“Is what we say confidential?” She asked me. She was fortyish and looked thirtyish.
A very nice thirtyish. She told me her name was Rose Trent when she made the appointment.
My name is Nick Case and I’m a private investigator. After a stint in the Marine
Corp and eight years on the job as a cop, I decided I wanted to work for myself so I left
the cop shop and became a private investigator. My motto is “Case on the case’. Get it?
I claim to be the number one black PI in the city. I haven’t had anyone to refute
that claim because as far as I know I am the only black PI in town. Not African-American
because my folks came over ten generations ago and that makes me an American-American who
happens to be dark skinned. Just an American, if you will.
I am not typical of my race. I’ve long recognized that fact and have learned to
live with it. For example I love country music. The sounds of the electric steel guitars
and a well-tuned fiddle give me chills. Charlie Pride, a black country singer from Sledge,
Mississippi, is my musical hero. His smooth baritone gave him over thirty number one hits.
“Kiss an Angel good morning” among them.
“If you mean is our conversation confidential like with a lawyer, then the answer
is no,” I said in answer to her question. “I can be required to testify in court or to a
grand jury if subpoenaed. If you mean am I a blabbermouth the answer is still no. I always
try to decide what is best for my client when deciding what or if to tell anything.”
“I see,” she said. “I suppose it boils down to the question of trust, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I agreed. “If you come to a decision that I am trustworthy then consider
this… how may I help you?”
“Oh, I think I can trust you Mister Case,” she said with a smile. “You look
trustworthy to me. How good are you at finding things?”
“It depends on the thing,” I said. “Some things are easier to find than other
things. For example a vehicle is easier to locate then a wristwatch. What’s missing?”
“A laptop computer was stolen from my house a few nights ago. The value of the
computer is nothing compared to the information it contains. That data could harm a lot of
people and I want it back before the information gets into the wrong hands.”
“You reported the break-in to the police?” I asked.
“No, because it wasn’t a break-in. An invited guest took it.”
“Okay, you still should have reported it to the police,” I said.
“Maybe so, but I’m not comfortable with the police knowing about it. I’ll have to
tell you a long story so that it makes sense.”
I leaned back in my chair and indicated I was all ears…
***
Rose’s Story:
As I said, my name is Rose Trent. Until a about a year ago I was Mrs. Sylvester
Trent, MD. My husband, Sly, the sly fucker, divorced me and married his nurse after I
worked my ass off to put him through medical school and stayed in the union for fifteen
years. My God, how many times has that happened? I suspect that sort of thing was going on
even back when the doctors used leeches and blamed everything on bad air or the phase of
the moon.
I suppose I was lucky in that on some level I saw it coming and made some
preparations. Long before the good doctor jumped the fence I insisted that my name be on
all ownership papers for the corporation. That seemed fair because it was my hard work
that kept us alive to the point where we could open a professional corporation. I’m sure
Sly had visions of sailing to the sunset with his new perky honey, but even I was
surprised at how bad Sly got skinned.
Before the divorce I was the owner of one half of the professional medical
corporation and when the dust settled and the smoke cleared I not only had my half, I also
had half of his half. Ouch!
Not only was Doctor Trent fucking his nurse with the perky tits, he fucked himself.
Royally fucked himself I should add. Of course, I, not being a part of the medical
community, had no use for seventy-five percent of a medical practice so I offered to sell
him my part of the company.
We all had a good laugh at his first offer. We chuckled on the next two offers and
smiled sadly at the next one. Finally he was able to arrange enough loans to make a
decent offer and I accepted. Now Doc and Miss Perky Tits can starve for the next fifteen
years until he gets the loans paid.
I was twenty years old and a college student when I married Sly so that made me
thirty-five when my marriage abruptly ended. I dropped out of school to get a job to
support us. Actually it was a series of jobs until I landed a position with the Cipher
Company as a secretary.
Cipher was a start-up computer software company and I was the first employee hired.
At first I was a Jill-of-all-trades. I did everything around the office. Then one day
things took off for the company. The two brothers who owned the business developed
something that everybody with a computer wanted or needed and from there on it was big
bucks.
When they sold the company they were more than generous to me. I went home with a
huge settlement. That happened about the same time I discovered Sly was fucking “Perky
Tits” on the sly. Suddenly I was unemployed and single all within the span of a few
months, but I’ll admit that having a vast amount of money in investments and bank accounts
helped me through the trying times.
One good thing was that Sly and I were childless. As it turned out I couldn’t have
children and Sly was too selfish to adopt. I’ll admit that over the past few years I put
on a few extra pounds. Okay, I let myself go and I got fat.
After the legal and financial proceedings I took a few minutes and took stock.
Financially I was in excellent shape. I didn’t have to work and hadn’t any desire to do
so. I owned the condo and my luxury car was nearly new and paid for. I determined the
first order of business was to get my portly body back in shape.
I tried it on my own for a while and that got me nowhere. I finally gave up on
that and went to a fat farm. Of course they had a fancier name for it, but that was what
it was. We were a bunch of fat women all trying to change and look like a young movie
diva.
My aspirations were not that lofty. I just wanted to get in control of my appetite
for good, rich, and fattening food. I wanted to get back to my fighting weight and gain
some muscle tone.
Since I’m casting blame in all directions I’ll blame Doc Sly for my obesity. After
ten years of marriage, sex wasn’t something Sly was interested in. Not with me anyway. So
to compensate for the lack of sex, I ate…and ate…and ate. Yes, I know that is unfair to
blame my ex-husband. Sly didn’t hold a gun to my head and make me eat like a pig, but I
used his money to get rid of the suet I had packed on.
I got on an airplane and traveled across the country to the best spa I could find.
After the first week I stopped thinking of it as a spa. It was a camp for sadists and
masochists and since I’m neither I did not like it. I almost threw in the towel several
times, but it was a matter of pride so I stuck it out.
Six weeks later I was a hard bodied, slim, trim woman. Oh sure I still had a few
pounds to get rid of, but by then I had the willpower and the drive to make it. I could
look at a Twinkie or a cupcake and not salivate. I could walk right on by the sweets and
other no-nos.
Before I went back home I took a side trip to Hollywood for a few days of shopping
and beauty treatment. There I spent some more of Doc Sly’s money making myself feel
better and looking good. Since nothing I owned fit me any longer the shopping was
absolutely necessary.
I stepped way out of character and bought a bunch of sexy lingerie even though I
had no one to model it for. If it came in cotton or silk, I chose silk. I bought garter
belts and stockings instead of pantyhose. I did it for me. I managed to ‘make their day’
for several clerks on Rodeo Drive. I bought so much I had to have most of it shipped
home.
There is a happening connected with divorce. Friends are divided among the
contestants. This is across the social and economic board, but it is a bit different in
the clannish medical community. Somewhere there is some unwritten law that says the doctor
keeps all the medical-type friends.
There was one exception to that law for me. Amy Ritter elected to stay my friend.
She is married to a doctor friend of Sly. When the rest of the so-called friends gathered
and supported Sly, Amy came running to my side. It was Amy who drove me to the airport to
go west and it was Amy who came to get me when I got home.
“Oh my God!” she screeched from across the lobby. “Look at you!” Screeching in or around
an airport in this day and time isn’t wise. I noticed several security people converging
on us as Amy ran to hug me. They apparently determined nothing was amiss and they went on
about the business of looking for real terrorists.
“I can’t get over the change in you,” Amy said again as she drove us into the city.
“You are a hottie, Rose. You look ten times better than that slut Sly married.”
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