THE WAY OF THE WORLD by Howard Feigenbaum

 “My husband is cheating on me,” she said. The petite woman with a coffee and cream complexion smoothed her miniskirt as she sat down in a leather chair facing my desk.

     It was difficult to guess her age. She might have been in her forties but appeared late thirties. Traces of scarring around her ears suggested cosmetic surgery. Her diamond-laden jewelry and couture fashion placed her in a high income bracket.

     “My name is Bonita Quintero. My husband, Esteban, is Panama’s Consul General here in Los Angeles.”

     “Benny Goldfarb, nice to meet you.” We reached across the desk for a handshake. “Would you like water or coffee?”

     “Thank you, but no.”

     “May I call you by your first name?”

     “Of course.” 

     She preened her hair and leaned forward in her seat. “An acquaintance in the U.S. diplomatic corps said you had a reputation for being thorough and going wherever the job required. He gave me your card. I liked the picture—dark penetrating eyes and a great smile. How tall are you?”

     “Six feet, two inches.”

     “I thought so. You look pretty well built.”

     “And who might your acquaintance be?”

     “I can’t remember a name. We spoke briefly at a cocktail party. You know how those things are—idle conversation with people you may never see again.”

     Her voice had a sultry undertone that reminded me of Eartha Kitt. “Have you spoken to a divorce attorney? That might be a more effective course of action.”

     She leaned into the back of her chair and took a breath. “In my country, divorce can be complicated. If I divorced my husband, the proceeding would be contentious and the time and money involved, considerable. I am Catholic. My family does not condone divorce. I do not want to divorce my husband. I want to keep him.” 

     “What do you want from an investigator, Bonita?”

     “I want you to find the money. A lot of it is hidden. And—I want to know who his girlfriend is.”

     “Why do you think he’s cheating on you?”

     Bonita smiled. “A woman knows. Do you want specific details?”

     “If I decide to take your case, yes.”

     She moved toward the edge of her seat. “Do we have an agreement?”

     “This isn’t the type of work I normally do. I’ll let you know in a few days. Is there a number I can call?”

     Bonita reached into her Gucci handbag and retrieved a card from a gold case. “This is my private number. I have no concern about paying whatever you charge. You come highly recommended. I always buy the best.”

     I escorted her to the front door.

     Annie, my assistant, followed me as I returned to the office. “What’s the story?”     

     “Marital infidelity and hiding money—not my kind of case. I’m not keen on long hours of stakeouts and videotaping an affair. Any investigator can locate assets. The diplomatic and Panamanian aspects smack of a quagmire. I said I’d let her know, but I’m inclined to refuse.”

     Annie put her hands on her hips. Although of slight stature, she radiated an inner strength. Her almond-shaped eyes honed in on me. “Well, buck up, Mister. This business is a for-profit venture. I have a retirement fund to feed.”

     “You’re a harsh taskmaster. I’d like you to run a search on her and her husband.” I handed Annie a piece of notepaper with their names. “He’s with the Panamanian Consulate downtown.”

     “I’ll get right on it.”

* * *

     “There’s someone here to see you,” Annie said over the intercom.

     “Who is it?”

     “Rachel Vega, FBI. That’s what it says on her card. You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?” 

     “Not that I know of, but she’s got my attention. Send her in.”

     She stood about five feet seven and displayed a confident air. The jacket of her tan business suit swung open as she approached, revealing a Glock 23 pistol holstered on her hip. “Rachel Vega,” she said. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Goldfarb.”

     “Have a seat, Agent Vega.” Her appearance wasn’t what I expected of an FBI agent—light brown hair pulled up in a ponytail, feminine grace, and an infectious smile. “May I see your identification?”

     She reached into her lapel pocket and produced a wallet with a badge and FBI photo. “Earlier today you met with Bonita Quintero. Has she become your client?”

     “Is this an official investigation? And, if so, of what?”

     “With regard to you, this is not an investigation. With regard to her husband, it is.”

     My internal warning bell sounded. “Mrs. Quintero sought my assistance in a personal matter. I haven’t yet decided to take her case.”

     The agent leaned forward and put her right hand on the desk. “We’d like you to take it.”

     “You’re kidding. I assume when you say ‘we,’ you mean the FBI.”

     “Right. The issue has to do with national security. I can’t disclose the details until you agree to accept and sign a few forms.”

     For about twenty seconds, I stared at her in silence.

     “This is a serious matter, Mr. Goldfarb. It involves a possible international security threat to the homeland. If we had another way to handle this, we would. I know from a background check that you served in Naval Intelligence. We’re asking for your help again.”

     “I appreciate what you’re saying, Agent Vega, but I’m trying to stay close to home. My wife and I are newlyweds, and she’s pregnant. I may not be the best one to call on.” 

     Her voice mellowed. “We need your assistance on this one. Based on your history, we believe you can handle the situation. It’s a short-term investigation. The department will pay our highest contractor stipend.”

     “I’d like to discuss this with my wife.”

     “Fine. Call me by ten tomorrow morning. Time is of the essence.” She stood, headed for the door, and turned around. “Congratulations to both of you.”

     “Thank you. I’ll let you know.”

     After the door closed behind Agent Vega, Annie hurried into my office with curiosity written all over her face. “So? What’s the deal? Why was the FBI here?”

     “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I don’t know the details. All I can say is they’re seeking my help. I’m pretty sure that’s all I’ll ever be able to tell you.”

* * *

     “How’re you doing, sweet stuff?” I asked. I set three grocery bags on the countertop. 

     Rosa embraced me, planted a warm kiss, and gave me her full attention. “Except for the nausea this morning and my bra feeling too tight, not bad. What do you have to eat? I am starving.” 

     She wore pink capris with one of my white business shirts, sleeves rolled up, and the tails tied in a knot above her navel. Pregnancy had not yet changed the sensual curves of her hourglass figure. The sweet scent of her long black hair stayed with me. I forced myself to focus on preparing a meal.  

     “Dinner is poached salmon, cauliflower, spinach, sweet potato and a whole wheat roll,” I said, pulling the items from the bags. For dessert, a scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with mandarin orange slices. What do you think?”

     “I think you are good at following the doctor’s instructions for pre-natal nutrition. When do I get the pickles and olives?”

     “All in good time, my dear. Dinner should be ready in thirty minutes. Have a few carrot sticks while you’re waiting.”

     “Ugh. I have eaten more carrot and celery sticks than I know what to do with.”

     “I’m moving at warp speed. Dinner will be ready in twenty-five minutes.”

* * *

     We finished drying the dishes.

     “There’s something we have to discuss,” I said. 

     “A sofa talk,” Rosa said. She followed me to the overstuffed couch in front of the fireplace. “This cannot be good.”

     “The FBI visited me. They want my help on a case involving national security. I told them our situation, but the agent pressed me.”

     “What do they want you to do? Is the assignment dangerous? How long will it last?”

     “I don’t know the details. I won’t know unless I sign some papers. She said the job’s short-term.” 

     “She?” Rosa asked. 

     “The FBI has female agents.”

     “Is she attractive?”

     “Not bad,” I said with a chuckle. “Does her gender make any difference?”

     “Of course not, but I would have preferred a male.”

     “She asked me to call her by ten tomorrow morning.”

     “You cannot refuse to help your country. Tell her the FBI will be getting two for one.”

     “Shouldn’t you take it easy?”

     “The doctor says exercise and everyday activities are good for me and the baby—but no running, bicycling, or weightlifting. I think I can manage that.”

     “I’ll talk to her. We’ll see what happens.”

     “If the FBI likes women, they will love me.”