Later that night I found myself back at my apartment. I’d stopped off for a couple of stiff ones on the way home, but what I needed now was a drink or two to relax me.
I mulled over the facts like so much cheap red wine that a dash of nutmeg and spices and simmering over a low heat could barely disguise the flavour of. A rush of adrenaline hit me as the possibilities of the task ahead opened up…the danger…the intrigue…the chance to fiddle my expenses.
I wanted to start my research straight away, and regretted not having the internet at home. I was technically inept and, like a spider given too much marijuana in a government funded experiment, I had problems getting around the web. I decided to call her instead, eventually using the phone when I got hoarse.
“Hello?” It was a female voice. Not hers. But definitely someone’s.
“You’re not the woman who came to the Post Office to see me this afternoon, are you?”
“No, I can never go in post offices. I have allergies to manila and big sacks. You must want my girlfriend. She’s gone to her weight-loss class.”
A sudden revelation. She was bi, and large. As I hung up, I realised that this was going to be stickier than the business end of a Lewinski’d cigar.