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Carl Waverly

Gunther Boccius

    His limbs twitched. Sometimes muscle memory wrote checks his body could not cash. Hyperventilation set it off. Twitching was in his DNA. Lyrics from a popular song – “You’ve got to calm down!” – came to mind.
    His third grade English teacher once told him, “You’re bouncing up and down in your chair like a yo-yo. Have you had too much sugar?”
    His parents were both sprinters in college. They told him fast-twitch muscle fibers allowed them the quickness it took to run fast. The only thing it did for him was to look nervous.
    Anxiety began early in life. His mother made him attend church and bible class. “Praise God and be a man,” she said on numerous occasions. There was modest instruction. The stories were interesting. Becoming a pastor crossed his mind.
    Kathleen from the choir caught his eye. They married. The bounty of their relationship was still in the future. His twitches largely disappeared. Intimate moments relaxed him, but his wife wanted more. She questioned his ability to perform.
    When he caught Kathleen and Albert the Pastor in the cloak room having sex, his marriage was challenged. The divorce left him still wanting to become a leader in his church.
    Being fondled by the father of a student during a bible retreat in the foothills ended that speculation. He knew the ‘how’ of the attack, if not the ‘why’ for years. It soured him on religion and relationships with the opposite sex. Proving marital dysfunction became a career.
    Though he made friends while inside, Carl Waverley became a fiery San Quentin ex-con trying to make a living invading people’s privacy. A two-time loser, one more felony would put him behind bars for life.
    A guard said to him as he left for the second time, “You’ll be back.” He saw no need to add that idea to his bucket list. His mindset was to do his job right. A cell camera was all he needed to be a private investigator.
    Salacious photos proved extramarital affairs. Exposed body parts were a bonus. Coitus interruptus was best. The surprise on the faces of two lovers usually made his case.
    “WTF!” was the standard reaction to his surprise picture-taking. Photos were truly worth a thousand words, or at least three.
    Those days were gone. Technology took cases out of his hands. He had to prove infidelity taking pictures with a camera. Wonks manipulating drones with keyboards only had to prove intent. It was a whole new ballgame. Carl persisted in the old way.
    Cutting corners was a fixture in a private investigator’s job. Cheating was rampant. “If you don’t start at the front of the line,” a course instructor once said, “you’ll be lost in the forest. Shed your ethics. Kick some ass.”
    Competition getting accounts was fierce. He got a couple of clients by cutting in line, first and foremost. Veteran PIs called him out on it twice. Both cases went to court and stuck. Serving time was as punitive as being molested by a sexual deviate – no fun.
    Having a good heart and plenty of smarts, Carl was resolute about success. He pounded shoe leather to get customers. Networking with others on Thursday nights at the Orchid Shadows bar on Fifth Street, fellow PI Dwayne suggested to him they shares accounts.
    “By watching some of my drone videos,” he opined casually, “you can figure out how those flying creatures work. Meanwhile, I’ll check out your cell pictures to suggest what you’re doing wrong. That’s the advantage of sharing.”
    Carl was leery of Dwayne’s kindness. Nevertheless, the next evening at the Orchid Shadows was an intense session trading client data. Normally such sharing was verboten between PIs due to confidentiality agreements.
    Dwayne walked Carl through the hovering craft mechanics. “It’s really pretty simple. Here are the controls. Try it yourself.”
    Carl manipulated the device and loaded the video. “It seems easy. Thanks, Dwayne.” Watching him exit their meeting through the front door gave Carl a rush of confidence. “Look out world, here I come,” he said exuberantly.
    Without enough money to buy a drone, a couple of cases still came Carl’s way through referrals. A payday to cover his bills seemed on the horizon using his cell camera. He felt emboldened. Four more cases tumbled his way. Things were looking up.
    Disaster struck. Clients got revealing photos from an anonymous source and walked. Somehow, an interloper had produced timely aerial photos. Carl asked around, but no client would reveal the identity of his unwanted competition. He was left holding the bag.
    Carl’s caseload dwindled to a singular case involving the house in front of him. His surveillance of the couple inside could improve his state of mind and fatten his pocketbook. If only he could get over his bad attitude.
    He sat sullenly in his Mustang with splotched paint outside that Pacific Heights mansion. The woman of the house had invited a sex buddy into her bed. She was unaware her husband – his client – had heard the arrangements being made from the other room.
    Her husband established the time and place with a call. This was the time. His van was parked in front of the place. A front door key from the hubby would give him access without breaking and entering. Surely no wonk could take this case away from him.
    His thoughts raced ahead of the facts. Suddenly he saw a small drone hover in front of the bedroom window. It rose above to angle for the best camera shot. He felt helpless to do anything to stop this intrusion into his business.
    “C’mon, folks,” he shouted at his windshield. “Give me a break.”
    The drone continued to the next window, hesitated and moved on to other windows in sequence. Carl imagined pictures being taken at each one. He wondered why no one in the house noticed the flying invader.
    As the drone went by the last window, his cell phone rang. A text message appeared, saying “This case is mine, deadhead. Wherever you go, I’ll find you. Don’t do business here.”
    It was signed “San Quentin Badass.”
    Things were getting out of hand. He needed help. Carl called Dwayne, “Help!”
    An hour on the phone brought results. Dwayne had contacts everywhere. It turned out SQ Badass had been incarcerated down the cell block from him at the same time. Dwayne turned over all his information about the perp. “You can’t go to the police,” he offered.
    After thanking Dwayne, Carl still had a dilemma. How could the information be used? A familiar woman sidled up to him whilst sitting alone at the Orchid Shadows bar moping. It was his ex-wife Kathleen.
    Her dazzling smile spoke words to him he had not heard in a while. “Hey, you, long time, no see. What’s cooking?”
    Carl was momentarily speechless. “What can I do for you?” he finally asked evenly.
    She motioned at the front passenger seat. “Mind if I sit?” his wife asked, pointing.
    His heart jumped to spite him. His ex-wife always hit a soft spot with him. “Do what you want,” he said, trying to muster a smile. Once inside, Carl noticed her appearance seemed even better than he remembered.
    Settling in, Kathleen wasted no time. “Let me update you, Carl. You and I got divorced because I was lonely waiting for you, nothing else. While I was in the waiting room cooling my heels until you could show up for our visit, I started talking to others there.
    “One man shared that – like me – he was also going through a divorce. After comparing notes, we both felt guilty about leaving our partners without being able to do anything about it. Circumstances made us instant buddies. One thing led to another. We dated and got married.
    “Here we are.”
    “Who do you mean by ‘we’? What do you mean by ‘here we are’?”
    “You, I and my new husband are the ‘we.’”
    “I’m listening.”
    “Carl, you’re a good man,” Kathleen spoke wistfully. “A good provider, you let us have a loving marriage. I agonized when all of the legal wrangling went against you. It wasn’t fair.
    “Dwayne and I talked, came up with a plan. He heard the other con has it in for you because you would not have sex in his cell. There are ways to deal with that kind of idiocy.
    “His contacts outside have been stealing your accounts. He knows a way around such theft. Your contract now in the house you are watching was finagled by Dwayne. That’s his drone taking pictures. They will be forwarded to the con through his contacts.
    “The authorities have been contacted. Charges will be brought against the guy, adding to his sentence. The cops will know about his nefarious activities. You should have no more problems keeping accounts.
    “Dwayne does think you should have a drone. The one you have been watching is yours for the taking courtesy of this happily married couple.
    “You don’t have to thank me,” she said before exiting his car after planting a wet kiss on his mouth. Carl panted, his nervous tic had returned.
    Carl Waverley had finally made a name for himself.

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