I smiled. "Congratulations."
He pointed at a chocolate-colored leather couch by the window, and we sat down. I pulled out my black Louis Vuitton portfolio and flipped it open to an empty page.
"So let me just start by asking you some questions, and then I'll determine whether or not I can take on your case."
Roger nodded, seemingly relieved that I had been the one to initiate the dialogue. I'm sure he was wondering how one would even begin a conversation like this. "So, you're gonna try to have sex with my future son-in-law?"
I started by asking him the usual opening questions. The easy stuff. The subject's name, occupation, hobbies, and interests if he knew of any.
The fiancé's name was Parker Colman, a risk management adviser for LDS Securities. He had asked Lauren Ireland to marry him approximately nine months earlier. The elaborate $100,000 wedding was in three weeks, and the bachelor party was scheduled for a week from tomorrow in the land of bachelor parties: Las Vegas, Nevada. I had personally been there at least twenty times since starting this job.
As far as Mr. Ireland knew, Parker liked basketball, poker, BBQs, boozing, and, from what he suspected, women.
"And how does your daughter feel about the bachelor party?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, they can be tricky," I explained. "Some women believe that anything goes at the bachelor party. Last final fling type of stuff, just don't tell me about it. Is Lauren like that?"
Roger shook his head. "Oh, no," he replied without reservation. "I know she's been pretty on edge about it. According to my wife, she only agreed to the whole thing because he promised not to go to any strip clubs. And of course, not to...you know, be with any other girls."
"Okay, then, it sounds like the bachelor party is the best place to conduct the inspection," I stated, jotting down a few details in my portfolio.
Roger agreed with a nod of his head. It's rare for a client to argue with one of my location suggestions. Kind of like how you don't argue with a doctor when he prescribes you medication; you trust that they know what they're doing. A "Yeah, whatever, just do your job so it stops itching" kind of thing.
"Does your daughter play poker?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "Not that I'm aware of. The gambling gene has never really been in the Ireland family."
I made a note and then looked up again. "What about confidence level? Is your daughter the shy type or the confident type?"
Mr. Ireland thought about his response before he spoke. He was taking all of my questions very seriously, and I appreciated his effort. But then again, for the money he was going to be paying me, this wasn't exactly the time to start filling in the multiple-choice bubbles randomly. "Well, she's very confident when it comes to her job. She's the chief technology officer at East Global Tech," he stated with a glowing, fatherly pride. It was obvious how much this girl meant to him. "She graduated cum laude from MIT. Always into the gadgets. When she was little we could never get her to play with dolls or Carebears like all the other girls in her class. All she wanted to do was take things apart. The answering machine, the phone, my brand-new computer." He laughed fondly at this memory, and then more solemnly added, "She's very smart."
"What about when dealing with men? Is she as confident around them?"
Roger shifted in his seat. The question made him visually uncomfortable. He was probably not in the habit of being so involved in his daughter's love life. And I imagined I was the only person in this office who'd ever seen him squirm.
"Not really." He hesitated. "At least I don't think so. I think she's always been a bit reserved when it comes to men... meeting them or talking to them. You'd think being in a male-dominated field it would come easy. But then again, she's never really talked to me about those things, so I'm only speculating."
I nodded. "Okay, then. I'll probably start with a chance meeting at the poker table, and then follow it up with another 'coincidental' encounter at whatever club they plan on going to. My experience has shown that when men cheat, it's usually with someone who is a direct opposite of their wife or girlfriend. It's that 'grass is always greener' complex. So I believe the ideal bait for Parker will be someone who's confident in her ability to talk to men and who plays poker... well."
Mr. Ireland raised his eyebrows. "Do you? Play poker well?"
I flashed a confident smile. "No . . . but I will."
Roger laughed and leaned back in his seat, amused by my confidence, yet clearly never doubting it for a second.
That was one of the fun parts of my job... becoming an expert at almost anything in a very short period of time. There are not many occupations that pay you to do that.
I continued. "Bachelor parties are usually tamer on Friday nights, and then Saturday is when they really go all out with the drinking and partying... that's when the 'mistakes' tend to be made. So I'll conduct the test on Saturday."
Roger scratched the back of his head. I could tell he was starting to have second thoughts about this whole process. It was now my job to reassure him.
"I think it's a good thing that you called me," I began in a comforting tone. "It's best to test them before they get married. If all my clients had done so, then maybe I wouldn't see half of the things that I've seen."
And it was true. I did wish my assignments were all bachelor parties and suspicious fiancées. They were so much cleaner. No kids. No law-binding commitments. No homes to be broken and made over. If only everyone would think to hire me before the wedding. But as they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. Foresight is... twenty–five billion.
"You're right. I'm sorry. This is just difficult. I don't want to see her get hurt."
"I understand. And hopefully it won't come to that," I said with sympathy.
It was really a win-win situation for everyone. It always is. The first win was obvious. He doesn't cheat... congratulations, you found a good one. But the second win... that's the one that's not so evident at first. It comes with time.
And it was also a no-lose situation for me. If Parker Colman failed next weekend, it was just one less deceitful marriage I might be asked to expose one day in the future.
"How many of them actually fail this... test?" Roger asked with uncertainty. Probably not sure whether or not he really wanted to know the answer.
"It's about half and half," I said convincingly. It was the same lie I told every client. They all wanted to know, but I didn't see the point in telling them the real statistic; it would only freak them out, and the next few days of waiting would be hard enough without all the odds stacked against them, threatening to topple over. Fifty-fifty was an efficient lie. It wasn't enough to give anyone significant hope or doubt, and if the subject failed, it wouldn't seem completely out of the norm.
"Oh, that's not too bad," Roger conceded. "I kind of thought it would be worse." Then he chuckled lightly to himself. "I guess I'm just cynical."
I stifled a reaction. "So if you're ready to proceed with this, we can discuss my fees and some other important details."
He nodded. "Yes, I'm ready. Let's do it."
I continued to explain to Roger Ireland the basics of a fidelity inspection, including the fees associated with the assignment and the retainer that I required for all expenses. He nodded his agreement, more than willing to pay whatever the price to get exactly what he had called me for.
As with most of my clients, money was not an issue.
And finally, I explained what testing for an "intention to cheat" really meant. To my clients it meant everything but sex. It meant that there was no doubt in my mind that had I not stopped things when I did, the subject would have had sex with me.
But to me the concept was much more defined. Much more controlled. It had to be. For my own comfort level... and sanity. To put it simply, I refused to engage in anything you wouldn't see on network television. (Well, "viewer discretion advised" network television, obviously.) If you wouldn't see it happening on one of NBC's weekly prime-ti
me slots, then you wouldn't see me doing it either. It may sound overly simplistic, but it kept everything safe, legal, and consistent.
AFTER GETTING back into my car, I placed Roger Ireland's check in my wallet and the photograph of Parker he had given me in my portfolio. From my bag I pulled out my Treo smartphone, which multifunctions as my business phone, my day planner, my address book, and my e-mail in-box. It's helpful when I'm traveling all the time, since I'm able to get my e-mails, phone calls, and text messages all in the same device. And I have my entire life schedule programmed into it, as well. In other words, if I ever lost the thing, I'd be fucked...royally.
I removed the metal stylus and marked out all of next Saturday and half of Sunday for my trip to Vegas. Then I checked the clock on my dashboard. I was right on schedule. Just enough time to make a quick stop at the gym for an abbreviated workout, a rinse in the locker-room shower, and then off to my next assignment.
I stuck my Bluetooth headset into my ear and clicked it on. After a series of quick beeps I clearly pronounced the name of my travel agent into the mouthpiece.
I waited as my phone dialed.
"Hi, Lenore. I need to book a flight to Vegas," I said pleasantly as I turned left out of the parking garage and onto Avenue of the Stars.
"Hi, Miss Hunter. No problem."
I heard typing through my earpiece. "Weren't you just in Vegas?" she asked, making small talk as she searched for an available flight.
I laughed my normal "I'm so busy" laugh and replied, "Yes, lots of clients send me to Vegas. It seems to be a popular place to do business lately."
"That it is," she agreed. "All that investing to be done in those huge hotels!"
"Exactly."
As I was probably one of her bigger clients, Lenore was always good at remembering the details of my job. Well, my fake job, rather. "Okay, what time do you need to arrive?"
After a quick calculation in my head I told her seven, giving myself a generous time cushion to account for delays, traffic, costume malfunctions, etc.
More typing and then: "Okay, I have a first-class seat on a flight that leaves LAX at five forty-five P.M., getting you into Las Vegas at six-fifty. Will that work?"
"Perfect. Let's book it."
"And will you be staying at the Wynn again this time?"
I thought back to my conversation with Mr. Ireland. "No, my client will be staying at the Bellagio. I'd like to stay there as well."
"No problem. I'll take care of it and e-mail you the itinerary by end of day today."
"Thanks, Lenore."
"With all these trips lately, you've probably racked up more frequent-flyer miles than Superman," she remarked, amused.
I laughed into the phone. "You're probably right."
I clicked off my headset and turned onto the entrance of the freeway, preparing to sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic for at least the next forty-five minutes.
In all honesty, sometimes I did feel kind of like a little, mini-Superman. Dressed in my kick-ass, body-accentuating costumes, flying from city to city to fight against the evils of infidelity. I even had my very own secret identity. All I was missing was the ability to see through walls... and, apparently, drive through traffic.
I leaned my head back against the headrest and reached up to massage my forehead with the back side of my hand. I was starting to feel the effects of my long day. In this job, the days were never short. And I was exhausted most of the time. But I refused to complain.
After all, it was entirely by choice.
And I've never heard of Superman whining about his long-ass days.
4
Fantasy Football
AT SIX P.M. the gym was packed. Hordes of people trying to work off their guilty pleasures of the day. Older men attempting to lose inches off their waistline, younger men attempting to add inches to the circumference of their upper arms, and forty-year-old housewives with thousands of dollars of plastic surgery trying desperately to compete with the slim and perky twenty-year-olds who have managed to master the art of working up just enough of a sweat on the elliptical machines to make their bronzed midriffs glisten, but not enough to wash off the layers of natural-looking makeup on their faces.
I slipped my iPod into its case and secured it onto the waistband of my shorts. As I pushed the locker-room door open, I braced myself for the awaiting crowd of people. I bowed my head and attempted to lose myself in the music blaring out of my headphones as I weaved through the theme-park-worthy line of people waiting to use the elliptical cross trainers and made my way to the row of treadmills.
My weekly exercise routine consisted of two days of thirty-minute cardio and two days of Pilates at a studio in Santa Monica. I would probably only be able to fit in a twenty-minute run today if I wanted to get to my next destination on time.
As I warmed up with a slow jog, I could feel eyes on me. I knew that to everyone else I looked like just another L.A. twenty-something gym goer, starving myself to fit an unobtainable mold so I could attract a rich husband, and then, in five years or so, an even richer one.
But I wasn't anything like them. In fact, I was quite their opposite.
I was just as fit as them. And my naturally olive-colored skin glistened just as much when I sweat. But my motives were so far removed from their world.
Yes, I also worked out so I could attract men.
But not to find a rich husband. To expose an unfaithful one.
In fact, I had to look like all of those other girls. Because most of the time that's who these husbands will cheat with if given the opportunity.
I reached down and skipped through my iPod playlist until I found an upbeat song, and then increased the speed on my treadmill. I ran to the beat of the music, and after two short minutes I could feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead.
The release felt amazing. Like a rush of energy and power racing through my entire body. After I had run flat-out for twenty minutes, I pressed the Cool Down button, and slowed to a brisk walk. I pulled my towel from the handlebar and wiped down my face.
As the preprogrammed cool-down feature of the treadmill gradually decreased my speed, I reached back and tightened the rubber band holding my ponytail in place.
It was then that I noticed the man walking beside me, on the next treadmill over. I turned my head and looked at him. He was already looking in my direction, and when our eyes met, he smiled at me.
I smiled back politely.
He was attractive. Probably in his mid-twenties, with light brown hair, gentle eyes, and a toned body.
Just as I was about to turn my attention back to the floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me, I saw his mouth move. He was saying something to me, but all I could hear was the blasting of incomprehensible punk rock lyrics in my ears.
For a moment I considered just ignoring him, chalking it up to the fact that I was wearing headphones and therefore granted immunity from having to make any type of gym small talk. But, I reasoned, it would probably be rude to turn my head and pretend I didn't see him try to speak.
So I pulled out the ear buds and said, "Sorry, what?"
He chuckled. "Oh, I just said I've never seen anyone run with such passion before. It almost looked like you were running from the bogeyman or something."
I laughed and brushed a strand of damp hair behind my ear. "Yeah, never a big fan of the bogeyman."
"Are you training for something?"
"Yes... life," I replied sardonically.
"That's a good one. I'll have to remember that one."
I smiled.
"I've never seen you in here before."
I picked up my water bottle from the plastic holder on the treadmill's dashboard and took a sip. "I don't usually come to this location. It just happened to be near work."
My treadmill slowly came to a stop, and I watched as his slowed as well, almost as if they had been perfectly timed to stop one after the other.
He looked at me and grinned at the unspoken coincidence as
we both stepped back onto stationary ground.
"You work around here? What do you do?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I'm an investment banker. I'm valuing a firm that's located a few blocks from here."
"Wow, an investment banker. That's pretty big time. So you're smart and cute. A deadly combination."
I blushed and fidgeted with my iPod. "Thank you. What do you do?" I asked immediately, anxious to get off the subject of me and my fake job.
"I'm a video game designer."
"Really? Any I might have heard of?"
He shook his head sadly. "Probably not. I work for a pretty small design company. We haven't really had any huge releases yet. We just completed a game called Powerless. It's kind of like a political Sim City."
I nodded. "Sim City. I've heard of that."
He laughed. "Well, I guess that's a start."
"Actually, I'm still waiting for Carmen Sandiego and Oregon Trail to make their comeback."
He laughed. "Oh my God. You remember Oregon Trail?
"How could I forget? We used to play that every day during recess in the fourth grade. 'Becky has cholera.'" I impersonated the detached bluntness of the game's memorable on-screen updates.
"Becky has died." He followed suit in an equally mundane voice.
We both cracked up.
"Hey," he began with charming timidity. "Can I treat you to a smoothie downstairs?"
I wiped the back of my neck with my towel. "Um . . ." I stammered awkwardly.
"Maybe a PowerBar?"
"I actually have plans tonight," I said with regret. "I should really get showered and go."
He nodded, and then covered his less than obscure disappointment with another smile. "Okay. Maybe another time then?"
"Sure," I said politely. "Another time." I smiled at him and then started off toward the locker room. I heard his pace quicken as he strode up next to me.
"But if you don't normally come to this location," he said, stepping in line with me. "I might not see you next time."
I laughed at his persistence and then stopped and turned to face him, crossing my arms in mock defiance. "So what exactly are you suggesting?"