Mister Granger's Hobby

In my office I have a couch. It is useful for taking a nap if I’ve been on a job the night before. I’d spent the previous evening in the company of a pair of ladies. They were beautiful and black. I really thought my luck was in that evening. I was excited by their company and had expected them to come across for me but I'd been disappointed. They were the Queen of Clubs and the Queen of Spades but my opponent had a full house and I was bust. I'd taken a certain amount of medicinal whiskey to ease the pain and made my way home in the very small hours of the morning. 

I was dozing on the couch thinking of the two ladies that had let me down when I thought I heard a knock. If it was a knock, then the person making it hadn't seemed in too much of a hurry to see me, so I decided to ignore it. Then it came again, a little louder, so I opened one eye.

The upper part of my office door is frosted glass and the silhouette I could see through it was woman-shaped; maybe things were looking up. So I opened my other eye. I stood up, straightened my tie, smoothed my pants, ran my finger through my hair and opened the door.

I was disappointed by the broad standing on the other side of the door. She had a plain face with no makeup. She was wearing a plain brown two-piece, thick brown stockings and flat brown shoes. She was plain and brown. She was short, possibly less than five feet. She was trembling slightly and gave the impression of someone who'd burst into tears if I raised my voice.

"I'm looking for Mister Thrust," she said a little breathlessly.

"You've found him," I said in the calmest voice that I could manage for this time in the morning with a slight hangover. I stood aside for her to enter.

She looked nervously around my office and when she decided it was safe she sat in the chair that I offered her.

I sat down and waited for her to speak but she just kept looking at the floor. So I decided to take the initiative.

"Can I have your name?"

"Mrs Granger."

I wrote it down as that seemed the professional thing to do.

"And what can I do for you?"

"It's my husband. I think he's having an affair."

I groaned inwardly. Such cases were my bread and butter and booze but were normally uninteresting, and often required me to follow the errant husband and try to get some glimpse of his extra-marital gymnastics.

I’d once spent an unhappy evening sitting up a tree with a camera waiting to get a shot of a woman being unfaithful. The squirrels that lived in the tree were very unhappy about my presence and made a lot of noise to let me know how they felt. In the end I found out that the client had given me the wrong address and all I ended up with for my troubles were a few shots of a family playing scrabble. To make it more frustrating, one of the players could have made a seven letter word but ended up putting down only four tiles; I almost knocked on the door and told him.

To cut a long story short I’ll summarise what Mrs Granger told me.

 Her husband, Stewart, would go out every Friday evening, saying he was taking Spanish lessons. After a few weeks Mrs Granger had thought it would be good practise for him to give their Spanish housekeeper her daily instructions in Spanish, which he reluctantly agreed to do. The housekeeper had looked a little puzzled at some of the things her husband said, and when he left the room the housekeeper had asked Mrs Granger why her husband wanted her to shave the cat.

“Maybe he was fed up with it shedding hairs all over the house,” I said as a way of lightening Mrs Granger’s mood.

“But we don’t have a cat,” she said, seriously.

So Mrs Granger had taken a look in her husband’s diary and found that every Friday he had an appointment with a number of different women. He seemed to be having more success than I was. The same two or three names came up regularly. This coming Friday the entry was: 8pm, Mandy, Big Jim’s Country Barn.

Big Jim’s Country Barn was a bar that played live country music. I’d driven past it a number of times but if it wasn’t for the neon sign it could have been a hostel for down and outs. The neon sign was the outline of a cowboy who kept raising his Stetson. I’d never been tempted to go in there before, but it looked like that might be about to change. 

“Do you think he is having an affair?” asked my potential client.

“It seems likely he’s having several.”

“What should we do?”

I notice the word “we” creeping in. It looked like she was now my client.

“I could go to Big Jim’s Country Barn and see who Mandy is and what they get up to?”

She suddenly reached across the desk, grabbed my arm, looked me straight in the eye for the first time and said, with panic in her voice, “but what will I do if he's having an affair?”

“You could divorce him or shoot him; that’s for you to decide. And before you ask, I don’t supply either of those services.”

“But I love him.”

“You could just ignore it and hope it runs its course.”

“Do you think it might?”

“I’ll tell you, after I’ve seen Mandy.”

I told Mrs Granger my rates and she gave me a picture of her husband. He was a nondescript man wearing a sober business suit. On the face of it he matched his wife. But maybe any relationship needs at least one person with a little style and imagination; neither of them fitted the bill.

As Mrs Granger got up to leave she had an afterthought, “he won’t undress in front of me any more.”

“Maybe he’s ashamed that he’s getting a little fat?”

“I don’t think so. He has a nice body.”

Unwilling to discuss Mr Granger’s body on an empty stomach I quickly ushered his wife to the door and told her I would send a report after my Friday night excursion.

​

*

I’ve never liked country music. A typical song would be about a cowhand whose truck has broken down, his dog has just died, he’s lost all his money in a poker game and his wife has just left him. And then he sings about how he’s getting drunk to forget. I much prefer something a bit more cheerful.

It was a quarter before eight on a Friday and I was sitting in Big Jim’s Country Barn listening to Rowdy Yeates and the Chuck Wagon Five's off-key singing about a cowboy whose horse was lame and needed to be shot? If I was that horse then I’d wished they would shoot me rather than just singing about it. But the beer was good as a small compensation for the singing.

Big Jim’s Country Barn is actually an old warehouse on a nondescription street in downtown Hollywood. Big Jim had done his best in giving it a Western feel. There were pictures of scenes from the old west around the walls, together with memorabilia such as a lasso, an Indian headdress, a branding iron and, according to the label, the authentic shirt General Custer was wearing when he was killed at the Little Big Horn, complete with bullet holes and blood stains. It looked a lot like the shirts on sale in a local clothes store, but that was probably just a coincidence.

The waitresses were wearing baggy checked shirts, which hid their shape, jeans and cowboy boots. It was very unattractive. And one had actually said “howdy partner” when I arrived. I’d scowled at her.
When I’d first arrived I’d wandered around the joint to see if Mr Granger was already there; he wasn’t. In the subdued lighting I had to look closely at people. One woman smiled at me, I'd smiled back, but I was on a job so couldn’t follow this up. At another table a man seemed to take an interest, I walked quickly on to the next. Then I'd positioned myself at a table where I could watch people as they came through the door.

The bar employed a number of women whose role was to get the customers to buy more drinks. One of these came up to my table and asked if I wanted company. I told her I was waiting for someone and she didn’t seem too disappointed. A little while later I noticed she was sitting with an overweight middle-aged man at a nearby table with two glasses of what looked like Champagne. At least he would have paid for two glasses of Champagne but her glass would contain lemonade, which would allow her to remain sober while encouraging him to spend all his money on overpriced drinks, before moving on to another lonely customer. Maybe he knew he was being cheated, but thought it was worth it for the chance of spending some time with an attractive woman, who would listen to all his worries with a sympathetic ear.

The trouble with looking for a nondescript person like Mr Granger among a group of other nondescript people is that they all look alike. Several times I had to look closely at the picture that Mrs Granger had given me to compare it with a man who had just walked through the door, until finally I spotted my prey at five minutes before the hour.

Granger, wearing a business suit, was inappropriately dressed for this venue. He looked a little uneasy as he found his way to an empty table not far from mine. The waitress served him with a small beer which he didn’t drink. He sat on the edge of his chair and looked horrified when one of the women who worked this bar asked him if he wanted company.

At just after the hour a striking looking woman entered the bar. She was very tall, had jet black hair and a very pale complexion which contrasted with her bright red lipstick. She had a long black figure hugging dress that ended just above her red stilettos. She had a figure to die for, and the dress made this very apparent. Granger had seen her arrive and immediately stood up and beckoned her over. So this was Mandy.

She moved slowly across the floor swinging her hips from side to side as if on hydraulic suspension. It was a walk designed to attract the attention of every red blooded male who was still able to function below the waist. She must have practised for hours to get her walk to this level of seductiveness. I wondered idly if she walked that way when she did her shopping or vacuumed her lounge.

Granger pulled out a chair for her and she sat down. She produced a cigarette which she pushed into a long holder she’d taken from her clutch bag. Granger frantically searched in his pockets to find his lighter and shakily lit the cigarette. A waitress approached and took her order.

The two sat talking with Granger doing the most of it. He sat forward on the edge of his chair and his nervous excited manner would have been obvious to people living in the next state. When her drink came it was a vivid green colour decorated with an umbrella. The colour clashed violently with her bright red lipstick and made me think of St. Patrick’s day and leprechauns. I decided to order an Irish Whiskey in sympathy.

They sat talking together for another thirty minutes. I watched them while pretending not to. She had a second nauseatingly green drink and he managed to drink half his glass of beer. I only had two more beers and a Scotch as I needed to stay sober while on a case. 

Suddenly they got up to leave. I still had half a glass of beer left which I gulped down as they walked towards the exit. I followed them to the door, but not too closely. I hung back while they got their coats from the cloakroom. Then I handed the cloakroom girl my ticket. It seemed to take an age before she handed me my detective-style coat and my trilby hat. I tipped her, leaving hardly enough time to look down her cleavage before I hurried outside.

I had parked my ageing Plymouth across the street in case they might leave by car. I hoped they hadn’t already driven away. I looked around frantically and finally noticed them walking almost half a block away, so I hurried after them.

They turned at the next intersection and I almost ran to the corner so as not to lose them. I was a little out of breath when I got there and felt a bit queasy; maybe I shouldn’t have had that last beer.

There weren’t many pedestrians about, which always makes it difficult to follow people unobserved. But it was a new moon and the street lamps were fewer here than on the main road, so it allowed me to keep to the shadows. I’d followed people on many occasions and had my Boy Scouts Tailing Badge.

They made another turn into a residential street, and by the time I’d made the corner they were walking up the front path of the third house opposite. This was a shabby single storey house in a street of similar shabby houses. I’d expected something a little more upmarket for someone who dressed like Mandy. Maybe she spends all her money on clothes and makeup.

I stepped into the front yard of the first house on my side of the street and pretended to be a bush while I waited for Mandy to open the door of her house. Mandy and Granger entered the house, a few seconds later the light came on at one of the windows.

I crossed the road and walked slowly past the house. I could see Mandy inside the room, she had taken off her coat. Checking there was no one about I made my way across the unkempt front yard and crouched beneath the lighted window. I slowly raised myself to get a peek into the room when the drapes were suddenly closed. I ducked down again and silently swore. I spent a few minutes listening, and although I could hear voices I couldn’t make out what was being said.

I walked down the side of the house and into the even scruffier back yard. There was an old washing machine and piles of other junk, which I was unable to identify in the darkness, just strewn about. I disturbed a rat which scurried away and disappeared under something which may once have been a carpet. This would have been a good place for the Mafia to hide the bodies of their victims.

All the rooms on this side of the house were in darkness. I tried the back door and it was locked. I walked back down the other side of the house to complete my circumnavigation and stood at the front door trying to decide my next move. I considered knocking, claiming I was looking for someone, just to see the state of undress of the occupants, but decided against this. So all I had left was to get my car, park across the street and wait for Granger to leave. Mrs Granger had said he was normally home by eleven o’clock, so at least I wouldn’t be waiting all night.

In the event I didn’t have time to follow this course of action as there came a scream from the house. It was one of the most blood-curdling screams I’d ever heard and was followed by deep sobbing. My first impulse was to run away but on second thoughts I had to do something. So I took two steps back and shoulder charged the door.

In films, Humphry Bogart would easily bust through the door and end up standing upright in the room without a single hair out of place or a wrinkle in his suit. I bounced off and landed on my butt.
I scrambled to my feet and looked around to see if anyone had seen me making a fool of myself, but the street was still empty. There was a second scream which made it even more urgent to get through the door. So this time I lent backward and kicked the door just below the lock with the sole of my shoe. The door burst open.

Regaining my balance I entered the house. As I rushed down the hallway I wondered whether the door had been unlocked as I hadn’t tried it. I entered the first door and was met by a terrible scene.

Granger was lying face down, naked on the bed. His back was covered in red marks. He was tied spread-eagled by his wrists and ankles to the bed posts. He had a look of extreme pain on his face.

Mandy was standing over him with an evil looking whip raised above her head. She had taken off her dress to reveal a Basque. It was clear that none of the shape I noticed under her dress in the bar had been padding.

We stood there in a frozen tableau for a few seconds and then I began to laugh. Mandy joined in a few seconds later and even Granger started to laugh nervously.

“It’s not what you think,” said Granger.

“It’s exactly what I think.”

“Were you just passing and heard his scream?” asked Mandy.

“No, his wife sent me.”

“Oh God,” said Granger. “What am I going to do.”

“Why don’t you put some coffee on,” I said to Mandy, “and we’ll decide what we’re going to do now.”

Mandy left to make the coffee while I untied the naked Granger. The knots on the ropes were very loose and he could easily have escaped, but of course he didn’t want to.

“I’ll pay you not to tell my wife,” said Granger as he hurriedly put his clothes back on.

“Sorry but we private dicks have a code. We only accept large bribes.”

“Maybe I could pay in instalments.”

“Let’s not be silly.”

Mandy returned with three coffees, she now had a robe on over her underwear. Granger was fully dressed and sitting glumly in a chair staring at the floor. He’d even taken the time to adjust his tie and smooth out his pants. He looked ready for a day at the office.

“I’ll still want paying for this session,” said Mandy and Granger nodded.

“And he’ll pay for the damage to the front door as well,” I said.

I sipped the coffee, it was a bit bland.

“Any chance of Irishing this up a bit?” I asked.

“Whiskey isn’t cheap.”

“Add fifty cents to his bill.”

She produced a bottle from a cabinet and added a very small splash to my coffee. Not enough to give even the merest hint of the Emerald Isle.

Mandy’s robe has slipped open and I idly looked at her breasts as she handed me my enhanced Whiskey.

“My face is up here,” she said.

“And that’s nice as well.”

She pulled the robe tightly around herself and scowled at me.

“How did you find us?” asked Granger.

“Your wife looked in your diary. So I followed you from the bar.”

“Oh. There’s no harm in what we do.”

“The state of your back tells a different story.”

I could now understand why he didn’t want to undress in front of his wife any more.

“I love my wife, she is so good to me. She is good with our children. All my clothes are washed and neatly ironed. My meals are always ready on time and delicious. The house is clean and tidy with nothing out of place.”

I’d never even considered the Grangers' children before.

“It is so boring!” he added.

It now seemed that Granger wanted to talk, so I encouraged him.

“What about the other Friday names?”

“Each lady has a different skill. Mandy here uses a whip on my back and my butt.”

“I’m very good,” she added.

“And does anything else happen after the whipping?”

“Really! What sort of woman do you think I am?”

This all sounded like more information than I needed to know, so before Granger could describe the skills of the other ladies I told him what I was going to do.

“I will write a report to your wife but I’ll give you a day before I send it, in which time you can come clean to your wife.”

“Thank you. Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”

“I’ve no idea. Maybe she’ll shoot you.”

With that I left them to lick their wounds, metaphorically I hoped. Mandy had insisted in giving me her business card and rates and telling me that it was half price on Wednesdays.

*

Almost two weeks had passed since I’d bust in on Mr Granger’s flagellation session. I’d done what I said I’d do and not sent my report immediately. Since that time I'd done a car repossession and a search for a missing teenager. The car repossession had been straight forward, but my client was being tardy in paying their bill.

I’d found the teenager in the morgue. He’d died of an overdose, been found in a ditch and logged in as a John Doe. I sent my bill to the grieving parents but I wouldn’t chase it up if they didn’t pay. In the event they paid promptly and sent me a thank you note.

Mrs Granger hadn’t paid the bill that I’d included with my report. I was beginning to wonder if she had killed him after he confessed what he’d been doing. Or maybe he’d killed her. So I decided it was time to pay them a visit.

The Grangers lived in a middle class area at the foot of the Hollywood Hills. I drove my ageing Plymouth around a gentle curve between the rows of new two-storey houses, designed for middle class families consisting of a couple with two children. This was a Sunday morning and many of the men were mowing their front lawns while I expected their wives were inside making family lunch. Kids were outside whizzing around on their bicycles. This was the American Dream where the husband worked nine to five during the week while the wife looked after the home and family. He would play golf at the weekend and she would belong to a bridge club and hold Tupperware Parties. It wasn’t for me.
I parked outside the address that Mrs Granger had given me. There were two cars in the driveway, so I expected to find them both in. As I walked up the pathway between the neatly manicured lawns I noticed that all the drapes were closed.

I rang the doorbell and waited. Nothing seemed to be happening, so I rang again. Presently I heard movement from inside the house.

“Who is it?” came the voice of Mrs Granger through the door.

“It’s Dick Thrust and I’ve come about my bill.”

“Could you come back?”

“I’d rather get it settled now.”

“Oh alright,” she said after a short pause, “just wait there and I’ll get the money.”

After a minute the door opened a few inches and Mrs. Granger’s hand came around it with a handful of bills. However, I’d caught a glimpse of something that piqued my curiosity so I pushed the door fully open.

Mrs Granger was dressed in a Basque, which looked at least a size too small for her, with stockings and knee-length patent leather boots that boasted impossibly high heels. She was wearing very severe and somewhat inexpertly applied makeup. She was carrying a riding crop. She was red in the face, which might have been from the tightness of her underwear or the fact that she was obviously a little tipsy.

She giggled at me and said, “the kids are staying with my mother for the weekend.”

“Come on, I’ve been a naughty boy and need to be punished,” came the voice of Mr. Granger from upstairs.

I took my money, smiled at her and pulled the door closed.

As I drove away from this characterless suburban housing estate I idly wondered what else might be going on behind closed doors.