Wayne Scheer

Naked Lady in 3B

If you really want to know the truth about how I got into this private detective business, I’ll tell you. I was caught late one night peeping into a lady’s window.

What happened is, I’m driving home after a bad date. You know, the kind that drags on until two in the morning with dinner and drinks and small talk and more drinks and more talk. And then when you finally get her home, she says she has to get up early in the morning, pecks you on the cheek, and without using words makes it clear that if you were the last man left on earth she’d cut her hair short and take up women’s golf.

So I’m not exactly in a good mood. I’m driving home slow listening to reruns of radio call-in shows and they keep repeating, “Don’t call in. This is a pre-recorded program.” Apparently, losers like me who listen to this crap at two in the morning are too stupid to know better. I’m angry and disappointed and more than a little horny when I look up at this apartment window and I see what I think is a naked lady walk by. My first thought is, Geez, it’s been so long I can’t even tell for sure if it’s a woman, but I stop my car right there in the middle of this lonely side street and she walks by again and this time there’s no doubt about her sex. I mean she’s a knockout what with dark hair and perky little breasts. Maybe it was the light or the mood I was in, but I’m telling you she was something special. Then she turns around and walks away from the window and I’m standing there watching this cute little round ass fade away.

Now if I were a gentleman I would have just snapped a mental picture, gone home and developed it while jacking off. Instead, I back the car up a few feet and park across the street where I have a better view of her window. That’s when I think it’s too bad I don’t have a real camera with a telescopic lens or something. Like a private detective.

Well, I sit there for damn near twenty minutes seeing nothing and then the lights go out in her apartment. But I’m hardly thinking about her anymore. I’m imagining myself as a private eye, like in the movies, and I’m working on a super secret espionage case and this woman is a spy from some Middle Eastern country. She’s seduced five-star General Buck Hodges, the man in charge of planning a multinational mission to kidnap this big deal terrorist and bring him to justice. It’s up to me to stop her before she puts some kind of truth serum in his cocktail.

Just then, I hear a voice. “Hey, Buddy. What you doing?”

I turn and see a cop in his patrol car, which he pulled along side of me, and I nearly piss in my pants. But then I realize I’m not some sleazeball parked outside in the dark hoping to get a peek at a naked lady. I’m Peter Owens, Private Eye.

“My name is Owens, Peter Owens,” I say avoiding his eyes and hoping my voice doesn’t crack. “I’m a private detective. The husband of the lady in 3B hired me. He’s out of town and wanted me to make sure she wasn’t fooling around or nothing while he’s away.” Then I add, “Everything looks cool.”

He looks at the dark apartment building and then he gets out of his car, but his hand is near his gun, like John Wayne. He shines his flashlight in my eyes and he asks to see my detective license. I tell him I don’t have one at the present. “I’m sort of a freelancer,” I say. “But I’m gonna get the paperwork in real soon.”

“Freelancer, huh?” Now he asks to see my identification. I reach for my wallet and his eyes are on me like he thinks I may be some sort of dangerous person. My adrenaline is really surging now. I hand him my driver’s license.

“I thought you said your name was Owens? It says here your name is Wendell Milkins.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I tell him. “You see, my detective alias is Peter Owens.”

I see his partner slide across to the driver’s seat and ask, “Is there a problem, Bo?” Just then, a message comes in on the radio sounding like static to me but Bo hands me my license as he gets into his car. “No. No problem. That right, Wendell?”

I nod.

“You just move on. Go write your report to the lady’s husband.” He laughs, and I hear him saying to his partner as they drive off, “That was the famous Peter Owens, Private Eye.”

My heart’s pounding like it’s going to hop out of my chest and do the Watusi. Sweat’s pouring down my face and I think that maybe I really did wet myself. But in my head I hear the cop’s voice saying, “That was the famous Peter Owens, Private Eye.”

And I like the way it sounds.

I go home and all I can do is think of my encounter with the police and the naked lady in 3B. To tell you the truth, I don’t know which got me more excited, but I was so wired there was no way I was going to sleep that night.

Instead of sleeping I pace the length of my apartment, from the bedroom to the kitchen, about a hundred times. What’s gotten into me? I keep thinking. I mean I’m Wendell Milkins, for crying out loud. I design websites for people who want to make their goldfish Internet celebrities or sell their baseball card collection. The closest I ever get to action is clicking on www.oralangel.com.

Anyways, it was daylight when I finally fell asleep and I woke up a few hours later. Instead of running to the computer to see if this Heather chick I’ve been communicating with responded when I told her I was a doctor, I decide to pack my breakfast and drive over to Deland Avenue and see what’s happening in apartment 3B.

I jump into my trusty 1992, metallic blue Toyota Corolla and I drive the four or five blocks to where I last saw happiness in the shape of a bare ass. I park outside her building and I count three windows up and two over and there’s her apartment window, only the shades are pulled. But I got nothing but time and my morning meal, a bag of Cheese Doodles and a V-8.

Maybe half an hour goes by and I’m imagining I’m on a stakeout watching for anything suspicious going on in the building. I see two teenaged boys walk out the front door and I write in my log: “9:15am—2 white males about 16 exit building.” Then I see a woman about forty go into the building carrying the Sunday paper and I record the activity. Later, I write, “black male and female exit, late twenties, wheeling what appears to be a baby.” Over the next hour I fill my log with similar information, but I note: “No sign of naked lady in 3B.”

That’s when I decide to take action. I enter the building just as a balding man in his sixties (I make a mental note of that for my log) is leaving. He looks me over as I grab the door from him and walk into the apartment house all cool-like, as if I belong there. I’m proud of myself but then I realize it’s just a little anteroom and the next door is locked.

So I look at the wall with all the names and buzzers and I look up 3B. It says, S. Brochio. I take out my log and make a note: “S. Brochio. Run computer check.” Next, I ring her bell. I have no idea what I’m going to say but I figure if I’m Peter Owens, Private Eye, I’ll think of something.

A sexy voice that still has sleep in it answers and I stutter idiotically, like I’m auditioning for an Adam Sandler movie. “Is anybody there?” She asks a little more impatient than sexy this time. I mutter, “S-sorry” and run to my car.

When I get in to resume my surveillance I see she’s opening her curtains. The morning sun makes it difficult for me to see her clearly, but I realize I shouldn’t be here. What if she notices me watching her and calls the cops?

I don’t know what to do, so I drive off.

But I’m hot now. I mean I’ve seen her naked and I’ve heard her voice. Usually for me it’s one or the other. I either talk to them at a bar or I see a nude picture on the Internet. This is about as far as I’ve gotten in a long time.

I think: what would Peter Owens do? Then I realize that’s not the right question. I’m not Peter Owens, dammit. I’m Wendell Milkins. I ask instead: what would Wendell Milkins do? And I sit down at my computer and begin working.

Within an hour I learn her full name is Samantha Brochio and, because she joined a computer dating service, there’s all kinds of information available about her. She’s twenty-eight, only two years younger than me. She’s a hospital administrator, drives a ’98 Solero, was married but recently divorced, no children or pets, interested in modern art, likes to backpack, no religious affiliation, and prefers comedies to dramas when watching TV.

I print out a photograph of her. She’s not as pretty as I originally thought, her nose is a little too big and her eyes too close together, but her dark hair and full lips more than make up for it. She’s cute and sexy and, as crazy as it sounds, I start to think what it would be like if she were my girl.

About a week goes by, but I can’t sleep. I can’t work. I keep thinking about Samantha Brochio naked. I’m also feeling guilty, not because I saw her naked; no, I’m feeling bad because I used my computer skills to find out all kinds of personal stuff about her. I even had her picture made to look like a wallet photo so I could think of her as my girlfriend. And I keep parking outside her apartment house hoping to get another peek.

I’m beginning to creep myself out. And believe me, knowing myself the way I do, that takes a lot.

So I decide, I have to get this Samantha chick out of my head. I’m also worried about the way I keep thinking of myself as Peter Owens, Private Eye. That’s been kind of scaring the crap out of me, if you really want to know the truth. Yesterday, I used my charge card at Radio Shack and I started writing “P-e-t” before I caught myself. But no matter how much I try to get my mind on other things, Samantha’s naked body keeps flashing before my eyes, like in some movie about a deranged serial killer.

Hell, the real me is so normal I bore myself. I design web pages for a living. I’ve even won some awards for my work. I’m single, but I was engaged to a woman up until eight months ago. We were going to marry, have kids, even move to the suburbs. Then she met Hector, the big-deal real estate developer, and left me to play with my computer. Three years together and she dumps me for a guy named Hector.

I try to get back to work. I’m designing a web page for a hardware store chain and another one for an art gallery. I’m also doing a soft-core porn site for some freak that wants to put his collection of celebrity rear ends on the Internet. He wants me to set up a tease page so he can charge pervs $1.95 for a photo of the actress’ ass of their choice. He says he has a large collection of asses, different sizes and shapes, so he can do a fake celebrity ass shot if he can’t find the real thing. I’m setting up a Celebrity Butt of the Week contest where people try to match the actress with her butt.

And even this doesn’t keep my mind on my work.

When it gets dark outside, I start thinking that maybe Samantha just got home and she’s changing out of her work clothes. The next thing I know, I’m in my Toyota parked across from her window.

And that’s where I am now, eating my evening meal of a ham sandwich, Cheese Doodles and V-8, with a Ding Dong for dessert. I’m feeling crummy about being here, wishing I could just go home, but her curtains are open and I hate to admit it, but I’m more than just a little hot and bothered. She’s probably not even home, but I’m reaching deeper than is necessary into the bag of Doodles on my lap, if you know what I mean.

Suddenly, a woman who could be Samantha comes out of the parking garage across the street and walks to the building. If it’s her, she’s shorter than I imagined and maybe a little skinnier, too. But there’s something about her dark hair and the way she moves. I know it’s Samantha.

I’m about to jump out of the car and race to her, but my arms and legs don’t work. Then I think: what would I say? Do I tell her I’ve been sitting out here, playing with my Doodles, waiting for her? Yeah, that would be a real turn on.

Just then, I hear a man call, “Sam, we need to talk!” This guy, tall and angry-looking, wearing a dark suit but with the tie loose, jumps out of the doorway of the apartment next door.

Some detective I am. I’m so busy watching her window I don’t see this nut stalking her.

“No, we talked enough,” she says. “You’re not supposed to be this close to me, you know that. I’ll call the police. I swear I will.” She starts to open the door of her building.

Now this is where it really gets weird. He grabs her arm and spins her around. She tries to push him away but he grips both of her shoulders and shakes her, shouting, “Dammit, I just want to talk!” I see her head snap back and I can hear her cry.

For once, I don’t think. I just jump out of the car, yelling, “Hey! Take your hands off the lady.”

He turns, and I swear there’s fire in his eyes. This stranger, a full six inches taller than me, shouts, “Who the hell are you?”

“Owens, Peter Owens,” I say, staring directly into his bloodshot eyes. “And you need to calm down.” My voice is even and forceful. I’m not sure I even recognize it.

He glares at me, but I glare right back. “The lady hired me to protect her,” I say, and I keep staring into his eyes. I don’t even blink.

Finally, I see him look down. “Sheeeiiittt,” he mutters and walks away without looking at Samantha or me.

“Thank you,” she says, after she catches her breath. “That was my ex.”

“Glad I was here, Sa, umm, Ma’am.”

She holds out her hand. “My name is Samantha Brochio.”

“I’m Wendell Milkins,” I say, taking her hand.

“But I thought you said it was Pe…”

“Do you think he would have listened to me if I said, ‘I’m Wendell Milkins, Private Eye?’”

We laugh, and I’m still holding her hand. And she’s still holding mine.

So I tell her I really am a detective, but my specialty is computer surveillance. She’s so impressed, she doesn’t even ask what I’m doing parked outside her apartment building. Even better, she agrees to go to a local coffee shop with me. So what could I do? I start a new career.

First published in Slow Trains, Summer 2005.

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