nasally and high-pitched. It’s like God took a dare to make the most unattractive woman possible.
    “You want me to take pictures of him acting crazy, so you can use them in the divorce.”
    On television a group of nubile young twenty-somethings did synchronized cartwheels and landed in splits. I love cable.
    “How did you know?” Norma asked.
    I glanced at Norma. The only splits she ever did were banana.
    “It’s my job to know, ma’am. I’ll need your address, his place of work, and the first three days’ pay in advance.”
    Norma’s face pinched.
    “I still love him, Mr. McGlade. But he’s not the same man I married. He’s…obsessed.”
    Her shoulders slumped, and the tears came. I nudged over the box of Kleenex I kept on the desk for when I surfed certain internet sites.
    “It’s not your fault, Mrs. Drawbridge.”
    “Cauldridge.”
    “A man is talking, sweetie. Don’t interrupt.”
    “Sorry.”
    “The fact is, Nora, some men aren’t meant to marry. They feel trapped, tied down, so they seek out different venues.”
    She sniffled. “Necromancy?”
    “I’ve seen all sorts of perversions in my business. One day he’s a good husband. The next day, he’s a card-carrying necrosexual. Happens all the time.”
    More tears. I made a mental note to look up “necromancy” in the dictionary. Then I made another mental note to buy a dictionary. Then I made a third mental note to buy a pencil, because I always forgot my mental notes. Then I watched the cheerleaders do high kicks.
    When Norma finally calmed down, she asked, “Do you take Visa?”
    I nodded, wondering if I could buy used cheerleading floormats on eBay. Preferably ones with stains.

    E bay didn’t have any.
    Instead I bid on a set of used pom-pons and a coach’s whistle. I also bid on some old Doobie Brothers records. That led to placing a bid on a record player, since mine was busted. Then I bid on a carton of copier toner, because it was so cheap, and then I had to bid on a copier because I didn’t have one. But after thinking about it a bit, I realized I didn’t really need a copier, and those Doobie Brothers albums were probably available on CD for less than the cost of a record player.
    I tried to cancel my bids, but those eBay jerks wouldn’t let me. The jerks.
    I buried my anger in online pornography. Three minutes later, I headed out the door, slightly winded and ready to get some work done.

    T his chapter is even shorter than the last one.

    G eorge Drawbridge worked as a teller for Oak Tree Bank. At a branch office. It was only three o’clock, and his wife told me he normally stayed until five, so I had plenty of time to grab a few beers first. Chicago is famous for its stuffed crust pizza, and I indulged in a small pie at a nearby joint and