“Well, I have a lease to rent, and you have a story to write,” Gregson said.

Andrew looked bored. “If the words don’t come, what do I do?”

“I’m not a writer, but I would say, ‘Do something else.'”

“You know what, Gregson? You could be a writer.”

“I’m still trying to write my memoirs, but it seems like my detective game, is only in the third inning. If I need any help, I’ll give you a call.” Gregson paid the tip, and smiled at the Taiwanese.

In the meantime, he was looking for a secretary who was young and impressionable. Not a woman who had been to law school or handed out parking tickets. Gregson stopped off at the gym, to lift weights, for some reason. Maybe, it was Thai Food guilt, or the belief that he could be young at 50. There was an old lady in the gym who talked incessantly about her cats. She had gold hair, tied in a pony-tail, and a drinking-face. She was alone.

“They’re my babies,” she said. “Romeo is going into surgery today, and I’m just so anxious. I work out, so I don’t have to think about him.”

Gregson listened. Perhaps, we all need pussy, he thought.

His dirty mind inspired him to lift more weight. His testosterone levels were rising like a nuclear reactor melting down. Think, Chernobyl. Beads of sweat were dripping from his semi-bald head. His face was red, like a radiation burn. He was just shapely enough, so that his fat could be mistaken for muscles. Gregson was trying to lift his body weight, which meant death. The bar pressed against his chest, crushing his ribs.

“A little help…a little help.”

The lady who owned 15 cats, screamed. She was useless. The old man with a cane, appeared to be thinking about walking over there. There was nobody else in the gym, but retired folks.

So, this is how I die, Gregson thought.

But right then, a woman, 24 years of age, walked into the gym, with neon butt-tight shorts. Her shoes matched. You could wash clothes on her abs, and the girl had a golden-brown tan, like a trophy, waiting for her husband to ask.

“You old fool!” She said. When she grabbed the bar, her muscles flexed like a man’s.

“I like a woman who can pull her weight,” Gregson said.

“That’s right. You aren’t from my generation. Your comment is sexist.”

“Would you like a job?” Gregson asked.

“To do what?”

“I need a secretary who can look sexy and type.”

“You must be joking.”

“I never joke about my work,” Gregson said. “What’s your name?”

“Nancy… Nancy Drew. And don’t say another word. I’ve heard all the jokes.”

“My name’s Gregson. I’m a Private Investigator, and I would like you to help me solve a murder.”

Nancy almost let the bar crush him. He was a smart fool—the worst kind, but then she changed her mind.

“Do you have credentials?” She asked.

“In my pocket. Go ahead and reach for it.”

“I think it’s safer, if I let you take it out. I don’t want to get bitten by that thing.”

“Don’t worry. I keep it on a chain.”

Gregson shuffled through his pockets. Spare change, crumpled movie theater tickets to Titanic (A Reshowing), an enormous Trojan that could bring down the NSA, and his PI Retired Card, attached to his keys, he kept to impress beautiful women.

“My key chain.” He flashed it to the disbelieving girl.

“It says you’re retired.”

“Don’t be fooled—it never went out of action.”

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