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(Last Sunday: Elisa goes to jail while Chartan returns to the life restoration classroom.)

Skyler Brazil’s lament was straight forward: he lost his wife to neglect and his morals to booze and women. His self-professed goal was to live a week without vices and anger with his litany of hope:  save myself, or die trying.

            He was a skilled private investigator who commanded top dollar from wealthy people in need of proof. But age and bad habits had caught up with him. His knees were shot, his liver in trouble and those biceps that had once been “guns” had shrunk—he doubted if he could fight his way out of a bad situation—that’s why he hired Johnson, the perfect tough guy, too dumb to think for himself. His intention was to use Johnson as a cane to help him get out of tight spots. But following Elisa and Chartan did not appear to present any threats to him and he regretted that he had a partner in the passenger seat.

            The odd couple in a sedan watched Elisa and Chartan enter an apartment building.

            “Chartan lives in 302,” said Brazil. “I told the client to make sure the blinds stay open.  I want you to get me up in that oak tree over there, so I can zoom in on the bedroom window.”

            “How do you know that’s’ the bedroom window?”

            “I played renter yesterday and had a look-see at 303. These places are all the same. Johnson, most of good detective work requires research…got it?”

            The burly man nodded.

            Five minutes later Brazil, hidden in a tree, waited for Elisa to lure Chartan to the window.

            Chartan and Elisa faced each other in the studio apartment, a place so small, facing each other was the only option.

            “I only have one chair and a yoga mat,” said Chartan. “I’m not set up to entertain.”

            “That’s okay with me,” said Elisa as she cupped his face.

            They kissed like they did on the sidewalk. Chartan tried to regain his balance, but Elisa pushed him closer to the only window facing the giant oak.

            “Where’s your bed?” she asked.

            “In the closet—I either sleep on the yoga mat or on a single mattress that I keep out of the way. Not romantic, is it?”

            With her back against the window, Elisa undid her blouse and threw it on the wood floor by Chartan’s feet.

            “My god,” said Chartan.

            “You like them?”

            “There’s a man in the oak tree.”

            “Where?” asked Elisa as she pressed herself next to Chartan. He reached for the cord to lower the blinds but Elisa grabbed his wrist.

            “Let him watch ,” she said.

            Chartan stepped away from the window. “I want to be with you, no spectators.”

            Brazil lowered the camera. “Damn it—they’ve closed the blinds. Well, I got the client half-naked with her lover. Johnson, take the camera, then help me down.”

            The detective’s clumsy descent tested Johnson’s brute strength. The two men tumbled to the ground.

            “Are you okay boss?”

            Brazil, breathing heavily, mumbled, “Come on.”

            Neither of them heard the orgasmic cries from the third floor.  

(Continued next Sunday)