"I'M NOT GOING to tell you kids again to knock it off! If I have to turn this car around and cancel my stakeout, there'll be no TV for the rest of the month!"

"It's July twenty-eighth. The month's almost over," said my daughter Theresa with a grin. She's been alive for eight years, and a smart-ass for six-and-a-half of them.

"Don't be cute. Now I want you to behave yourselves. I bought you nice new coloring books and crayons, so use them!"

"Can I color on Kyle?" asked Theresa.

"No, you may not."

"Even if I stay inside the lines?"

My wife Helen says that Theresa takes after me, and as happens more times than I can count, she's right. That's why I try to let Helen handle as much of the child raising as possible. It's better for society that way.

"I'm not going to tell you again," I warned. Then I used language I shouldn't be using in front of children (at least, children with a tendency to repeat colorful phrases in front of their mother) as I realized that I'd just missed my turn. "Okay, that's it. Tomorrow morning both of you are being shipped off to that munitions factory in darkest Peru."

"I didn't do anything!" Kyle, my six-year-old, protested.

"Then you get to go to the factory where they'll feed you every few days. Your sister has to scrounge up bugs."

If Helen were around, she'd have said something like "You're only encouraging them." But she wasn't here. This was a very good thing, considering that I was about to dump my children off with my irresponsible friend Roger Tanglen while I went to videotape an adulterous husband in the act. While I'll admit that I'm not always the best judge of what activities Helen will and won't approve of, this seemed like an above-average candidate for the "won't" category.

But there was nothing else I could do. Helen was working at the hospital, and the babysitter canceled at the last second for an emergency appointment with her palm reader. So if I wanted to obtain proof that Jake Ballard was playing sink-the-salami with a woman three cup sizes too large to be his wife, I had to do something with the kids. Roger worked weekend shift as a customer service representative for a small mail-order cheese company and had nothing to do during the week except play Minesweeper on his computer, so he was readily available.

I guess I could have postponed the job, but I desperately needed the money. I don't want to bore you with the details and reduce your opinion of me this early in the narrative, but suffice it to say that there'd recently been an event that involved the expiration of my car insurance, the accidental smashing-into of a very nice automobile, a frantic deal with the owner of the very nice automobile, and a wife who didn't know anything about it.

My kids were quiet for the rest of the drive, which was impressive even though it only lasted another three minutes. I pulled into a parking space in front of Roger's first floor apartment.

"I won't be gone more than an hour," I said.

"Kyle's a pig," Theresa informed me.

"I'm pretty sure he isn't a pig. Now, if you're both good, we'll go out for ice cream when I get done, okay?"

"Hooray!" shouted Kyle.

"I want both of you to avoid acting like monkeys while you're with Roger. He has a boring life and wants to keep it that way."

"Kyle really is a pig, Daddy."

"I am not!" Kyle insisted. I was inclined to agree with him, since he was probably the thinnest first-grader at Chamber Elementary, but sisterly insults don't require a strong adherence to logic.

"Yes you are. You're a big snorty pig." Theresa made some amazingly skillful snorting sounds at him. Kyle began making snorting sounds back. It was a snorting extravaganza the likes of which I'd never heard.

"If I hear one more snort you can forget about ice cream," I said, raising my voice to what passed for Very Stern Daddy mode. "I have to get going, so please be good."

Theresa's expression turned serious. "I'll be good, Daddy. I was just playing."

"Thank you. That's what Daddy likes to hear. Now give me a kiss."

After dropping them off with Roger, I drove out of the apartment complex and ten minutes later turned onto Webster Street. Webster Street is one of the nicer areas in Chamber, which is one of the nicer towns in Florida. It has about thirty-five thousand people, a couple of decent movie theatres, a bookstore where the owner calls me whenever a new Flip the Weasel cartoon collection comes out, nice schools, nice parks, nice restaurants, and a guy who mutters memorable television quotes while wandering the streets giving the finger to unsuspecting motorists. If you're ever looking to relocate, you could do much worse.

As I passed the residence of Mr. Ballard, I noted that the only car in the driveway was a red Pontiac Grand Prix. So the Whoremobile (as Mrs. Ballard lovingly referred to it) hadn't arrived yet, and wouldn't for another fifteen minutes if his mistress kept to her lunch hour tryst schedule.

I drove four more blocks down and parked my car at the end of the street. I'd bought it a few years ago, and it was exactly like the sleek black convertible I'd always wanted in college, except that it was gray, boxy, had a roof that wouldn't convert, a smashed front end, a floor covered with about an inch-thick layer of candy wrappers, and "Wash Me!" written in the dirt on the back windshield.

After scooping up Helen's video camera, I got out of the car and began to jog, cutting through a few backyards until I stood behind the Ballard residence. There were a couple of trees, one of which contained a treehouse that looked like I could bring it crashing to the ground by spitting on it. According to Mrs. Ballard, if I hid in this treehouse I'd have a perfect vantage point of the bedroom window where the escapades were to occur.

I glanced around to make sure nobody was looking, put the camera strap around my neck, and climbed the rickety ladder up into the treehouse. It was well-stocked with comic books, soda cans, and a custom-made Quadriplegic Barbie. Returning my attention to the bedroom window, I looked through the eyepiece of the camcorder and saw that as long as they didn't close the curtain I was indeed going to have a great seat for the show.

About a quarter after twelve I heard a car pull into the driveway. About two minutes after that I saw Mr. Ballard burst into the bedroom with a certain "vicious, backstabbing, silicone-addicted slut" who was already half-naked. I began videotaping, feeling like an amateur pornographer. Not that that's such a bad feeling.

They were on the bed in no time, and decided to make my job even easier by staying on top of the covers. In the amount of time it takes me just to fumble out of my shoes, they were going at it. Good Lord were they going at it. The acrobatics involved were stunning, and both of them had to be double-jointed. I couldn't believe I was witnessing actual human bodies accomplishing these miracles of flexibility -- it was like a combination of performance art and freak show.

I've always been in pretty good physical shape, but this display made me feel woefully inadequate, a sexual doofus. Maybe on the way home I'd pick up some literature on the subject. The problem is that while I was staring slack-jawed at the astounding feats taking place in the bedroom, I was neglecting other important elements in the situation, such as the three angry-looking guys who were now standing at the bottom of the tree.

"See anything good?" asked one of them.

I was so surprised that I dropped the camera. I let out a cute little noise, something like "Uugghck," as the strap did its best to strangle me. I got things quickly under control, but my upper hand on the situation was effectively shot to hell.

"Hello, gentlemen," I said, leaning out of the treehouse and trying to salvage a bit of dignity in my voice. "This is official business, so I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave the area."

The guys shared an amused look. "Which position are they in?" asked the one who'd previously inquired as to whether I was seeing anything good. He looked like he should be named Biff, so that's what I'll call him.

I shrugged. "Hard to say. It changes every few seconds." I had the evidence I needed, so I figured my best plan of action was to climb down and see if I could reason with these guys. Maybe offer them each a copy of the tape, after I added a classy soundtrack.

After I reached the ground, I realized that these guys were much larger seen up close. One of them was kind of skinny (I'll call him Winslow) and I could have possibly taken either of the more athletic guys one at a time, but if I had to fight all three I was in pretty big trouble.

They were all in their late thirties, about the same age as Mr. Ballard, so there was a good chance they were friends of his and not merely concerned citizens. "Okay, okay, you caught me," I said. "You probably think that I'm some kind of --"

Obviously they weren't particularly interested in what I thought they thought I was, because the guy who wasn't Biff or Winslow (let's call him Hector) punched me in the gut. I doubled over and made another uuggchk sound. Biff grabbed me by the shoulders and slammed me against the tree, while Winslow yanked the camera off my neck. He began to swing the strap over his head, lasso-style.

"You guys really ought to give me back the camera and let me go," I warned. "I'm a private investigator for the top law firm in the state. I can sic every lawyer in Chamber and its neighboring communities on your butts."

I was lying, of course. Not only was I not a private investigator for the top law firm in Florida, but I wasn't a private investigator at all. Though I thought it would be cool to be an official, fully licensed detective, at the moment I was nothing more than a friend of a friend of a friend being paid to make a dirty video. And if I didn't get the camera back, I wouldn't even be that.

"Do you want to guess how much that scares us?" asked Winslow, while Hector hit the tree with my body again.

"Ummm... more than getting a mosquito bite, less than total nuclear annihilation?"

Hector bashed me against the tree yet again. I was getting a little sick of that, but didn't know the guy well enough to ask him to quit.

Then Biff punched me in the face, knocking me to the ground. This was substantially less comfortable than being bashed against the tree, and my ability to think up amusing comments temporarily disappeared.

I winced as Winslow swung the camera a couple more times, then let it hit the tree. Fragments of plastic, glass, and videotape sprayed everywhere.

"Ow, crap! A piece got my eye!" Winslow yelped, staggering away with his hands against his face.

"That was my wife's camera!" I shouted.

Biff slapped Winslow hard on the side of the head. "You idiot! We could've sold that thing! What's the matter with you?" He slapped him again, knocking him to his knees.

Hector yanked me to my feet. "We don't want to see your sorry butt around here ever again. You leave Jake alone. He's got enough problems dealing with that frigid wife of his. If we catch you again, we'll twist your legs off with a spoon. Got it?"

While I couldn't envision the actual process of twisting one's legs off with a spoon, I nodded anyway. He punched me in the face once more just to show that he could, and then informed me that I was permitted to leave.

I walked back to my car, lacking a spring in my step or a song in my heart. I'd really needed the money from this job, and not just because of my little uninsured car accident. We weren't going to end up on the streets or anything... Helen was a registered nurse, and her salary took care of most of the bills. But while she was semi-supportive of my decision to quit doing clerical temp work and try to earn money without getting a Real Job, her semi-support wasn't going to last much longer if I continued bringing home little or nothing in the way of actual income.

I returned to Roger's place and rang the doorbell. "Daddy! What happened?" asked Theresa as she opened the door.

"Nothing, sweetheart. Daddy just fell out of a tree."

"Are you okay? Do you need to go see Mommy at the hospital?"

"No, no, I don't think that's a very good idea. All Daddy needs right now is a kiss."

I received kisses from both of my children, as well as a painful hug from Theresa, though I was manly enough not to shriek.

"I'll be out in a second," called Roger from the library, which also functioned as the bathroom.

"No rush, we've got to get going," I said. "I'll hook up with you later." Preferably after my face healed, so he wouldn't be able to give me any grief about coming in fourth in the fight.

"Where's the movie camera?" asked Kyle, after we got back in the car.

"It's all over the place. Don't worry about it. Now who wants ice cream?"

Copyright © 2000 by Jeff Strand