TEN PERCENT

It was twenty past two on a Tuesday, but time seemingly stood still. I checked my phone again—no messages. I peeked out my window—no visitors. Something urgently needed to happen to make this office worth showing up to. I adjusted my tie—its unfamiliar tautness impelled me to rip it off, freeing my neck. Two weeks and counting in these new digs and not a single client. Perhaps a different advertisement strategy was in order. Or maybe I should never have signed the lease, keeping my operations firmly within the confines of my parents’ basement instead. I would have, too, if they hadn’t given me the ultimatum: no more stray pussycats. But what could I do? I had a soft spot for those solipsistic little creatures.

To the left of me, I could hear the owners of the nail salon bickering again. To the right of me, the intoxicating aroma of pizza beckoned, filling my mind with thoughts of melted cheese and pliable dough. But it was the other kind of dough that required my attention. Moolah. Benjamins. Cabbage. Bread. Bacon. Sensing that this line of thought wasn’t helping, I cracked open a pack of chips with my name on it. And then, like rain in the Sahara, there it was. A knock on my door, a sleek silhouette visible through the frosted glass with "“Richard Lays, Private Investigator" emblazoned on it in bold red letters.

“Come in,” I said in my best ex officio voice, simultaneously stuffing the half-finished bag of Lays potato chips into my desk’s bottom drawer.

The door flung open, and there she stood—the most stunning broad I had ever laid eyes on. Her form was poured into a black jumpsuit, its front zipper unfastened suggestively to show just enough alluring roundness. Her hair cascaded down in voluminous locks, its thickness rivaled only by her eyelashes. A perfect pink pout, a perfectly pert derrière. The plot thickens, as they say. At least I think that was the plot.

“May I?” She gestured to the chair with her impeccably manicured hand, blinding me temporarily with her Swarovski crystal-studded phone case.

“Be my guest,” I barely managed to squeeze out the words as I willed my jaw shut.

She dusted off the chair and plopped her assets into it.

“I saw your ad,” she exhaled. “I require your services.”

“What can I do to you?”

A setback in my efforts of projecting slick professionalism, but she seemingly didn’t take notice of my slip of the tongue. She dug in her purse and procured a black shiny object the size and shape of a mechanical pencil refill container.

“I need you to find the password.”

“I’m a private eye. Finding lost things is what I do.”

“Sweet.”

“Gimme me the rundown, precious.”

“My husband left it to me. I have reason to believe that there’s some money attached to it, and money is something I find myself urgently in need of.”

“You don’t strike me as a pauper.”

“Glamour, once you’re used to it, isn’t something you can bear to be without.”

“I see. So what’s on the thumb drive, toots?”

“Fitcoin.”

I pretended to not take notice of her slip of the tongue. A gentleman should always be counted on for reciprocity.

“And he won’t tell you the password,” I surmised.

“He told me I have to guess it.”

“Any chance to convince him to give you a clue?”

“He’s been sportin’ a Chicago overcoat for weeks now.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you. The bastard really screwed me.”

“I meant for your loss.”

“Thanks. It’s a bloody waste. Left everything to his kids, the blimp.”

“I meant your husband’s passing.”

“Oh. That.” She dug in her purse and procured another long shiny object. “Mind if smoke?”

I nodded, and she took a drag on her e-cigarette. Her smokeless exhales were enough to trigger a grown man’s OCD.

“So how much coin are we talking about?” I inquired.

“I’m an influencer, not a bean counter. All I know is that eight years ago he spent 20,000 dollars on this malarkey. I hope it’s still worth something.”

“Have you made any inquiries about the value of your coinage?”

“Still not a bean counter, Dick.”

I kept my movements slow and deliberate as to not reveal the swell of anxiety that instantly presented itself right behind my Adam’s apple. I casually glanced at my browser as I looked up the current price of bitcoin. I performed a few grade-school calculations in my mind. A single coin was anywhere between a solitary greenback and thirty-one bucks back then. Which meant that in the worst-case scenario, this dame’s stash was worth about $6.5 million. And in the best case—well, that was Powerball kind of money.

“So, can you help me or not?” she asked, sucking on her little cigarette coyly, like a babe on a thumb.

What did I know about password retrieval and cryptocurrency? I’m just a guy with an ad on Craigslist. But when fate sends you a gift from the heavens you do not back away.

“I can certainly help you. If the price is right.”

“And what would make it right?”

“Twenty percent of the total value seems reasonable.”

“What?” she huffed. “Are you nuts? Ten percent.”

“Fifteen.”

“Ten.”

“Twelve or I walk.”

“It’s your office.”

Touché. “You walk then.” I gestured to the door.

There was a tense pause. I could feel the rusty gears of her mind creaking.

“Fine.” She sat back and uncrossed her legs. Crossed them back real slow. “Ten and some hanky-panky.”

“Deal!”

I do not know what witchery compelled me to agree, but it was out there now, and a gentleman does not go back on his word.

“Aces,” she leaned back, pleased. “I should tell you I only have three tries left before the whole thing is scrambled.”

“I’ll get my best Russki on it,” I assured her. “There is nothing he can’t crack.”

“I’ll be expecting you with some good news, then,” she said, getting up and bending low over my desk. Our heads almost touching, she scribbled something on an envelope. “Here’s my address. Toodles.” She blew a kiss and drifted out of my office, as if out of a dream.

My Russki was nothing but an old college roommate who spent all four years pulling off heists in Grand Theft Auto. He’s a tech genius, I decided, he just don’t know it yet. So I called him.

He was cleverer than I thought.

“I can certainly help you. If the price is right,” he squinted over Skype.

“And what would make it right?” I wanted to know.

“Twenty percent of your cut seems reasonable.”

“What?” I huffed. “Are you nuts? Ten percent.”

“Fifteen.”

“Ten.”

“Twelve or I walk,” he persevered.

“You’re in your own office.”

“Okay then. I’ll disconnect and block you.”

“Fine,” I snapped back. “Ten and some hanky-panky.”

“Deal!”

“What?”

“It gets lonely here sometimes,” he confided.

Well, how about them apples. I was learning how to be an influencer from this broad already.

But try as he might, the Russki couldn’t crack it. He spent six days in a haze of cigarettes, diet Dr Pepper, and amphetamines, and all he had to show for it were two wrong passwords. The sweet patootie and I were down to just one try. I invited myself over to her pad to break the news. Brought my two best friends for support: Whisky and Vodka.

She opened the door in a sparkly number that barely contained her ampleness. I poured us a nice stiff one each and steeled myself for the unpleasantness.

“Listen, dollface, rather than bumping gums here, allow me to get right down to it. So far, this whole enterprise has been a trip for biscuits. My Russki wasn’t able to crack it. I’ll spare you the details, but we’re down to just one try.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

I could sense that dollface wasn’t pleased. Good thing she didn’t know how much money was at stake.

“I say we put our pretty little heads together and try to crack it ourselves,” I suggested.

“What else is there to do?” she scoffed and downed her drink. She plopped onto her divan and gestured for me to sit in the armchair—it had a man’s jacket draped over it.

“Just throw it on the floor,” she yawned. “I’ve got to clear his stuff out.”

“Alright now, precious,” I said taking a nice slow sip of my drink. “I’m going to need you to tell me everything. Start at the beginning.”

And so she did. She told me how they met cute at the airport. How he hid his wedding band. How in love they once were. How his ex-wife was a real pill, hard-boiled and money-hungry to boot. How she wasn’t like that, not one little bit. How alimony is for the birds. How awful his kids were, the little buggers. How a twenty-five-year age difference ain’t nothing until your man develops that old person smell. How that blockhead should have listened to her, but no, he overdid it in spin class. How he had handed her the thumb drive while on a gurney and told her to guess the password. How those were his last words. How he died of a heart attack still holding her hand.

She suddenly bolted upright. “I know what it is! I know the password.”

Hands shaking, she placed the thumb drive into the little slot. She typed into the pop-up window: CANDY. Her name. I gave her an encouraging nod. She pressed enter.

“DEVICE ERASED,” the pop-up window announced.

“What? But… I was so sure…”

She sat there, dumbstruck. So did I. But I’m a professional. I had a reputation to uphold.

“Chin up, darling, this fitcoin probably wasn’t worth much anyway,” I said, handing her a drink.

“It’s bitcoin, you fathead!” She spun on her kitten heels and splashed her drink in my face. A hailstorm of little fists came down pounding at my chest.

“This is all your fault. Your fault, you hear?” she sobbed.

I threw my hands in the air and let her get it out of her system, then held her tight, the way that she was aching to be held. Her body went slack with gratitude. And then she planted a honey cooler. Right on my lips. I could taste the whisky, the rising desire, the strawberry-flavored lip gloss. Our bodies entwined, we barely made it to her bed. We stayed there all night, makin' whoopee.

It was twenty past two on a Tuesday and we had just woken up. Babydoll got up, sighed deeply, looked around, and began packing up her things.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“The lease is up. I can’t afford the rent.”

Now that this had failed, I couldn’t afford my rent either.

She walked over to a document safe and opened it up.

“There’s gotta be something here I can pawn,” she mumbled.

I drifted over to take a look as she placed item after item on the table: documents, cufflinks, passports, more cufflinks, a little black notebook.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking up the notebook. It was a beaut.

“Oh, that’s just his password book,” she said and kept digging.

“His what?”

“His passw... Crap.”

She grabbed the book from me and began flipping through its pages feverishly. She stopped and gasped. She dropped it down to the floor. I picked it up. And there it was, in neat block letters:

BITCOIN PASSWORD: GINA.

“Who’s Gina?” I turned to her.

“His ex-wife,” she whispered, and slid down to the floor.

What could I do? I carefully backed out on my tiptoes—out of her bedroom, out of her house, out of her life, leaving that homeless pussycat alone with her memories, her regrets, and that little black book.