Gregson sat at his polished steel desk pushing papers and talking to himself. “That one’s from the lawyer; they can’t find the ex-husband, rumored to be hiding in Japan, vacations in Switzerland, interesting.” He circled it with red sharpie, then looked at the other financial statements.

“His ex-wife bit a chunk out of his assets, that’s for sure, um… she thinks he may have millions hidden in Bitcoin? This brod can’t be satisfied; oh well, that’s not my problem, and full expenses paid. She wants to meet with me directly. I gotta get out of here, before I die inside.” He was aware of the fly teasing his remaining hairs on his bald head.

The world had been kind to Gregson. If you put enough bad guys behind bars and make enough ex-husbands pay, while staying out of the clutches of women, you can do alright for yourself, but there’s always one—a woman who can spot your weakness.

Gregson slid into his Porsche Boxster Spider; it was sex on the road, the best kind. He found himself driving along the coast where the ocean caused him to recollect memories. One of the benefits of being Gregson was that he liked who he was. The houses along the highway were mansions of magnificent proportions. Gregson wondered about the millionaires and billionaires who lived there. It seemed like paradise, but heaven is often caged with golden bars.

His GPS was out-of-date, so much so, that it had told him to make a left turn off the cliff, twice. Gregson used technology, but he didn’t trust it; he always believed his mind was smarter.

“That’s the address,” he mumbled to himself. The gate opened as if it had been listening to the words under his breath, and Gregson drove up the hill and parked next to a Lotus Exige. It was a flower, and the flower beyond the ivory walkway heightened his senses. She was wearing a white one-piece bathing suit, tanning herself like time had stopped.

“You’re the private investigator?” She asked.

“I’m Gregson.”

“Would you like some champagne?”

“Do you have beer?”

“Winston, get the man a beer.”

A butler who looked more machine than a man turned on his heels to fulfill her wish. It made Gregson cringe inside. So many people were following orders.

“You come highly recommended.” The woman flipped over on her tanning chair, exposing her legs that didn’t stop. Gregson had a weakness for legs.

“Would you rub a little lotion on my ass?”

It was horribly undignified, but Gregson knew he had to amuse his customers, and strangely enough, he found himself in this situation frequently. He began rubbing and she began talking.

“Jerry is on the run. The police can’t help me, and the last two detectives gave up the chase; no endurance. You don’t seem very fit.”

“Endurance is more important than truth. I always go the distance,” Gregson said.


Let’s sort out our business in the bedroom.” She grabbed Gregson’s hand and led him into her ivory castle. He was trying to figure out if her long blonde hair was real or fake. Gregson could usually spot a wig from a mile off, but this brod was different. He loved conducting business, and afterward, full expenses were paid.

Gigolo or PI, what was the difference? It didn’t matter. He was flying to Japan.

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