A short story about a detective. He's given a typical case to track down a adulterer and catch her in the act. But he finds himself with more than he can handle.
Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in . Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.
The night was piss poor, or so the illustrious Oliver Crewe thought. He lived on the top of a hill as if he were a king. It could be said that in his way, the thought held true. Crewe's estate ran for several miles in each direction and was as empty of people as the mansion on top of the hill, the large expanse of green was disturbed only by a small lake to the east of his house. The isolation was just the way the large man liked it; For he was alone, and he was the big man on top. It was the best way to live and he had lived in such a manner every day of his life. Oliver, never called ollie, never called much of anything aside from his given name, had only one concession to his solitude and even she was more of a trophy than a loved one.
His lovely Marietta. With an ass and breasts as round and ripe as a peaches, with hair the shade of the shitty dark outside his windows. Oh how he loved to look at his Marietta, to marvel at her youth. For Oliver Crewe was 58 years old while she was 30 years his senior. He knew deep in his heart of hearts that she was unhappy to live in this house with him, that she found no satisfaction in his body, but what could have been a conscience was surpassed by the fact that he knew just why Marietta stayed with him. She loved to buy and own things. They had both been raised in poor homes where a meal a day was considered a blessing. Because of this, both Oliver and Marietta raced to make up for lost time. They bought food, food fit to burst out of the refrigerator, food that spoiled without being touched. Cars, cars enough to transport an army and many other pointless baubles that filled the house like a cancer. Surely, If there was any love in that marriage, it was a love of things. But lately even Marietta and Crewe's love of things had been unable to keep her from wandering.
It had all started with a skipped dinner. Oliver didn't mind as that simply meant that he could scarf down her share as well, but when she didn't show up until early in the morning. Marietta had been dripping wet from the rain that had fallen and tried her best to hide the flush in her cheeks and the dimpled smile that crept inevitably to the surface. He knew what had happened; But, Oliver Crewe was not a man prone to great surges of emotion. So he waited. A few nights later, the same thing happened and all Marietta could say was
"I went with los chicas to the bar. We drank a little, charlamos sobre las cosas, nothing else, my love."
But he knew better. No woman came back from a night of female comraderie with a shine like that in their eyes. He would have let her go easy, as he could understand the certain needs a woman her age had that he couldn't fulfill, but the lying filled him with a cold rage. He would find out just who this man was and when he did, He would kick her out so fast that only her peach plump ass would protest as it met pavement.
A stream of light shot a narrow path through a dingy apartment. There was nothing wrong about it when looked at the first time, but the second, third, and fourth glance revealed strangeness subtly pushed into the corners. A cross, accompanied by other symbols of other religons both familiar and strange, were crowded together on the windowsill. In the window hung a Wadjet, or the eye of Horus.On the bedside sat the Bible, and as if mocking it, the Book of the Dead sat next to it. The owner of this strange abode could only be identified by a dark bronze arm carelessly thrown off the side of the bed. The rest of the person, like the many contradictions of his home, was devoured by his nest of blankets.
With ruthless efficiency the ring of a cell phone broke the stillness. The dark arm pulled itself further from the covers to reveal a dark man with wild black hair. He reached for his bedside table and found his phone.
"Hello?" he asked a moment later.
"Dickson Maine?" The voice on the other end cold with just a hint of annoyance. It was a combination he was used to, nay expected, in his profession. The man rose from his bed and snatched up a pair of boxers hastily thrown onto the floor last night to cover his nakedness. Time for work.
"That would be me. Who's asking?" he said, his deep voice friendly though he felt none of it. What he did feel was the dull throb of a hangover. Dickson scavenged in his fridge until he came across a bottle of some unlabelled rotgut with just a swallow left. His uncle Baniti had fondly referred to it as a ‘cure' Dickson took it all and coughed as it burned its' way down his throat.
"Oliver Crewe," the man replied tartly. Dickson paused in surprise.
"Don't tell me you're the Oliver Crewe who invented that bullshit miracle pill." He said incredulously,taking a moment to rake his fingers through his long hair. He heard the man snort piggishly with indignation and he smiled.
"Why you litt-"
"Excuse me, I mean that ‘marvelous pill that killed the common cold'"
"That's better," the man said, obviously immune to sarcasm. " Now if you're done, I have a job for you."
"I'm sure you wouldn't have called me otherwise, Mr.Crewe. Now what is it that you need a third-rate gumshoe like me for?" Dickson stifled a yawn as he idly picked a statue from his strange collection. He thought he picked up Anubis, but saw that the jackal's head was white. Wepwawet, the opener of ways. Dickson smiled down at the statue as if he'd come across an old friend. The man had always felt a certain kinship with the gods who fell into iniquity. Wepwawet and he had both been, in a sense, discarded by Egypt; although he had been a cast off since birth, and the wolf god since the fall of the country's empire to the romans. He could only hope that the deity would honor their spiritual brotherhood and open for him only ways that he could handle. Dickson was sharply brought back to reality by Crewe's voice.
"My wife, Marietta," he murmured. "Has lately come to...Distraction." Dickson knew what that meant. He'd heard the phrase hundreds of times in hundreds of different ways but he could always catch the gist of what the spouse was saying. Most of them tended to sound a little more bereaved then Crewe did. The man sounded as if he'd caught a dog rutting as opposed to his wife.
"Little lady's not acting quite so ladylike, I gather." He said innocently as he scrounged for the black trouser he'd worn last evening.
"Whorish, I'd say. Like a bitch in heat!" Crewe shouted. Dickson finally found his suit trousers. Now to put them on one handed would surely be a test of his dexterity.
"Ah hah, and you want me to track down the johnny who's taken your sweet little thing-"
"Marietta, away into the night?"
"Exactly right. Maybe you're a decent detective after all." Crewe said. It was a backhanded compliment. Sadly he could say that he had received worse in his time.
"Well there's an old saying in the mother country of Egypt, Crewe. Shall I tell it to you?"
"Look, I'd much rather talk business. Quaint sayings from the land of mud, shit, and alligators can wait." Dickson smirked.
"As the saying I was talking about earlier goes, Bed is the poor man's Opera."
"What are you trying to say, Maine?" Crewe said, voice threateningly low over the phone.
"Nothing at all, sir. Now how about we talk business?"