Detective Happenstance

I'm no Sam Spade, that's for sure. I don't run a detective agency, I don't smoke (anymore) with an elan that makes women swoon and men cower, and I don't hang with only gorgeous babes. On the other hand, I do enjoy detective fiction and movies, most of all those that scatter the crumbs of clues along the way, so that the reader or watcher can try to match wits with the protagonist. Surprise endings that are only explained after the action ends, with a piece of information we as readers or an audience didn't have until then? No thanks.

So, I promise, in telling this, you'll learn all you need to learn as it unfolds. Not much mystery to it, but it sure unfolded bit by bit for me at the time.

I was on my own, not exactly flush for riches, just after I settled up with my ex's divorce lawyer, but doing ok. I had a good job that let me work from home - and a good bit of debt - the price of buying my sanity was up front and fortunately included no continuing alimony. So, I was living in a rented house in a decent but not fancy suburb, in a safe but unmemorable neighborhood, staying mostly to myself, putting the pieces together a bit at a time, I suppose. Determined to finally be done, I was paying down the debt faster than scheduled, happy to live more modestly than I needed to while doing it. I'd also started growing a beard when I separated from my ex, promising myself not to shave until done with the mess of the breakup, and what with all the delays to help lawyers accumulate billable hours, the beard had been full for some time. I'd also gotten used to is, so kept it even afterwards. It was shorter than lumberjack, but it was definitely a beard, not some of that movie-star-haven't-shaved-in-a-week look that's so popular for reasons only movie star agents can imagine. I'm also about 5' 10", 170 lbs, in pretty good shape but so damn Caucasian average looking I'm thoroughly forgettable - an advantage if you're going to be a detective, I suppose, but more often just humbling when acquaintances don't remember me.

I'm not exactly a morning person, but I make myself get up at a decent hour, then tend to kill an hour or so over morning coffee and computer cruising, then it's down to work for most of the day, trying to keep a discipline more or less like a working schlub should. At my laptop on what passes for a dining room nook table, I can see out front. In nice weather, I take it out on the small front porch and do the same al fresco.

Across the street was a similar nicely maintained, clean but pretty nondescript house. When I moved in, I met them but only briefly. She was Julie, he was Dan. We met on my move in day, but hadn't really spoken after that. They were a nice couple, and I was just fine with not needing to be overly neighborly. Every morning, she would kiss him goodbye at the door, he'd drive away in one car, and a bit later, she'd walk the two elementary school age kids down the block and return maybe twenty minutes later, alone. In the afternoons, she'd reappear, walk the same direction, and return with the kids. The dad would get home at about 6, and the glow from the TV set would be present as the sky darkened until about 9, then shut off, and the whole house would be dark by 10.

Downright Ozzie and Harriet stuff. He was a decent looking guy, drove an economical sedan. Didn't wear a coat and tie to work, but who does these days? The young school age kids, a boy and a girl, were dressed ok and behaved like young kids - some days more full of energy than others. Sometimes on the weekends, I'd see the whole clan go off together in the only family car. More often, the kids would come and go irregularly on their bikes, or other kids would appear to visit, I figured.

Julie was maybe in her late 20s, maybe early 30s, sort of a Nordic blonde type, nice figure as far as I could tell. She didn't seem overly vivacious or overly serious - just a wife getting through life and doing ok at it. She was cute, but I had no ulterior motives - I'm a decade older at least, am still working through all that divorce detox stuff, and she seemed pleasant enough, but never dressed provocatively, flirted, or otherwise indicated any interest in anything but her family. When I was on the porch, I'd wave good morning to them, but after my move-in, that was as close as I'd ever been to any of them. It got to be a regular thing for me, watching their morning routine as I had my first cup of coffee - sort of a boring TV show through my front window.

Bit by bit, I started to imagine their lives, not to intrude, but just to daydream, I guess, which was more pleasant than reading the news of the day with my morning regimen. I had him down as an office worker in a big firm, getting by but not setting the world on fire. The kids were all-American, did their school work since their parents made them, but weren't either jocks or brains, just regular kids. I had her being the June Cleaver - steady and reasonable, very possibly brighter than he, devoted to her family, while her husband was devoted to her. Not a serious care in the world, really.

On occasion, I'd play with the scenario, casting him as a hired assassin, using his vanilla life as an effective cover, or they as being way into Bondage and Domination, with her outfitted in leather, whip in hand, disciplining him after the kids were asleep in their basement dungeon. But I knew that was all bull - they were just nice, clean folks, and the only evidence I had to the contrary was wholly in my imagination.

One day - a Tuesday in spring, at maybe 11 in the morning - I noticed her head out on her bicycle. I'd never seen her riding a bike, and she cut an attractive figure on it. She wasn't in classic biker stuff - you know, the bike shorts and skin-tight top and all. She just had on a polo shirt and shorts, and the bike was just a bike, no fancy 86 speed street racer or anything. It even had a basket on the front, and she had some sort of bundle in it. She was wise enough to wear a helmet - good girl. I figured she was out for exercise and didn't notice when she came back.

Two days later she repeated the departure at about the same time. I noticed she had nice legs in her not too short shorts, but I didn't see anything else noteworthy. Then I happened to glance out when she returned, a little after 2. Something about her movement suggested an agitation or something - just not relaxed, but hard to really say.

The following Tuesday, and then the Thursday, same thing. And now it had captured my imagination - leaving at 11, back at 2. Not in gym clothes, and never brought back what appeared to be mail or groceries or other shopping bags. Always had that bundle in the basket, going and coming. Wouldn't be doctor's appointment, didn't seem to be shopping, wrong timing for most movies, and what about the bundle? I was vaguely intrigued, just trying to come up with a scenario that her actions would fit into. The Sam Spade in me was emerging, sans cigarette and trench coat.

The routine continued into the early summer, and by that time I was hooked - watching for her departures and arrivals, noting the times, all pretty consistent. When she launched off in the rain one day, I knew that whatever she was doing, it was important to her.

The following Tuesday, I was ready. Now rocking my imaginary Sam Spade thing, as soon as she left, I followed, in my car (like theirs, a nondescript foreign made and very common sedan of unremarkable hue), letting her be a good block ahead, and driving slowly but not unreasonably so, past her, then tracking her in my rear view mirror. Sure enough, she made a turn, and I looped around what I figured was a block or two ahead of her track and looked, then waited - nothing. Rats. Ah well, Rome in a day and all.

That Thursday, I was already near the intersection where she'd turned, waiting, and sure enough, she came along, turned there, and I repeated the sequence, wearing a hat and trying not to look as if I were trying not to look conspicuous.

It took two more sequences of tracking and returning before I finally found her bike chained to a post behind a strip mall along the doors to their back entrances. Doing a quick count of doors and circling around to stroll down the front, I discovered that the odds were she was going to a gun shop, a spa, or a bank. It was easy enough for me to see she wasn't out front in the bank or gun shop, so maybe she did the books part time for the shop or spa? Or maybe . . .

Telling myself that this was none of my business and that I should just butt out, naturally, I didn't. I returned to my car, grabbed a bite for lunch several blocks away, and returned before the time I'd figured she would be leaving - that is, if this was where she came regularly and hadn't moved on during my lunch. I parked my car as far away and unobtrusively as I could while keeping visual contact on the various back doors of the building. I was relieved to see her bike still there, so just waited, feeling ever so the snoop.

Sure enough, she reappeared, coming out of what I'd calculated to be the back door to the spa, bundle in hand, unlocked the bike, and hit the road heading to what I was pretty sure was home. Evaluating the situation, I figured what the hell. I parked well away, took my cash out of my wallet, stowed the bills in my pocket along with my cell phone, stashed the wallet in the glove box, and strolled over and into the spa.

"Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?" said the attractive young woman in suitable spa scrubs sort of attire - starched cotton shirt-waist dress, short skirt, canvas shoes, company logo with the name 'Cherie' embroidered over one of two ample and very nice looking breasts. She was standing behind the register at the counter. There were several chairs and some magazines in a rack, but the place seemed otherwise empty. The magazines had both women's style issues and men's car and outdoor covers, so I figured it was a place for men as well as women, although there were no customers around to give me a hint.

"I don't know, I've never been here." I said, checking out the rate chart for the various services on the wall behind her. I've been having some hamstring issues and thought maybe a steam bath and massage could help?"

"Well, you're in luck - we will have an available masseuse in about a half hour. You can take advantage of our first visit special - either steam bath or sauna, followed by a 45 minute full body massage, for this 20-minute area-massage-only rate, or you can do that 20 minute as listed, or any of these other services as well, at these rates." She pointed to those listings on the rate chart. "We also have, as you can see, other services, from waxing to facials and so forth." All very pleasant and efficient so far.

"I think I'll try that first visit special, thanks." I answered, and pre-settled the charges in cash, not wanting to reveal my name, at least not just yet. Now, that term "full body massage" used to be code for prostitution services, I recalled, but this place seemed so respectable, I figured that was an anachronism by now.

"We also have a member's club," she added, handing me a brochure.

"I'll give that some thought," I answered, accepting the flyer, "but I think I'd better get at least one visit in before any of that."

"Oh, of course. Well, by the time you shower and get steamed, Sara should be ready. Right this way, Mr., uh . . .?"

"Jackson, George Jackson," I came back - first name that came to mind for who knows what reason - not my real one, of course. I knew a George Jackson years before, just grabbed it out of the ether.

"Ah, Mr. . . . Jackson." Her pause hinted that maybe she didn't believe me, but since I had paid in case, she didn't take issue. I probably wasn't the first embarrassed white middle aged male to be embarrassed entering a spa. She gathered some towels from a shelf full of them and walked down the short hallway, and I followed, watching her generous ass sway in the tight skirt, mini length, above modest heels. Stopping at a doorway, she said, "Well, my name is Cherie, and if you need anything, I'll be out front. Here's the men's locker room, and you'll find signs in there to the steam bath." She handed me a terry cloth robe, terry sandals, and a locker key. "You can use locker number 12. After the steam, we ask that you shower, then you can wear the robe if you like, or not, to room #3, which is there," she pointed. "When you get to the room, there is a switch just inside the door, next to the light switch. It's labeled, so just flip it on when you're all set, and the 'occupied' light above the door will illuminate, so we know you're ready. Sara will meet you there."

"Got it." I said, and entered to find a nice, clean but small locker room with two doored shower stalls, stacks of fresh towels, and the usual locker room sinks, toilets and such. I stripped down, stashed my clothes and the terry things in #12, took the key, wrapped myself in a towel, and used the john just in case. I followed the signs through a door into a steam room that was thick with steam, barely semi-transparent through the cloud, and empty. Noting the time, I took a seat, leaned back, and soaked in the heat for about 10 minutes before I couldn't stand it any longer and retreated back to the locker room. Taking a quick shower to clean off the steamy sweat, I grabbed another fresh towel, donned the robe and slippers, stuck the locker key in the robe pocket, and made my way down to #3, where, just as she'd said, there was the switch, plus one of those massage tables with the donut pillow thing so your neck isn't twisted when you're lying on your front.

The table was covered with a fresh sheet, a shelf with all sorts of lotions and such, a cabinet, and several candles setting the mood, along with a vague sandalwood sort of scent. There was some sort of vaguely Indian background music softly playing. Setting the towel and key aside, I hung the robe on a hook on the door, taking a moment to walk around the room, enjoying the strange feeling of being nude. I half expected to find some camera somewhere, either to record enjoyable times or to protect the masseuses from threatening customers. I didn't find any, not that I really knew how to look. Satisfied that I'd checked things out, I flipped the "occupied" switch, laid down on the table, draped the towel over my otherwise bare buns, looking at the floor through the donut pillow, and waited.

In only a minute or two, I heard the door open and looked up. A young - ok, everyone under 40 is young to me, ok? - woman entered. She looked to be maybe in her 30s, black hair, dark eyes, maybe Indian or Pakistani - no wonder the choice of music. "Hello, Mr. Jackson. I'm Sara. I hope you enjoyed the steam bath. I understand your hamstrings are giving you problems?"

She was dressed in loose drawstring cotton pants (I didn't notice the footwear), with a ribbed tank top, all in white, which went very well with her creamy coffee skin tone.

"Uh, yes, but it's not all that bad," I said, remembering my invented check-in complaint and not wanting to sound invalid about it. "I decided to come in more on a whim, but so far it's been very relaxing, a nice afternoon."

"Excellent, well, we'll pay some attention to the hamstrings, but since it's your first visit, we'll be starting here," she said, adding a little oil to her hand as she took one of my feet to start massaging.

And damn, she was good. I just lay there and let it flow, and that foot was soon feeling much better than most of my body usually did, and then she did the other one, and then the calves, and I was getting not a painfully deep, but wonderfully firm and satisfying massage, the muscles loosening, and my attitude getting all relaxed in the process.

Moving on to my thighs, she did probe and dig a bit, but it was equally good, while not sexual at all, although she was working up to maybe a couple inches below my butt. The towel stayed in place as she worked. Then on to my back, shoulders, and arms, finally saying, "You can turn over now," about the time it occurred to me I was indeed naked under the towel and wondered just how that was going to be done.

Figuring what the hell, I rolled over just as she raised the towel. I couldn't tell if I had exposed myself to her in the process, and she betrayed nothing at all in her attitude. I was certainly soft, and without giving it any thought, I reached down in the process and flopped my dick over to its left, just to give it its usually most comfortable position, and gave my balls a little lift to keep them from being jammed down there between my thighs. Only a moment of movement, and I looked at her to confirm I hadn't given offense. I saw the slightest smile on her face, as she lay the towel back down over my crotch and went back to my shoulders from the front.

Now that I was face up, I could watch her work. I saw that there were no indications of a bra other than the tank top's spaghetti straps, but no nipple definition, so figured it had a shelf bra thing - one of those inventions, like panty hose, that could not have come from a heterosexual male of the species. Her ass was cute under those loose cotton pants, and I wished I could see more of it.

She was all business, but as she moved down to my lower trunk, working at the top of my hip line, I couldn't help but start to get aroused. She kept on, taking no apparent note of the towel's rising contour.

Next, she moved down to next to my thighs and started to work above the knee, where I'm pretty ticklish anyway. I jerked in response and laughed, telling her I was indeed ticklish a bit. She changed her technique, more stroking up and down from my knee than digging in to the muscles.

That did nothing to stop my arousal, as her fingers climbed just barely higher on each stroke. Moving from one thigh to the other, she kept on, and soon I was pretty much fully hard, and in the process, I could feel that my balls were probably visible to her, if not my erection, which was still under the towel from what I could feel.

"Uh, I don't suppose you, uh, have special services not listed on that rate chart?" I ventured, not really knowing how to approach the fact that I was turned on and naturally my id was seeking satisfaction.

"It sounds like you'd like me to attend to your, ah, problem here. But if I were to charge you for that, it could be a problem with legality. On the other hand, you've already paid for a full massage, so if I extended the service and you tipped me, that would not be my providing extra services for a fee. Understand?"

"Ah, yes. And please be assured, I will be generous for any assistance you provide."

"Mmmm. Well, let's see then," she said, lifting the towel clear, my erection bobbing in the free air. "You certainly do need some additional, ah, attention. I would even say that this just might be the source of those pesky hamstring complaints."

Still standing beside me, she poured a tiny, thin stream of oil over my cock and kept it up over my balls as well. It was downright artistic, and felt great, since I knew pretty well what was coming next.

I leaned up just far enough to see the stream making my cock shiny. Figuring what the hell, she could certainly correct me if she needed to, I reached around and cupped her ass gently, feeling its firmness and running my hand down the back of her leg a bit. She didn't object, so I reached back up, pulled the drawstring bow loose, and worked my hand back to her bare buns, the pants loosening.

She gave me a look I couldn't quite decipher, but then put down the vial of oil and stepped back, free of my hand, and let the pants drop to the floor, stepping free of them. Without pausing, then she lifted the tank top up over her head and dropped it aside, now standing nude before me. She was gorgeous. No teen chick but a real woman, her skin smooth, her breasts small but proud, not really large enough to have any droop at all, with dark, prominent nipples adorning them. Her public hair was spare, no doubt trimmed but not shaved, and was straighter than I'd expected. All in all, a beautiful woman, exotic as all get out, and about to stroke my erection - what a great idea this had tuned out to be! Finally, she reached over and pulled the donut pillow higher, so I could be propped up for the show without needing to strain.