“Where was he?”
I can hear the desperation in her voice, the frantic need to quell the worry, the maddening suspicion. Lenora has already discovered the truth of her husband’s cheating; that’s not why she hired me. I’m not a private investigator, or a divorce attorney.
I’m revenge for hire.
To wit, most of my clients happen to be scorned women.
Oh, men. Since the dawn of time, you never fail at predictability.
I shoot her over an image of Ericson entering The Plaza last night.
“He was at Brewster’s,” I tell her. Brewster is a sleaze of a man who dabbles in NYC’s questionable hobbies. Such as gambling, wagers on underground MMA fights, drugs—lots of drugs—and prostitution. He’s not a pimp per se, but if one of the men who lines his pockets with spongy green cash wants a naughty schoolgirl for the night, Brewster provides. And he does so from the penthouse of The Plaza, aptly dubbed the attic.
Brewster is one of Ericson’s top clients. Ericson helps turn his client’s illegal money into legitimate investments. I haven’t been able to prove it yet, but I believe Ericson is skimming money off his client’s accounts.
“He was there again?” Lenora asks. “Oh, I just got the pic. Did you see him with anybody?”
Shouldering my phone, I dig into my bag and produce the notebook. I flip to the tally page. This is how I determine how deserving a subject is of my client’s revenge. I have a system of checks and balances.
It’s called: The Douche Checklist.
Clever, right? I have to amuse myself, because it’s a rare thing when someone else can.
On Ericson’s list, I have: Name (he gets a check mark for that alone). He keeps a separate apartment his wife doesn’t know about. More than one mistress (he never sleeps with the same woman twice, and I have counted five conquests in the past three weeks that I’ve been stalking him). Then last week, as I waited outside his secret apartment building, I tracked down one of the sex workers who—for a hefty fee—told me he doesn’t use protection. Ericson has no concern for transmitting a disease to his wife of over a decade.
This makes him a top-ranking douche.
Which would be enough, but there’s also his deviant nature, the greedy bully inside him that needs to control and destroy. This, of course, is why he goes outside his marriage. To prey on women who won’t report him, women who need the money. And why he associates himself with a man like Brewster—a man with the seediest of ties.
I’ve kept this information from Lenora. Not because it will cause her pain. I don’t want to shield her; I feel no empathy for her suffering. Nor do I have close relationships with clients. The fact is, Lenora is already on the edge with her husband. What would she do if she discovered what kind of fiend she really married?
Call the police? Report him?
In my experience, it’s never a good idea to involve authorities. As if the police could do anything, anyway. Men like Ericson are never convicted. There’s no tangible crime, is there? If a man attacks and beats a prostitute, who will be judged: the man or the whore?
In a world ruled by men, I know what most people would think, as they judge from the comfort of their middle-class home, their steady workplace. A sex worker asks for it when she puts herself in a dangerous situation. It’s rather easy to judge from a secure position, with food in your belly and prescription drugs swimming in your veins. Hell, if some of those hypocrites couldn’t get their Starbucks, they’d be out there sucking cock for a caffeine fix, I’m pretty damn sure.
I sigh into the phone. I’ve lost my train of thought. “I didn’t see him with anyone last night,” I finally confirm. “But he didn’t leave The Plaza until this morning.”
“Maybe he was just…” She trails off. “Never mind.”
“Lenora, are you having second thoughts?” I emit a grain of sympathy into my tone. I practiced this by recording my voice on my phone, then comparing it to sound bites of movies. Actors are great teachers.
The thing is, I don’t force anyone into this. They find me through word of mouth. It’s not like I advertise my services. After they contact me, I vet them. Thoroughly. Make sure I give them enough time to let the “heat of the moment” pass. Most of the time, people back out. Once their emotions have simmered, they typically decide one of two things: a) marriage counseling, or b) divorce. Then I refer them to a top-dog divorce attorney.
That r
eferral goes both ways. Jeffrey Lomax also sends his select, irreconcilable clients to me.
“No,” Lenora says, her voice suddenly brave. “I’m not having second thoughts. Just a moment of weakness. I’m ready. He deserves some of his own medicine.”
Attagirl. I wait a few seconds for her to change her mind, then say, “All right. Deposit the second draw into the account, and I’ll initiate the next stage.” I end the call.
I open my banking app and refresh the screen a few times before the amount goes up. Five thousand. Not enough to retire in Costa Rica, but not chump change, either.
I price each job based on the client. Whether they’re financially sound is important. They don’t have to be rich—but well off enough to afford my services without going into debt.
I do this because it’s a long-term best business practice, and also, because I have very expensive taste. I like nice things: clothes, electronics, my loft in Manhattan.