Rat Fink, a defective detective's tale.

My name is Fink, Joe Fink. My friends call me ‘Rat’ Fink. But I have got no friends. I am a private detective. I follow husbands, look into garbage cans. Yeah, that kind of person. I usually sit all day long in my small, dusty office, smoking, drinking, and feeling sorry for myself. Suddenly she is there. She is looking at me through deep blue eyes. And she is talking to me. She is saying something about her husband. But I am not listening. I am just thinking about her voice, sweet as poison and dangerous as ice on the highway. I smile and stare. I wait patiently until she finishes her story. I think she is exaggerating, but I do not mind. All clients do the same. Eventually she tells me what she wants me to do. Somebody is following her.
I have to follow that person. We talk about money.
At the door, we shake hands. I think she is going to cry but suddenly, she holds me and gives me a great, long kiss. I hug her, of course. Then she turns and goes away. She does not look back. Her eyes look like icebergs again. (…)