He was wheezing by the time he reached the fourth floor. It was an old building, too old for an elevator. And in this part of the city, no one was worried about building codes or disabled access.
At 53 years old, he thought he was in better shape. He should be able to walk up three flights of stairs without breathing hard. More exercise he told himself.
He walked slowly down the hall reading name plates until he found the right office. This one read:
Sam C. Dimond Investigator
He took a deep breath and knocked.
"Enter!"
He confidently strode into the office. He surveyed the space: floor to ceiling bookcases along one wall, several fire-proof four-drawer cabinets with combination locks, two shabby guest chairs, a closed door to the right, an old wood desk stacked with papers and three computer monitors, and a girl sitting behind the desk reading a folder.
"Good afternoon, miss," he began, "I'd like to see your boss, Mr. Dimond."
"Sit down," she directed while she kept looking at the open folder. "I'm Samantha Dimond."
He sized her up. Probably late twenties, thirty tops. Very short black hair, bright yellow tank top, and a Mickey Mouse tattoo poking up from the tank top between her very ample breasts. Made him wonder where Mickey's hands were.
"Mr. "Smith" either sit down or leave. I'm very busy."
He sat down. She looked up with a piercing gaze.
"I usually don't take men as clients," she explained. "I haven't decided to take you on. So explain your situation, and please be brief."
"I think my wife is cheatin' on me," he started.
"You "think" she is cheating?"
"Well, miss, after thirty-one years of marriage, a man just knows certain things. And things just aren't right between us. She's cheatin' on me all right."
She looked down at her folder and let the silence hang in the air.
"Let's cut the bullshit, shall we?" she said curtly.
He winced at a young lady using a cuss word.
"You are Joseph Randolph Williams. Your friends and enemies call you "J.R." You own a large, wealthy ranch about eighty miles from the city. You have hired four different investigators in the past six months. They found no evidence of your wife's infidelities.
"So, Mr. Williams, just exactly why did you call and make an appointment to see me?"
"I asked around. Everyone said you were the best. I want the best. I have money, I can pay"
"But, Mr. Williams, do I want you as a client? And I don't need your money. Right now I am as busy as I care to be."
He squirmed and shifted while thinking what to say. He was used to being the one in charge, and he didn't like someone else calling the shots.
"Before we go any further, I need, ya know, complete confidentiality."
"Mr. Williams, "Confidentiality" is my middle name," she said with a tiny smile.
"Well, miss, Loretta-Ann, that's my wife, we are a respectable, Christian couple. We've been married for thirty-one years, and we have three grown children. We have sexual relations once a week, regular-like, on Saturday night. It's been that way for thirty-one years. I make sure Loretta-Ann gets her ten minutes of lovin' before we go to sleep every Saturday night. I'm that way, ya know. I make sure my wife gets what she needs.
"Then six, seven months ago, things started changin'. She wanted to do different things, disgusting things!"
"What "things", Mr. Williams? Give me an example."
"Well, she wanted to suck on my, ya know, my uh, uh, ..."
"Your cock, Mr. Williams? She wanted to suck on your cock?"
