‘Fine then, I’ll see the lot of you in court.’ He hangs up the phone. Mrs Cordover looks at the phone and back at Walt.
‘Unhappy customer?’ she asks. He lights a cigarette and exhales, cleansing his mind.
‘Now, how can I help you?’
‘Mrs Cordover.’
‘Right. Mrs. Cordover how can I help you?
‘Its my husband, he is being blackmailed.’
‘You know this for sure? Then why are you here?’
‘I know, but, I, want…’
‘Confirmation.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What evidence do you have?’
She hands him her bank statements, “As you can see there is a five hundred dollar payment being made to a particular account every week.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“As far back as the paperwork in my husbands office went, a long time.”
“Do you have any ideas as to who it could be?”
“None, everyone loves my husband.” She smiles meekly.
‘Where does he go when he is not working?’
Mrs. Cordover hesitates, ‘ He likes to take a drink at The Jive Lounge, or hit some golf balls at the range.’ she says, taking in the wilting Chinese bamboo behind him.
‘Ok then Mrs. Cordover all I need is a photo and I should have enough to get underway.’ Handing over the picture, she stands and adjusts her white blouse and dabs the edges of her nose.
‘I should have something for you in a day or two, expect my call.’ He walks her out placing his hand lightly in the small of her back, as she nods her way down the dim hall.
Walt stakes out the husbands office building studying the husbands photo as he waits for the Jaguar. He follows it into the seedy part of town where the husband goes into an old run down looking bar full of shylocks and hookers. He waits, mulling things over. The husband emerges, with a pretty blonde. As they walk towards the Jag parked in the alley, they start to argue. Walt snaps two quick photos before the husband manages to calm the blonde down and she walks back towards the main road and hails a taxi.
A bead of sweat drops from his stubble onto the photo. He leans into the back and winds down the remaining windows. This is a humidity that cannot be escaped, but at least it hadn’t rained for a good thirty minutes, the rain was a welcome relief it cooled you down, made you feel like you were in a beautiful cascading waterfall, soothing you, erasing the itchy, stickiness from your skin. Though the aftermath never seemed worth the brief relief.
You became much stickier, much itchier.
He lights up a cigarette and studies the photo in the embers. The husband is a striking man- silver hair, chiselled chin, nose and cheeks. Distinguished- you can bet that’s what the ladies would call a man like him, he was old, he was good looking and most importantly he was rich.
Walt watches the nice Jaguar pull out onto Sutton Drive; he slips his old brown Ford into gear and tails east heading towards the beaches. The windows bring minimal relief on the forty-five minute drive, even with the passing shower. He rarely envies anyone, but for a fleeting instance, he wants that sleek Jag, not for the prestige, but the cool air blasting from its vents.
He stops outside a hotel, ‘The Chateau’ as clichéd as it is nasty, barely held together by its paint, he watches as the husband knocks on a door and takes a cursory glance over both shoulders. Walt grabs his camera and starts to snap away, managing to get five shots before the husband disappears behind the red door.
He curses himself as he crawls on his hands and knees, fighting his way, even if it is just taking a few sleazy photos and crawling through some poorly tended plants. He arrives at the window and glances in; all he can see is a vacant bathroom leading into what must be the main room, with a desk and TV.
Walt can make out two pairs of feet on the corner of the bed.
He quickly snaps a photo.
His only hope is that they start to kiss directly in his line of vision. The noises of hot, passionate sex arouse and anger him. He was jealous, why didn’t he have anyone? He can feel that fist in his stomach. An hour later, there is movement after the explosion. Mr. Cordover starts to dress in front of the mirror, he snaps two quick photos, and then a young man, wraps him up from behind and plants one on his cheek.
Walt goes down to see his old buddies at the police office. He shows one of his colleague’s a picture of the young woman, but he doesn’t recognise her. He offers Walt the use of the computers, which he gladly accepts. He doesn’t have to search for very long. It seems a miss Veronica Child has two priors for minor possession of marijuana, nothing more than a couple of meagre fines, although now it looked like she was moving up to extortion. He pulls the name and address and heads to Driscoll Avenue.
Walt breaks in through the back door. It is a nice place full of cheap home wares but very well kept. He feels out of place; cheap, but not well kept. He rummages through her drawers and belongings and turns up some papers. She is receiving regular payments from Mr. Cordover.
Five-hundred-dollars every week, yet she didn’t buy nicer things?
In her underwear drawer he finds a picture of Mr. Cordover kissing the same man, he saw just hours before. He grins and pockets the paperwork. He dials Mrs. Cordover,
“I have found what you wanted, Mrs. Cordover. Yes that’s right. My office nine am. OK, goodbye.”
He eats his toast with a coffee; he skims the morning paper and listens to the radio. During the news, a young lady has been found dead; her description fits the young vixen from the alley. He gets out his camera and studies the photos.
Mrs. Cordover slowly scrolls through the papers. She lets a tear roll down her cheek and hit the mangy carpet.
“A mistress. Here I am thinking it is blackmail and he is keeping a mistress! That spineless wimp! I’ll cut of his gonads!”
“It was blackmail.” She glares across the desk,
“Show me.”
“You don’t want to know miss. Some things a best left untouched.”
“I have a right to know!” She slams her hand onto the weak desktop; she tries to catch the broken lamp as it topples over.
“I know your hurting Mrs. Cordover, but I do need to discuss my payment with you.”
“You are not getting anything from me until you show me the proof. The evidence that this is indeed blackmail! I do not want to leave here thinking my husband is a cheating swine!”
He knows that Mrs. Cordover’s life will never be the same after the next two minutes, and she will beg to be taken back to live in complete ignorance, but he is stuck, and really, she has no reason to expect what she is about to see, was going to change her life so drastically.
He brings up the husband and his lover onto the LCD screen and hands it to her. She stares blankly at the screen, her eyes moving back and forth scanning every inch of the screen, her eyes fill with water, until the left one overflows and races down her cheek.
“There is some more, if you would like to see them, just scroll down.”
She scrolls through with each press of the button, a little more colour drains from her face. She stops at the photo of her husband arguing with the young blonde, she stutters,
“I know that girl! She is an intern at my husbands office.”
“Yes ma’am. It seems she had known about this affair for quite sometime.”
Mrs. Cordover begins to weep.
“There is one more piece of bad news, “That young lady, Veronica Child, was found dead this morning.”
“That’s, that is, horrible, just horrible.” She says dabbing at her eyes.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Cordover, but I will need to ask you for my cheque.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
She drops her Gucci bag onto his desk, digs out a cheque and flicks it into his chest,
“I know one of them killed her. I want you to dig it up, and bury them! Filthy bastards!”
“Well, that’s a different case and a different pay-rate. I’ll think about it.”
he jumps up, digging the chair legs into the carpet.
He calls after her, but she struts out dismissing him, slamming the door. He picks up the cheque, folds it and places it in the top drawer. He turns on the radio and pours himself a scotch.
