One

I didn't expect to spend the whole night in the studio, but the project took longer than I thought. My camera was down to its last battery, and the lights were overheating, but I kept at it. I had to nail the shot - there'd be money in it if I could deliver the pictures to the paper by morning. Rent was coming due, and I needed cash.

I kept a bottle of whiskey as closely as I dared. I told myself that a double would calm my nerves. It wasn't true, but it sounded good. I had to keep going, but I pondered finishing that bottle and falling asleep to the sounds of the waking city below.

She walked in looking as though her last chance at happiness had caught the express train to anywhere but here. She had been somebody once, the trophy of a man with a temper and the wrong type of friends, perhaps. Now she needed MY help, which meant that her luck had run seriously dry. She was hopeless, a desperate dame looking up from the bottom of a cold well, wondering if there was still a way out. She didn't have a prayer, but she had me, and I had the one thing that she needed.

"You Mike Daniels?" the dame asked.

"Depends who's lookin'," I shot back. Visitors at 6:45 in the morning usually come bearing a summons, but she definitely wasn't a marshal. An attorney, perhaps.

"Why is it that men have to be fresh whenever a woman asks for their help?" There was an edge to her tone, and I liked it.

"Sorry, Ma'am," I offered. "Not every lady who walks through that door is happy to see me."

She wasn't phased. Here blue eyes stared right through me. 

"Please have a seat," I suggested.

"Thank you, Mr. Daniels. Emily Pemberton." She reached a delicate hand across the desk. I gave it a quick, no nonsense shake.

"Charmed," I offered. "And it's Daniel. No 's' at the end."

"Well, Mr. Daniel, I have a job for you," the dame announced confidently.

"Are you a divorce lawyer, or are you just looking to get divorced?" I didn't give a crap if my tone seemed blunt. The lady was about to ask me to do something unconscionable and probably illegal. I didn't mind making her feel unladylike for suggesting it.

"No, Mr. Daniel. I want you to frame my husband."

"Frame him for what?" I demanded with mock incredulity. Unfortunately, this wasn't an unusual request.

"For something that he's done, I suppose," she said. "Or something that he's about to do."

"What's your husband into, ma'am?"

"Everything," the dame replied. "Women. Gambling. Rackets. He's having me followed everywhere I go, and I think he's planning to divorce me and leave me with nothing."

She wasn't the type to live on nothing. She had nothing when she snagged this unlucky son of a bitch, and she wasn't going back. She wasn't an Emily, either. Maybe that was her grandmother's name. She was probably Brenda or Trisha or one of those low class stripper names. She was trash dressed up to look like class, and it bothered her that I could see it.

She was too old now to land a new sugar daddy, even though she still had her looks and her legs. The motivation was clear. The dame wanted to stick it to her husband before he ditched her - or worse.

But framing the man? That seemed a little extreme. Maybe he wasn't the type to take the suggestion of divorce lightly. I didn't see bruises, but that doesn't mean that they weren't there.

"It sounds like you need a lawyer, Ma'am," I suggested.

"You don't understand, Mr. Daniels - uh, Daniel. My husband can be rough, short-tempered. Beyond that, I signed a prenuptial agreement. If I don't come up with some dirt, something embarrassing enough to use as leverage in a divorce, I'll walk away with nothing, and that's if I can walk at all."

"I understand, Ma'am. You said that your husband has women. Do you know where he likes to hang out?"

She pulled a powder blue folder from an oversized leopard handbag. I flipped through it quickly. It was receipts, mostly, for dinners and entertainment, along with some hand written names and telephone numbers. Not much to go on. She needed me to find the smoking gun and get it on film, so to speak. 

"Alright, Ma'am, I'll look into it..."

Smack! She tossed an envelop onto the desk. "What's this?" I asked.

"It's four-thousand dollars."

"Wait!" I objected. "I didn't say that I was going to take the job."

"It's not payment, Mr. Daniel. Think of it as a retainer. Use it to bribe the busboy if you have to. You can use it to get laid, for all I care, as long as you get some information in the process."

I opened my mouth to respond, but my mind was slowing down from lack of sleep.

"But, if you do as I ask," Mrs. Pemberton continued, "I'll pay you a lot more, a hell of a lot more. You'll be able to take a long, relaxing vacation in whatever kind of bottle you choose."

Condescending broad! But she was right. That's probably how I'd end up spending a windfall. Security money makes me lazy, and laziness makes me drink. And when I drink, I don't do much else.

"I'll see what I can find out, Ma'am."

"Call me on my mobile," she instructed. "It's always with me."

I stood as she stood and walked her to the door. She glanced at me as she left, but there was nothing more to say. There were only things to do.

I had just under an hour to meet Manny at the Rainbow Diner, not much time to complete the shoot, process the files, and burn them to a disk. But I would finish the job. Manny was solid, and I wasn't gonna let him down. 

I looked at the envelope that Mrs. Trisha "Emily" Pemberton had left as an incentive to spy on her abusive husband. Money like that came with strings. Something was bound to happen. I pocketed six-hundred and put the rest in the ammunition drawer of the gun locker. 



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