A typical day

She leaned forward and gazed into my eyes, pleadingly. "I just couldn't go on like this" she said, almost in a whisper.

My heart stuck in my throat; she was a great-looking dame with fantastic pins a man could die for. A real classy broad. And Frank, her low-down husband, was doing the dirty with his secretary, Blanche. 

It didn't get any better, I'd tailed the lovers back to Louie's on 42nd Street. A real dive where the only thing worse than the cheap gin and stale cigarette smoke were the cheaper digs upstairs. Available by the hour for the discerning clientele, if you get my drift.

And that's where I found them, right above Louie's. Frank and Blanche, both dead, shot at point-blank range and Vera still standing there above the bed, the smoking gat in her hand... 

I wish.

If only things were ever this exciting. In the last couple of weeks I've had a surprising number of enquiries of the peace of mind type; ie the typical 'is my husband a cheating piece of shit?' investigation.

And as sordid as these usually get, it is distressing to note that they invariably are quite monotonous and routine. Dull, even. Not a single Nazi spy or Communist stealing atomic secrets amongst them. And no Vera either - or at least Vera as depicted in any hard-boiled thriller.

I have a couple possible investigations awaiting final confirmation and while they will probably entail some skulduggery and snooping into the affairs of others (pun intended), they just lack that quintessential something. 

Sure, I'll get to install spyware on their mobile phones and computers,tracking devices on their cars - undoubtedly there will be hours of sitting in my car (with binoculars) and all that other stuff that I love - but it all feels just a bit hollow.

Ultimately it just seems pointless, no matter the outcome.