embarrassing.”
“Not as embarrassing as when he’s sitting across from his wife, giving a deposition at her divorce lawyer’s office,” I smirked.
Nancy gave me a dirty look. “How can you take pleasure in destroying a marriage like that?”
“I get no delight. I get paid for a job well done,” I countered. “I don’t instruct these fools to break their wedding vows—they just do it. I am paid by the hour, regardless if they go to the motel or not. If the wife’s right, I confirm her suspicions. If she’s wrong, I alleviate her anxiety about her soul mate when he’s out of town.”
Nancy bent forward across the bar, reached both hands out above my head and then turned her arms slightly. “There,” she said, “your halo was a bit crooked.”
“Thanks,” I laughed. “I keep forgetting to check it when I go out.”
After I downed a shot of whiskey with Nancy, I went to the rest room to make a final check of my new digital video camera. Once in a stall, I opened the pullout screen, which revealed a beautiful shot of my feet resting on the tiled floor, with today’s time and date in the lower right-hand corner. Next, I turned on my wireless audio recorder and fit a discreet earpiece in my left ear. I pressed the TEST button on the recorder, which emitted a low-pitched squeal. When Samantha and her date showed up, I’d be able to hear everything they said. With my equipment in good working order, I zipped the gym bag closed and proceeded into the dining room.
No sign of Samantha and Peter. I looked up at the clock above the jukebox: 6:02 p.m.
I grabbed another drink and decided to take a seat at my table. Within a few minutes, I heard Sam’s heavenly laugh in my earpiece.
They had arrived.
Showtime.
You could tell from Peter’s demeanour that this was not the first time he had taken a woman out for dinner without his wife present. In this dimly lit atmosphere, he actually appeared to be a successful businessman. He was six feet tall, clean-shaven, with a full head of black hair. Earlier in the day, I had categorized him as being stout but on second look, I realized that wasn’t the case; he simply had a “middle-aged gut,” as my dad would say. Gone were the rumpled suit, unkempt hair and glasses I had seen him sporting at the convention centre. Tonight his hair was slicked back, his contacts were in place and he was wearing a low-end Brooks Brothers suit. To top off the transformation, a high school ring was now on his left hand, where his wedding ring once proudly sat.
As I watched this makeover success brush by me, I wondered which of these “changes” his wife had discovered first, setting this file in motion.
As usual, Samantha played to perfection the part of a sexy businesswoman visiting a strange city looking for a discreet romantic encounter. Her dark blue sundress, seductively hugging her curvaceous frame, gave the illusion she had just stepped out of a swimming pool. As she got closer to the booth, I forced myself to concentrate on the menu, to avoid any unintentional eye contact. I then made a quick scan of the room and saw that every other male in her vicinity was also feeling Sam’s considerable presence.
“Trust me, guys, she’s the last woman you want to be caught out on a date with,” I said under my breath, intoxicated by her perfume as she shimmied her way into the booth.
During the next hour and a half, Samantha and Peter did all the predictable first date things: made small talk, joked around, laughed too quickly at each other’s amusing observations on life, flirted, lied, flirted some more and lied, lied, lied.
Our plumber friend, however, was participating with one major disadvantage: I hadn’t provided him with a full dossier of his date’s actual vital statistics. Listening to him brag about his university education, football career (cut short due to a blown-out knee during THE BIG GAME), the timeshare condo in Mexico and most interesting, his wife’s tragic death on their honeymoon no less, I was amazed at how Samantha could keep a straight face. Throughout the meal, she countered each exaggerated untruth with one of her own, speaking as casually as a telemarketer trying to sell you life insurance over the phone.
During this time, I partook of a salad, a large New York strip streak, loaded baked potato and steamed vegetables, while appearing to read a new Howard Hughes biography. The conversation behind me soon turned to the topic of what to do after they left the restaurant. As their dinner banter consisted almost entirely of sexually charged innuendos, I figured old Plumber Pete would be primed to jump Samantha’s bones the moment they reached the parking lot. Of course, she had other plans.
Marital cases are much like police sting operations; for them to be a complete success, you must avoid an “entrapment” rap from the target at all costs. Yes, you supply all the temptations (girl/drugs) and enticements (sex/big bucks), but in the end, you can’t force someone to do something against their will.
In a court of law, the prosecution has to prove several things in regard to the defendant’s actions:
1. That he knew why he had attended that specific sting room.
2. Why he brought a briefcase full of money.
3. Why he gave the nice drug dealer his hard-earned cash.
4. Why he then left the room carrying a knapsack of cocaine.
A P.I., on the other hand, only has to get his subject up to a woman’s hotel room for a “conviction.” As a former cop, I always like a clean conclusion to each cheating spouse case I take on. That’s why you’ll never hear Samantha suggest they go to her room. To me, that is entrapment. If however, Peter Pipe Layer brings it up first, he has only himself to blame.
For better or worse, that’s the way I operate.
“Are you finished, sir?”
I looked up from my book to see Nancy standing over me with a huge grin on her face.
“I am. The meal was excellent, as always,” I said handing her my plate.
She looked at the booth behind me. “Did you leave enough room for dessert or would you like the bill?”
“Dessert, huh? I think I can stick around a few more minutes. I hear the cherry pie is quite good.”
“I made it fresh this morning.”
“You don’t say.”
As Nancy walked away, I heard our friendly neighbourhood plumber make his last play for the fiery red-haired babe sitting across from him. During my dessert order, I registered only bits and pieces of Sam and Peter’s discussion. There was something about him not wanting to go to his hotel, as he was afraid his accountant friends—also in town for a business convention—would hit on her.
“Maybe . . .” he started tentatively, yet to my trained ear confidently, “we can head to your room. Where are you staying again?”
“The Tecumseh Motel,” Samantha replied, “but there’s really nothing to do there. I don’t think they even have pay-for-view movies,” she said, a bit embarrassed. “My employer is pretty cheap.”
Just wait until you see your pay slip, I thought, amused by Sam’s declaration.
Peter Plumber then laughed nervously as he asked, “Did he at least spring for a room with a king-sized
