As a connoisseur of film noir, Todd was pleased with Jack Behm’s office. Everything was in place: the wooden desk with drawers presumably containing both revolver and whiskey bottle, the filing cabinet full of case notes, the dirty windows overlooking some mean streets, and best of all, in a standard-issue 1950s swivel chair, Jack Behm himself.

Behm looked more hard-boiled than an egg with a drinking problem. His eyes were narrow and red, his cheekbones high and stubbled, and his bony yellow fingers were constantly lifting cigarettes to a narrow and suspicious-looking mouth. He looked at Todd with an expression that was both interested and keen to show a complete lack of interest. Todd liked him immediately.

“How’d you get my number?” said Behm, and began coughing. It was a horrible cough, like an old car being started up, and it didn’t end for what seemed like minutes. When he’d finished, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Behm looked up at Todd, still waiting for an answer.

“My lawyer,” said Todd, “Pete Fenton.”

“That asshole,” said Behm encouragingly. Todd had no disagreement with this point of view.

“Sit down,” said Behm. Todd waited for Behm to pour him a slug or whatever private eyes were supposed to do next, but no slug was forthcoming. Instead Behm drew heavily on his almost extinct cigarette and said, “Pete Fenton,” in a thoughtful voice.

“That’s right,” said Todd, wondering if this conversation was going to take all night, “Pete Fenton.”

“You fucking his wife?” said Behm.

“No,” said Todd.

“Okay,” said Behm. “Good to know.”

“Why would—”

“You fucking him?”

“No!” Todd said.

“Calm down,” said Behm. “Just checking there’s no loose threads that might unravel later.”

Todd was not consoled.

“I’m not that way inclined,” he said.

“Like I care,” said Behm. “Besides, I know he’s fucking his secretary. So why are you here?”

I’m starting to wonder, thought Todd. But he said, “I believe you can help me.”

And he unrolled the whole sorry tale, playing down the part where he and Sara were having an affair, and talking up the part where he thought Janis was having an affair. All the while he talked, Behm took no notes, and stared intently at Todd.

“I see,” he said when Todd had finally finished talking. “You’re not telling me everything.”

“I am—” Todd began.

“About the affair, if that’s what it is, yeah,” said Behm. “But you’re not telling me everything.”

“You want to know the name of my first date?” said Todd. “Where I went to school? The first time I got drunk?”

“No,” said Behm. “Just whatever it is you don’t want me to know. Doesn’t matter. I’ll find out. I usually do.”

Yeah, right, Todd thought, and good luck with that. He smiled and said, “Whatever you say, Mr. Behm. How much do you charge?”