As I walk out the door, I look one last time in the mirror. Not bad. Instead of my usual jeans and tight T-shirt, I’m wearing dark loose-fitting trousers, a dark shirt, a coat, and a cap.

I pull the cap down to cover my face. No one should recognize me in this getup.

Instead of driving, I take the bus and walk the rest of the way.

Outside a double-story building with broken shutters and a crocked sign, I look around. There appears to be no one around. With any luck, no one will see me go in.

I press the bell where it says “Keyhole Antics” and wait for someone to open the door.

When it does, I almost sprint up the stairs. I make sure I touch nothing. The germs are practically staring at me from the railing and walls.

On the second floor, I turn left and spot the large green lettered sign straightaway.

Richard Burstfly, Director.

Keyhole Antics and Co.

I cringe.

If Kayla didn’t mean so much to me, I wouldn’t be here.

Carefully I walk to the door. A cockroach glares at me I nearly step on him. I would step on him if I didn’t want to get my shoes dirty. The damn thing is so huge I wonder if it’s some kind of mutant.

Once I’m past it, I half turn to look at it again. I swear I thought it talked to me.

Luckily, Richard opens the door before I can work out how to touch the handle without catching the plague or something worse. I don’t want to be walking out of here with two heads and four legs, or something weird like that.

“Me man Scott,” Richard greets me like a long-lost friend.

“Hey, Richard.” I lift my hand in a hello type of wave. There’s no way I’m touching his hand. Who knows where it has been.

“Call me Dick Scott. Everyone else does.”

I follow the PI into his office.

To describe the shit heap as an office was an exaggeration—a massive overstatement.

The couch against the back wall was so full of stains I wondered what had been going on there before deciding I probably did no really want to know. Those stains could be anything.

A single light globe hung from the ceiling; the paint was peeling off, and every space was covered in either papers or some other shit.

Dick shoves a pile of stuff off a chair and invites me to sit down. He himself heaves his mass of fat onto one of those swivel chairs behind his desk. As his weight descends on the unsuspecting chair, there’s an almighty racket.

In anticipation, I hold my breath.

Nothing happens. Judging by the noise, I thought the chair was going to collapse and Dick end up sprawled on the ground.

“Now, my man,” says Dick, and his stained sausage fingers fumble through some papers on his desk. “Is it the wife? Girlfriend? Bitch on heat straying and you want to find the bastard for castration?”

At the word castration, I feel a twinge in my penis.

“No.” I shake my head. I feel something crawl over the back of my neck, and I swiftly brush it off. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see a cockroach.

No, wait a minute, not just any cockroach, but the one from the corridor. Is he staring at me? I glare at him and lift my foot in a threatening manner.

The roach gets the message and disappears behind a bundle of papers.

“Sorry,” Dick says. “Boyfriend straying? Same thing really, isn’t it?”

I shake my head.

“Sorry?” I have missed what he said, too distracted by the fucking bug.

“You want me to find who your boyfriend is fucking?”

Now I roll my eyes.

“No.” I hold up my hand to stop him from talking. “It’s not that sort of investigation. I need you to find dirt.”

Dick leans forward on his desk. Is he drooling? He is all ears.

“What type of dirt?”

“I need you to find what you can on these two people.”

I pull out a photo of Ian and Ed. I have written their names under each of their photographs.

“That dude looks familiar.” Dick’s meaty finger points at Ian and leaves a fat stain right on his cheek.

“He’s an actor on a daytime television series.”

The PI scribbles something in his notebook.

“And this one?” Now the same fat stain can be seen on Ed’s chin.

“He’s the producer on the same show,” I explain.

Dick scratches his chin.

“They’re together?” His fingers entwine as if to get his point across a little clearer.

I shake my head.

“No, it won’t be that easy. Ian, the actor, seems to only be in stuff where Ed is the producer.”

More notes are scribbled in the notepad, emphasis on scribbled because to me it looks more like one of the many bugs in this room crawled across the page in drunken stupor than legible writing. Maybe Dick couldn’t write?

“It’ll cost.” Dick rubs his hands together, and it looks like his nose is glowing.

“I’ll pay. I’ll pay top dollar, particularly if you can deliver.”

The hands stop rubbing and come to rest on the desk.

“Keyhole Antics will deliver, Scott. It always does.”

I pull out some notes and throw them onto the desk. I don’t want to touch anything.

“Down payment, Dick. There’ll be more once you give me the dirt.”

Now I’m sure there’s spit trickling down the PI’s chin.

“Don’t you worry.” Dick stands, and I make for the door.

I see his outstretched hand and manage to avoid being patted on the back by it. Even in the dim light and from where I’m standing, I can see the black dirt under the fingernails.

I cannot get down those stairs fast enough. Once I’m outside the building, I take a deep breath. The odor was so strong in there I had barely been able to breathe.

I know the man is brilliant and he gets paid well. What the fuck does he do with his money? I know what he should do with it: invest in a new office, a cleaner, and a makeover team.