The rain hadn’t stopped since Tuesday, and neither had the bills. My name’s Rex Calhoun, private investigator, caffeine enthusiast, and part-time philosopher when rent’s due. The city outside my window was drowning in its own perfume of gasoline and regret, and I was halfway through my third cup of burnt coffee when she walked in.

She had the kind of presence that made the room stand up straighter. The air turned cinematic. Her heels clicked across the linoleum like punctuation marks in a confession.

“Mr. Calhoun,” she said, voice smooth as smoke. “I hear you’re the man to see when things stop adding up.”

“Depends what kind of math you’re doing, doll,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t take on algebra or heartbreak.”

She smiled like a cat that knew the mouse was bluffing. “I’m not here for heartbreak. I’m here for truth. My husband… I think he’s involved in something. Organized crime, maybe. I just can’t prove it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a heavy maybe. What makes you think your mister’s moonlighting as a mobster?”

She crossed one leg over the other, deliberate as a loaded gun. “He’s always ‘working late.’ Keeps a separate phone. His associates have names like Vinnie Two-Toes and Sal the Quiet. And our new boat? He paid cash.”

I whistled low. “Lady, that’s not a hunch. That’s a résumé.”

“I need proof,” she said, eyes sharp. “Something solid before I make my move.”

“Your move?” I asked. “You planning to leave him or have him relocated to the bottom of that boat?”

“Depends on what you find,” she said sweetly. “And whether he deserves flowers or a funeral.”

I chuckled. “You’ve got spunk. That’s dangerous in this town. It attracts bullets and bad decisions.”

“I attract both already, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, standing up. “I just need someone who knows how to aim back.”

I watched her hand me an envelope. Cash. Enough zeroes to make me forget my better judgment.

“Find out who he really is,” she said. “And call me when you’re sure I’ll still want to know.”

She turned to leave, raincoat brushing the door frame like the end of a song.

When she was gone, I opened the envelope. There was cash, a photo, and a faint scent of expensive perfume. The kind that sticks around like regret.

I lit a cigarette I didn’t need and stared out at the city again.

The rain kept falling, but now I knew, and so would someone else.

I spent the next few days tailing the woman’s husband, trying to catch him in the act of something shady. But what I found was a man who spent his nights not in seedy back alleys, but on poorly lit stages in dingy comedy clubs.

Turns out, the woman’s husband wasn’t involved in organized crime. He was moonlighting as a stand-up comic.

And not a good one, either.

His jokes were as stale as day-old bread, his delivery as flat as a deflated balloon. His audience consisted of a handful of puzzled patrons who were more interested in their drink orders than his punchlines.

I couldn’t believe it. The woman had been convinced her husband was a criminal mastermind, but in reality, he was just a terrible comedian.

I called her to give her the news, half expecting her to be relieved. But when she answered the phone, her voice was filled with disappointment.

“Are you sure?” she asked, disbelief evident in her tone.

“Positive,” I replied. “He’s not a mobster, just a guy telling bad jokes to empty rooms.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line before she spoke again.

“Well,” she said finally, “I guess that explains why he’s always ‘working late’ and why he has a separate phone. And the boat? Probably just a vanity purchase.”

I could hear the disappointment in her voice, and I felt a pang of sympathy for her. She had been so convinced that her husband was leading a double life, only to find out he was just a lousy comic.

I offered to continue investigating if she wanted, but she declined, thanking me for my time and hanging up.

As I sat back in my office chair, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. The woman’s husband may not have been a criminal, but his comedy was definitely a crime against humor.

And as the rain continued to fall outside, I couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises this city had in store for me. Maybe next time, I’d be hired to investigate a mime with a dark secret.

But for now, I closed the case on the unfunny comic and poured myself another cup of burnt coffee, content in the knowledge that sometimes, the truth is stranger than fiction.