The Client

"That bitch. That fuckin bitch."

"Easy now, Mr. Coetzee," Clinton said, "save it for your lawyer. Hmm... Assuming of course that's where you want to go with this."

"Yes, yes of course," Coetzee replied, rifling through a stack of grainy black-and-white photographs of shadowy figures like thick tendrils of smoke from some unseen cigarette, with exciting curves an lurid coils. At least one of the photographs indisputably showed the face of Mrs. Coetzee, and at least one showed the face of an attractive young man who was, in every respect, not Mr. Coetzee.

"You know," Coetzee continued, "with this... She won't see a bloody penny."

The harsh rain had returned to the region. Persistently it pattered upon the awning outside the window. The shine of an indifferent sun barely broke through endless ashen clouds and suffused the room in a dusky half-light. Clinton's office was small and unstately; it had been a general practitioner's office before the inexorable tide of conurbation had turned a formerly pleasant Durban neighbourhood into a run-down cog in the city-machine. Those old ghosts were gone now, but the air the oak walls breathed still sometimes smelled of ether and stale yesterdays. Clinton's desk was spartan save his stationary, telephone, an overflowing ashtray, and a framed picture of his deceased son Andrew. The room was bedecked with a cabinet at the far end. It housed various types of liquor, and the drawers below contained papers and files with notes on past clients. The wall behind Clinton's desk was chequered with framed photographs and awards from his career with the South African Police. Among them a diploma for attaining the rank of Lieutenant, a certificate for outstanding service in the Criminal Investigation Department, and a photograph of him shaking hands with former cabinet minister Chris Heunis, both smiling broadly. The latter taken after the successful resolution of a corporate blackmail case in the town of Somerset West to where Heunis later retired. Clinton did not display these documents out of pride, but rather as attestations to his ability. Advertisements. Although someone hiring a private investigator would be allayed to see that he is, at least by nature, a family man, that is not why Clinton kept the picture of Andrew on his desk.

"Forgive me for saying so," Clinton said as he rose out of his chair and walked around the desk past Coetzee towards the cabinet, " but it sounds like you've had this idea for a while. Leaving your wife, I mean."

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Durant-"

"'Clint,' please. We've been over this before."

"Hrm. Clint," Coetzee continued without swiveling in his chair to make eye contact. Speaking as though Clinton were still sitting across from him, "As you know I've been, ah... suspecting... my wife for a number of months now. We've, well, been having problems for a long time."

"So what's your poison, Mr. Coetzee?"

"What?" Coetzee turned to look at Clinton.

"A drink. Can I pour you a drink?"

"Ah. Hmm, I shouldn't drink, really."

"Oh, come. It's almost five o'clock, and we're discussing a pretty sensitive personal matter. Some bourbon, maybe?"

"Well," Coetzee paused for a moment in indecision, "Scotch, if you have."

"Coming right up." Clinton reached into the cabinet toward an expensive bottle of Glenfiddich eighteen-year-old single malt before pausing, then reached past it for a comparatively cheap bottle of blended Famous Grouse. He poured a shot into a tumbler and handed it to Coetzee before pouring himself a Jim Beam on the rocks. Coetzee took a big sip and wiped his moustache with a handkerchief.

"As I was saying," he continued, "Gerda and I have been having problems for a long time."

"Since before you suspected her of... being unfaithful... or do you think it's the other way around? That she felt distrusted, pushed away, forced into the arms of another man, as they say."

Coetzee's eyes seemed to scan his brow from the inside as he mulled what Clinton had said. "No, I... Okay, we've had problems before I suspected her of..."

"Of cheating."

"Of cheating. Things have been cold between us for months. I tried everything, but... you know."

Clinton pretended to be interested as he sipped his bourbon while sitting on the desk near Coetzee. He was convincing. "She didn't want you to try?"

"Yes, basically. It was like she gave up. Like she wanted our marriage to end but didn't want to make a move herself," Coetzee said.

"How many months?"

"What?"

"Well, you said that things've been cold between you for months. You've suspected her of infidelity for maybe half that time, and you only came to me a week ago. So how many months have things been cold?"

"Oh, well, since December I think."

"You think?"

"Uh, yes. You see, we... Gerda, the kids and I... we normally go to my brother's farm near Stellenbosch over Christmas. She usually loves the trip. And the farm. Last year, however... she didn't seem all that interested. Disappointed, almost. That's when I first picked up on it, really. That things have changed."

"I see," Clinton said as he got up off the desk and sat down again at his proper place in the chair behind it. "Mr. Coetzee, it is my belief that your wife has been having affairs since at least December."

"Affairs? You're saying more than one?"

"You didn't really think this was the first time, did you?"

"Well, I-"

"Look," Clinton interrupted, "I took these photographs less than a week ago. Only a day after you  first came to see me. If you recall, we agreed to the night when she usually goes to her Bridge game."

"That's right. Tuesday."

"Tuesday. And you know what I saw on Tuesday? This." He picked up the photographs Coetzee had been rifling through earlier and tossed them back onto the desk closer to Coetzee.

"I'm not sure I follow."

"On the first night night I tailed her, on her very first night by herself since you came to see me, she slept with another man. Now, Mr. Coetzee, I would not presume to know how your wife conducts herself in the bedroom, but in my experience a woman does not behave that way and do those things with a man she's been seeing for at least three months. There's novelty in those pictures. Passion. This guy she was with... he's new to her."

Coetzee fidgeted with his hands, downed the last of his Scotch and wiped his brow with the handkerchief. "I don't think I understand, Clint. What you're saying... about it being passionate and new... it doesn't fit with what you said about her being unfaithful for months. How can you be so sure it's been going on that long? Are you really saying there's been more than one man?"

"I'm saying that, yes." Clinton stroked his chin, staring at Coetzee, "How long has your wife been having her weekly Bridge game?"

Coetzee had a look of shocked revelation on his face.

"If I were a gambler, Mr. Coetzee, I'd wager your wife has never played a game of Bridge in her life."

"Fuckin bitch."

Clinton got up from his chair and walked over to Coetzee. "Look," he said as he amicably handed Coetzee his coat, "this is all a lot to take in. Bad decisions were never made on a cool head, so why don't you take some time to think about it? Talk things over with your wife before rushing into something you may regret. And if you want me to follow her around again and take some more pictures, I'll do that for you."

"Thank you, Mr. Durant- ah, Clint," Coetzee smiled, "but I don't think she can say anything to change my mind at this stage. God knows, she can only make things worse. If that's even possible. No. No, these pictures are more than my lawyer'll need. My mind's made up. As I've said, she won't see a penny of my money."

Clinton led Coetzee out of  his office and into the small, adjacent reception area where his elderly secretary, Gwen Lawson, was already putting on her sweater and preparing to go home. "Speaking of pennies," Clinton forced a chuckle, "when can I expect you to settle your account for services rendered?"

"I'll send you a cheque at the end of the month. Is that in order?"

"Perfectly in order, Mr. Coetzee. Have a nice evening and try not to think too hard. That's what mornings are for. If you need anything else... well, you have my card." he said as he ushered Coetzee towards the front door.

Coetzee greeted Clinton and Gwen, picked up his umbrella from next to the door and opened it as he went out to his car. Clinton closed the door quickly to keep the rain out.

"It sounds like we won't be seeing him again," Gwen said.

"No, Gwen, I don't think we will. But we'll be seeing his money," he said with a wink.