The Big Enchilada

about the money and all that other shit, but she did care about the fact that she hated her husband and that he hated her. The reasons no longer made any difference, but the hatred did, and it was the kind of hatred that can be a much stronger bond than any amount of affection. She and her husband were locked in a struggle, each clawing and scratching at the other, each determined to have the final scratch. It was a crazy, no-win situation, and Clarissa Acker had finally had enough. She wanted to get out, but she also wanted to get even. Not a nice picture, but it was one that I was used to.
    The surprising thing was that I quite liked Clarissa Acker. This was a little unusual, as my clients are generally not very likeable; if they were, they probably wouldn’t hire me. But she had a kind of rough honesty that I didn’t see very often and that I found attractive. Her attitude to her situation didn’t bother me; if anything, her openness about her motives made her more attractive. Most people who wanted me to do something dirty tried to hide behind some self-serving bullshit that maybe fooled them but didn’t fool me. Not Clarissa Acker: “Let’s bury the bastard,” she had said. Nice clear instructions.
    She was a good-looking woman, and was also pretty intelligent, but she had a Volatile personality. She liked her pleasure and was open about it, and she was equally open about her displeasure and anger. It was not in her nature to hide her feelings—whatever they were—beneath the surface. I thought she probably would be a good friend, a better lover, and an enemy to reckon with. I don’t have to like my clients to do my job—and I usually don’t—but I liked her, and I wanted to do what I could for her.
    I didn’t know if it was what she wanted, but so far my investigation had turned up only one interesting thing. However, it was very interesting. Up front, Simon Acker appeared to be a dry, reserved, priggish sort of man. Very cool, very efficient, very meticulous—the exact opposite of his wife. A couple of years back he had taken over Medco Pharmaceutical Supplies, a small company that manufactured and processed chemicals to be used in products put out by the big drug companies. I didn’t know much about it, but Medco probably wasn’t a very big operation, even though it was big enough to give Acker a giant-sized salary that he spent pretty freely.
    All that was on the surface, and on the surface Simon Acker was a dull man. However, after I had been following him around for a while, I discovered that he kept a little apartment in West L.A. that no one knew about. One day when he was at Medco, I used a skeleton key to get in, and another side of dull Mr. Acker was revealed. The apartment was your typical furnished place, if you happened to rent in a Gothic castle. The walls and ceiling were painted black. Heavy velvet drapes covered the windows. Decoration was provided by a collection of whips and copies of medieval weapons that were mounted on the walls. The closets contained several robes and cloaks that were also in keeping with the medieval motif. Acker was quite a history buff.
    Under surveillance, I saw several tall blondes go into the apartment at various times of the day and night. They were obviously prostitutes, and they always came out looking somewhat the worse for wear. Fifty dollars to one of them bought me the info that Simon Acker was a peculiar man. He would dress up in one of his robes, continually mutter and rave something about “The Power,” and beat the girls until he climaxed. Even though he paid high for their services, very few girls returned for a second engagement.
    I hadn’t told my client about this yet. It was good stuff, but I’d thought I would stay with it a little longer to see what else developed. Nothing developed. Acker stopped going to his apartment, and his life again became exactly what it appeared to be on the surface. He had gotten so careful, in fact, that I suspected he knew he was being watched.
    I was pretty sure I hadn’t tipped him, but I thought his wife might have. Clarissa Acker was by no means a stupid woman—except maybe where her husband was concerned— but she did have a temper, and her husband, after fifteen years of practice, would know just the way to make her explode. I figured that during an explosion she told Acker about me. That would account for his recent caution; if I was right, it meant I wouldn’t get anything more on him,