"This pussy thing..."

Walter Stafford was a massive wine cask of a man with a gray-flecked, walrus mustache and a ruddy complexion half a shade shy of a full blown booze-hound. We met at a dark tavern in Point Pleasant Beach frequented by New Jersey charter fishermen—a drafty little shack that kept the sea shanty décor at an obnoxious bawl. Pretty much fried everything in paper checkerboard baskets. Schooners of cheap beer and pint-sized rail drinks sure to paté even the saltiest of livers. It was a low-peg establishment given Stafford's affluence and social standing, but he explained that he dug the joint because it was stumbling distance to the marina where he slipped his fifty-four foot Hatteras, Pechos Grandes.

It was clear through the cracked porthole in the bar's front door that my future client was well on his way to getting shitty, so I braced myself for a well-liquored dirge. In the investigative game you have to work hard to keep your judgment in check.

"I paid for everything that cold-hearted bitch ever wanted," Stafford lamented, "And I mean everything. Paid for it all. Now I just want it to stop. It's inhuman what she's doing."

I swallowed a mouthful of flat Michelob and checked my watch. The bar's stereo drifted into the bubbly opening notes of "Brandy" by the seventies one-hit-wonder Jersey band, Looking Glass. A peculiar sight on a raw March evening. Bunch of crusty, thick-necked first mates mouthing along to a tune about a torch-humping barmaid.

What a good wife you could be...

"When I first met Laura she was a goddess, Mr. Byrne."

"Uh-huh."

"A goddess. Honestly, and I am not one to embellish lightly—ask anyone. Girl had thoroughbred curves, all that old school Gloria Grahame and Doris Day stuff, know what I mean? Liquid womanly hips, none of this skeletal pointy form that passes for feminine allure these days. Sandy hair, big green eyes, she used to make me these amazing martinis in a glass pitcher that she kept in the back of the refrigerator for days. And then she had to go and ruin it all. A friggin' goddamn shame."

Stafford reached into the back pocket of his slacks and gave me two folded four-by-six inch color photographs. As I unfolded the pictures, Stafford rapped his empty pint glass on the bar so hard the ice jumped. The bartender took the cue and started Stafford another bourbon and ginger.

"Woman doesn't even look half-human anymore...."

I studied the photographs—a side by side before and after comparison of the former Mrs. Stafford. The man wasn't kidding. The woman's once subtle easy lips were now as thick as canned Vienna sausages and her face looked... um...how should I put this? Intense.

Stafford belched. "She looks like a comic book character. Oh sure, Laura started out small. The Botox treatments, all of her tennis friends doing it and all. And I guess, OK, maybe I stand to take a touch of the blame."

"A touch of the blame?"

"Yeah."

"How so?"

Stafford eyebrows bounced, "I'm an older man, son. I saw the opportunity and pushed her for getting the augmented titties."

"Oh."

"The money I made over the years, I think I deserved a little sugar on my arm. And they were the expensive kind, felt just like the real deal. I challenge any man with nerves in his hands to doubt it. But then," his hand hinged on wrist and flopped, "after our divorce three years ago..."

"She went off the deep end?"

"Exactly. Started doing liposuction where she didn't need it. Then a chin job. Then a nose job. Then a tummy tuck. A face lift. This and that, chip-chip-chip. Like she's trying to erase herself."

"I think there's a clinical name for people who do that sort of thing, a psychological compulsion."

"Fuck if I know. Wears these bizarre hot blue contacts now that're the color of a Mets cap. She's barely forty."

I tossed the folded photographs on the bar and pushed away my schooner of beer. I folded my hands between my legs. "What exactly do you need from me, Mr. Stafford?"

"Call me Walt, son."

"Walt then. What exactly is it you want me to do, Walt?"

Stafford let out a long exhale through his penny-sized nostrils. He then gave me an assessing look. As a former copper import tycoon, I suppose he appreciated my straightforward business candor. His gray mustache twitched and he lowered his head conspiratorially. "Look, son. I loved her, OK? Maybe not enough to still be married to the bloodsucking, crazy bitch, but I still care for this woman, understand? It's not just about my money."

I tried to compute the semantics of what he said. Failed.

"So why hire me? Why hire an investigator?"

Stafford made a fist and the pounded the bar. "Because it's become a God damn shake down and I know it. All these bills. The collusion...that quack doctor of hers...that Frankenstein...."

If you were going to give me a thousand guesses of what I'd be working on that week, I would have never in a decade come up with verifying billing statements on cosmetic vaginal surgery. Don't get me wrong, I was grateful for the variety, but what the fuck? Guess it beat my usual. Background checks and process serving.

People are usually pretty crushed to discover that a lot of what I do is just research and getting into people with the right questions. But that's gospel. No big magic act. No high drama. I spend most of my time mining material citizens could find out for themselves with a little time and curious initiative. With Walter Stafford's drunken mind dump at the bar and some scrounging on my own, I got the bead on Laura Stafford pretty quick. Cushy divorce settlement that's for sure. Monthly alimony payments a couple of public school teachers could retire to Cozumel on, medical and therapy expenses completely covered, plus a massive Tudor-style home behind manicured rhododendrons in the Atlantic Highlands. On a clear day from the Tudor you could see the spine of Manhattan from the house's spacious back deck. Stafford told me he and Laura watched the World Trade Center towers fall right there while they stewed in the hot tub, drinking forty-six-year-old Glen Garioch single malt, weeping like it was the end of the frigging world.

I tailed Laura from the Tudor for a few days. Typical Jersey ex-trophy wife routines consisting of sunrise yoga and Pilates at a fancy woman-only gym, followed by lunch or lattes with an assorted gaggle of panicky ladies. Afternoons were cued mostly with tennis lessons and boutique shopping. Half a bottle of white wine each evening with a nibbled pre-made salad or sushi (delivered) followed by a thirty minute steam shower. Later in the evenings it was either cable scouring or a robust, legs-in-the-air balling by her plastic surgeon, Dr. Jeff Gibbons.

To call Jeff Gibbons creepy might be a disservice to creeps. Thrice divorced himself and childless, the man strutted about oozing the smarmy hubris of a self-absorbed game show host or a White House press secretary. More online checking on the good doctor revealed that he secured his medical degree from the University of Rochester, interning at New York Presbyterian. Impressive. Scattered pigeon shit lawsuits over the years, but that's typical for the medical profession these days, and by all outward indicators it appeared he wasn't tossing his seed in more than one melon patch lady-wise.

Like Laura Stafford, Gibbons too seemed hooked on the myth one could outwit father time by having some work done, but I guess being a living sample of your profession can be a way of validating your societal contribution. Sported a bony fixed chin that jutted out of his face like an under-ripe nectarine.

Gibbons' office was located just south of the Atlantic Highlands house in Red Bank in a freshly minted professional center ten minutes off the Garden State Parkway designed to mimic a French country farm. As I parked my Toyota Camry in a parking slot outside I noted the irony that Dr. Gibbon's office was sandwiched between and accountant's office and a family psychiatric practice.

Gibbons' receptionist was polite and tight in her movements behind the frosted sliding glass window. I signed in and she coolly told me to have a seat, that the doctor would be with me shortly. So I did. Waiting room smelled like cold lemons and was neatly arranged with black leather chairs, track lighting, and framed black and white photographs of serene local beach scenes. Two other patients were in the waiting room across from me. Both attractive married women in their early forties, one obviously following up on some recent rhinoplasty as her face was taped up and she had excessive foundation covering the horseshoe bruises under her eyes. They quietly flipped through issues of Glamour and Elle as I searched the end table by my elbow. I found an interesting article in National Geographic about how certain primates could identify each other by ogling at each others' asses. Will wonders never cease.

"Mr. Byrne, is it? Good afternoon. Jeff Gibbons. How can I help you today."

I sat on a padded bench in one of two examination rooms. More white walls and framed original black and white photography. Boardwalks not beaches this time. Strangely enough one photograph was of the fading Asbury Park clown icon "Tillie" that once adorned an indoor amusement area called the Palace that the Boss sang about in "Born to Run. " Clowns always give me the creeps and the psychotic maw on Tillie was no exception. I fidgeted on the protective sanitary paper and pumped Gibbon's hand.

"Hi. Wow. That's some grip you have there, Doc."

A lighthearted forced chuckle then a wink, "Sorry about that. My personal trainer has me working on my forearms these days. Squash." Gibbons let go of my hand and cleared his throat, "What, um, what exactly can I help you with today, Mr. Byrne."

"I'm afraid this is a bit awkward."

A slight bobbing of the head and a professional five thousand watt smile. Obviously he'd heard it all before. He downshifted into the droll doctor decorum.

"Awkward is normal," he said and leaned against a small counter. He then slid his hands into his white coat pockets, "Is it an aesthetic issue? As you know, what we discuss here today in the privacy of this office is in the strictest medical confidence."

I ran a hand through my scalp and scratched. "Kind of like a priest then, huh?"

He crossed his arms. "I wouldn't know about that. Raised Lutheran. But I suppose...yes. A priest, if you like."

The sanitary paper beneath my butt crackled. "OK, well then I think I should first confess that I misrepresented myself when I made my appointment today."

"Oh? How's that?"

"Dr. Gibbons, I'm an investigator. I've been hired to assess some excessive medical fees that have been recently charged to my client, Walter Stafford."

If spoken words were invisible slow-pitched grapefruits, you could see this revelation tag Gibbons square on his well-scrubbed forehead. I could see the color drain and reverse its course, flaring his cheeks. The sides of his mouth pulsed.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"And I've been checking up on you," I continued, "As far as I can tell, with the excessive alimony and a few real estate investments that have tanked in the bubble, you might be bleeding cash. By the way, is that black Jaguar XJ out there on lease?"

Gibbons' face cherried further. He reached for the doorknob. "This conversation is over," he snapped. He started to open the door but I was quickly on my feet palming the door shut.

"Hold on a second, Doc...."

Gibbons turned and hissed, "How dare you come in here like this under false pretext?"

"Doctor...come on."

"What do you want?"

I removed from my shirt pocket copies of some of the medical bills Walter Stafford received. I handed them to Gibbons. "These are some copies of billing statements that appear to be from your office. They seem pretty inflated given the standard your contemporaries charge for identical work." Slowly I swung my back against the door and Gibbons backed up. "Or am I wrong? These are your bills?"

His eyes quickly ran over the first few pages, then back. He snorted.

"Vaginal rejuvenation?"

"I hear it's an alarming trend."

"Labioplasty?"

"Yeah, what's up with that? Ladies get tired of looking all Willie Nelson?"

"This is horseshit."

"They came from your office didn't they?"

"This is our billing letterhead, yes. And that's my signature. But this can't be right. No. No, no, no. These numbers are wrong. This is absurd. This work was never done. These are forgeries."

Good interviewing skills are like boxing, you have to keep the target off-center. "OK, so how long have you been seeing Laura Stafford?"

He flustered. "What? Now hold on just a moment. How can you—look—my private relationship with Laura Stafford—"

"Who said anything about private? I was speaking of professional."

Gibbons blinked. That really hit his reset button. I took a step forward, crushing the comfort zone between us.

"Walter Stafford is a bighearted man, Doctor Gibbons, but he's no fool. He doesn't want to take this further than it needs to go, what with the insurance companies, the state medical board, police and all. He just wants all this crazy plastic surgery nonsense to stop. If these are forgeries then fine. Someone is playing you."

A repulsed huff. "Cosmetic."

"What?"

Gibbons crossed his arms again defiantly. "Before. It's referred to as cosmetic surgery not plastic. I'm not a special effects make-up artist, Mr. Byrne. I'm a trained surgeon."

"My apologies."

"Common mistake for the undereducated."

I took his snotty jab in stride and kept up the pressure. "So you're denying this?" I snatched the copies back from his hand.

"There's nothing to deny."

I cocked my head and gave him a long look. Then I realized I needed to call Walter Stafford right away as my personal fuck-up quota for the day had just sloshed over the brim.

Gibbons stormed past me and yanked open the examination room door.

"This is me contacting my lawyer, jerkoff."

Sometimes I wonder how society stays glued together at all, what with so-called adults constantly weaving the clever but sad, empty lies of children.

I called Walter and he verified he received the bills from Laura via a monthly delivery of billing statements. Credit cards, water and gas for the house, and so forth all came in one lump itemized list that he paid promptly at the end of each month. He asked why I was asking him this and I told him I was just checking some loose ends and that I'd call him again by the end of the day with an update. There really was no need to embarrass my ass further with all the obvious. I cornered Laura Stafford at Starbuck's about two hours later.

Based on my shadowing her, I knew Laura Stafford had a habit of grabbing a post tennis lesson cappuccino boost in afternoon. So I arrived early, read a used stack of newspapers and waited for her. Right on time and sat at a table two good silly-walk strides away. Her face was a taut mask of distraction as she sipped her drink and played with her cellular phone. Admittedly, she was quite a piece of ass from behind but when facing her head on, her lips up close gave me a shivery flashback. The Stones. Meadowlands— Bridges to Babylon Tour.

I extended my hand, "Laura Stafford? Hi, I'm Charlie Byrne."

She glanced up at me with the bizarre blue contacts in her eyes then at the chattering patrons all around her. Out of polite habit she tentatively started to drape her hand toward mine, but then thought better of it. Her cold face told the story.

"Dr. Gibbons told you about me I'm sure."

She started to tuck together her things and stood. I lifted my arm and she wheeled back like I was trying to assault her.

"Don't you dare touch me!"

A few heads in the café turned, including a dreadlocked barista rattling a steam pitcher of steamed milk. "Please, Ms. Stafford, let's not make a scene in front of all these nice people. Three minutes of your time. Please. I promise to go back under my rock straight after."

She looked over her shoulder and out the window. It had started raining—a gusty northeasterly wind coming in off the Atlantic three miles to the east. I think the sudden late winter downpour helped to keep her put. Maybe with all the work she had done she thought she might melt in the rain.

I gestured to the chair, "Please."

She sat, fuming. "You threatened my doctor..."

I bit my lower lip, sat, and said, "Yeah, well...sorry about all that. But I needed a wedge. Why do you call him your doctor anyway? Isn't he your lover these days?"

A glare. "You think you're so clever. So Sam Spade."

I tried not to get lost in Laura Stafford's doctored features. Again, they might have looked fantastic when she was happy or at just the right photographer's angle, but not so much when she was getting braced up close.

"Spade's OK but I've always been more of a Jack Taylor fan myself. Look, Ms. Stafford, I'm just trying to get the details straight. I just want to confirm that it was you behind all the billing fraud. I mean, my thought is a little cut and paste, a little desktop tinkering and presto, right?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"See that's not really helpful."

"Honestly I don't."

"You do realize that Doctor Gibbon's medical future is in serious jeopardy don't you?"

"What?"

"He could lose his medical license over this."

I don't know what cosmetic surgeons do with the eyes but I found myself wondering about Laura Stafford's tear ducts. Either she was willing back the tears or the tears were having a wicked time squeezing past so many entrenched, indiscernible scars. A tremble began.

"Oh God..."

"When did you get your hands on the billing statements? Was it at his home or were you at his office and no one was looking?"

If you could spit on the floor in Starbuck's I'm sure Laura Stafford would've. Like a cornered asp she looked venomously at a teenage girl who was peeking at us from behind a popular, slow-reader paperback.

"Mind your own business you little bitch!" Then Laura Stafford's hands flew to her face. Full-on gut sobs and hot tears then.

"Oh Christ...Oh God...Walter...that fucking prick."

I shifted in my seat. "There are a number of charges and legal proceedings that can precipitate from these sort of actions, Ms. Stafford, but I want you to know that your ex-husband really just wants you to stop all this plastic surgery nonsense."

"You have no idea what it was like being married to that drunk."

I shook my head. "Nope. I don't. But I am familiar with the law."

"They way he treated me...you have no idea. No right. I was just trying to teach him a lesson. For what I had to put up with, day after day, his belligerent subtle mocking, I deserved better. I deserve more. "

I stood and removed my micro-cassette recorder from my jacket and shut it off.

"We all do, Ms. Stafford," I said.

The next morning around nine o'clock I found Walter Stafford on his country club's driving range whacking the snot out of a metal basket of red-striped range balls.

Driving ranges are never really a reliable test of how good a golfer is. I was a caddy for some time as a kid and still played the occasional round when I wanted to torture myself. It looked like Walter Stafford needed to work on his fade.

When he saw me he smiled and slid his five iron down into his golf bag. He marched over and handed me a thick, white envelope from his back pocket.

"Cash?" I asked, "Wow. Thank you."

"Fuck Uncle Sam," he replied, "And thank you, you wily son of a bitch. You should hear my fucking voicemail! Ha!" Grinning, he waved to a fellow club member and didn't look directly at me, "Begging is so unattractive in a lady, isn't it? Unless you're into that sort of thing."

"You saved Laura's messages I hope. Just in case?"

Still not looking at me he added, "Of course. And I read your report this morning. Unnecessary to drop it off last night but I like your thoroughness, son. Concise and detailed. Tell me, why the hell didn't you ever become a lawyer? Half those meatheads can't write their way out of a paper bags, I should know."

I shrugged. "My LSATs kind of sucked. Besides, memorization and complaining is a dull way to make a living."

"Oh well," he said and patted my shoulder, "No matter. You're very good at what you do. There's a place for all of us in this world I suppose.'

"If you say so."

"Say so? Brother, I know so. By the way, there's a bonus in that envelope too. Like baseball? Box seats at the Mets new stadium over in Queens, bit of a haul but these babies are worth it, take a date."

"Thanks."

"Can I pass along your name to friends when they need some snoop work?"

"I'd appreciate it."

"Good, good. You've saved me a great deal of money."

"Right," I said, "And no more bills."

Stafford's face went blank. He looked me in the eye, leaned close, and then he burst into laughter, "Bills?!" He laughed harder until he coughed and bent at the waist, "Hell, son, bills are nothing." He reached over and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. We walked toward the range, whiskey breath hot on my ear. "See this is why you should've gone to law school, son. Let me tell you a thing or two about fresh leverage between exes."

Copyright © 2009 by Kieran Shea