Take Taryn Lewis. Showing up at his office last week. Frantic and nervous. He knew right away she was worried about a sister.
Or a man.
Or a sister man.
Was there any such thing?
She explained her sister was missing. A-ha.
She explained the husband was dummying up, like Matt Damon at Muscle Beach. No matter how she tried, she couldn't find out where her sister was.
"Used to, he'd say she was at the store and she'd call me later," Taryn would explain dabbing her eyes. "I said to him, 'Chance, you don't honestly expect me to believe my sister is still out grocery shopping?' That's when he started hanging up on me."
Chance was the husband. Mia was the wife.
The two had been married for a year-and-a-half when they became home owners. They'd lived there for nearly a year when Mia went missing.
When a girl goes missing, it's one of two things.
Another man.
Or another woman.
Or maybe a man-woman.
Or woman-man.
It was called "cross-dressing" and not as uncommon as you might think.
Gerard St. Duke. And he'd seen it all.
"Well, Mr. St. Duke," Chance declared, "I wish I could tell you Mia was here or there or somewhere but I honestly don't have a clue. All I can really tell you is Mia doesn't live here anymore."
Oh, that Chance was a fast one, with his flashy smile and too-cool-for-school pop refs. Yeah, Gerard St. Duke had caught Ellen Burstyn in her Academy Award winning role. Gerard St. Duke had basic cable and one premium channel. He was nobody's fool.
So he decided to tail Chance.
He went to a lot of block parties. Political type. They were always phone banking for Barack Obama or planning block walks or some fund raiser or voter registration drive or something.
After awhile Gerard St. Duke began to suspect that maybe Mia lopped off Chance's cock before she departed for where ever. As clear as he could tell, Chance not only wasn't getting any, he wasn't interested in getting any.
Then one damp and humid evening, he saw a blowsy woman, a floozie, approach Chance. She had a Cynthia McKinney bumper sticker in her hand and was clearly attempting to persuade Chance to put it on his car. Instead, Chance grabbed her, stuck his tongue down her throat and proceeded to spit polish her tonsils for approximately five minutes.
When they came up for air, neither was standing steady and the air seemed to thicken and grow even more humid.
The two got into Chance's car and Gerard St. Duke tailed them back to the house.
From a tree outside the bedroom window, he took a series of photographs. Mostly softcore stuff but some money shots too. Being a private dick could be a lonely business and you never knew when you might need some pix to get your jollies by.
But this woman was no looker, that was obvious. The missing woman, that Mia, she was a looker. This woman?
Slatternly.
He decided that was the term for her when she answered the front door the next morning.
"Gerard St. Duke," he said.
"Sharon Smith," she giggled. "Have you decided who you're voting for this November? I'm voting for Barack Obama. I love Barack Obama. I'm a Socialist. All good Socialists should vote for Barack Obama. I try to be a very good Socialist. Sometimes I achieve it. Sometimes I don't. I can be very naughty and sometimes need a spanking."
Gerard St. Duke marveled over how, if Sharon Smith had even just been plain, she might have given him a stiffy right now but instead it was Limp City.
He had wanted to warn her.
Tell her that the man she was now sleeping with probably killed his own wife who disappeared months ago. He wanted to tell her to grab her shoes and get the hell out. He wanted to inform her that a killer rarely only kills once.
But she farted.
And it was rank.
It was like something you'd smell in a men's locker room. A high school locker room. Where everyone would giggle over just how bad it smelt. It was like a sauerkraut, cabbage and rotten egg medley.
He couldn't take it.
He had to get away.
Especially since that first fart was quickly followed by another. Jeez, she was like a rapid fire machine gun with that gas.
He was leaning over the hood of his car, trying to catch his breath, when the next door neighbor walked up to him. Mark something.
"Who are you supporting in November?"
Gerard St. Duke noticed the man licking his lips. He got the distinct impression this man was contemplating kissing him.
"Beg your pardon?"
"I asked you who are you supporting in November?"
"No one," Gerard St. Duke replied. "I can't vote in the presidential election. I'm Canadian."
And suddenly Mark turned on his heel and walked away.
For reasons he couldn't explain, Gerard St. Duke felt his life had been spared.
