There’s the same fucking cockroach staring at me again. What’s wrong with this dude?

As I walk past him, I do a double take. Is this thing wearing armor? And boxing gloves?

Without getting too close, I peer at it. I know I’ve not consumed any alcohol, so I can’t be drunk. Maybe the stress is getting to me, but I swear this bug is not normal.

This time, Dick Burstfly is not there to open the door for me, but I’ve come prepared.

I retrieve a tissue from my pocket and use it to first knock and then turn the door handle.

“Come in,” calls Dick, and I wonder if he has any kind of filing system or if it simply pushes the papers from a finished case onto the floor.

I walk in and trip over something soft and squishy. My insides turn as I imagine what it might be.

“Get out,” yells Dick, and I’m shocked until I see the grey fur ball.

With a hiss and a spit, the cat leaps up and disappears through a cat flap in a side door.

I sneeze. I’m allergic to cats. Great, fucking fantastic.

I don’t have my allergy medication on me. I sneeze again. My eyes are starting to water, and I resist the urge to rub them.

“You got something?”

I need to get out of here quickly.

Dick rubs those sausage fingers together and grins.

“Take a seat, Scotty. Take a seat.”

I’d rather keep standing, but it seems the PI won’t part with any information unless I’m sitting.

With a sigh and another sneeze, I perch on the edge of the seat.

I look around and wonder if it is possible for this place to have gotten filthier and messier in such a short amount of time.

“Now.” Dick’s voice stops me midthought.

“Hope it’s good,” I mumble and keep an eye out for the mutant cockroach, who I suspect is planning a takeover of the apartment, office, and maybe even the business.

“Let’s start with this one.”

Sausage fingers fumble through a pile of papers and produce the photo of Ed.

“He’s in real strive.”

Images of Ed with multiple prostitutes fucking him in compromising positions come to mind. Yuck. Disgusting.

“Your man, Ed, basically has no money. He’s broke, or almost broke.”

I frown. What’s so bad about not having money? I feel disappointment wash over me like a bucket of ice-cold water.

“I don’t see,” I start, but Dick interrupts me.

“The man’s got a gambling problem.”

It still doesn’t seem so bad to me. I’m sure there are plenty of other people who have a gambling problem.

“That’s it?” I try not to sound too annoyed. Maybe Dick Burstfly is losing it. That’s what happened to some people, they got to the top of their game and stalled at the height of their success before crashing to the ground, landing hard.

Dick shakes his head.

“Now this fellow,” he says as he points to the picture of Ian, which by now has multiple other unidentifiable stains all over. “This one was a lot harder to crack. But crack him I did.”

I sure hope this is better than what he’s given me so far.

I’m not sure how well Brad will take the news that all we can get on Ed is a gambling habit and hardly any funds in the bank.

“You see, sometimes its less obvious, the connection, the dirt. Know what I mean?”

I shake my head. Fucking lunatic is talking in riddles. I sneeze again.

“Okay. So I told you Ed here has a gambling problem…”

“Got it,” I reply and resist a smart-ass remark.

“However, even though Ed is broke, he is able to maintain a pretty good lifestyle and stay afloat, unlike some other gambling tragics. Now you might wonder why that is.”

I don’t really fucking care, but I don’t say this to Dick. Instead, I wait, my patience wearing thin.

“So after some digging around, I discovered someone is funding him. Someone is giving him money.”

I wonder where this is going and glance at my watch. Ten minutes of my life wasted sitting in this dump. I take a deep breath in and exhale slowly. Stay calm.

“It wasn’t too hard to work out who was giving Ed money. Ed has a sister—a sister who seems very attached to her brother, or so at least it seems on the surface. Sibling or not, it seems strange to keep giving him money.”

“Is there a fucking point to all this, Dick?” I’m getting pissed off with this long-winded story of the PI.

“Sorry, Scotty. Of course there’s a point. Ed’s sister has a son. A son called Ian. A rather useless, unemployable son called Ian.”

Finally, the light globe turns on.

I get it.

“Papers?”

Dick hands me a surprisingly clean-looking envelope.

“All in here, my friend.”

Before he hands it over, he holds out his other hand.

“For a reward, it’s yours.”

I pull out my wallet and throw five thousand bucks onto the desk. With greedy fingers, Dick grabs the money and shoves it in his top draw.

With the evidence in hand, I leave.

“Pleasure doing business,” Dick calls to me just before I close the door.

I hope I won’t have to come back to this dump ever again.

The fucking roach is still sitting where it was when I walked in. I stop and glare at it, and I swear it glares back.

I’m tempted to take a photo and show it to Brad and Kayla. But then again, I don’t want them to think me a fool.

Outside, I mull over the information Dick gave me. Only now I realize how bad the gambling habit and being broke really is if one is a producer.

I don’t know many networks who want to employ a producer who cannot manage their own finances and are reliant on someone else’s money. When this gets out, no one will hire Ed ever again as a producer.

I can’t wait to tell Kayla and Brad what I’ve found out.