A Hard Case (Part 2)
Doris Frawley was my kind of case. In one of my client’s home photos she was being measured for a new brassiere:
Frawley wrung his gnarled hands. She’d left him with barely a dime, he said. He still had to make payments on the car she’d driven off in, still had to pay the rent, and take care of his elderly mother. I scribbled down where his wife went shopping, who her friends were, etc.
“Did she have a job?”
“Part-time stuff—waitressing, usually. She made good tips.”
“How much did she take? Is it possible she has a bank account you don’t know about?”
He shook his head. “She has no head for finance. And less than a thousand, I’d say. But it’s all I had.”
“When did she leave?”
“Two days ago. I kept thinking she’d be back.” His eyes welled up.
“This doesn’t look good,” I said, and spelled it out for him. His runaway wife had a car and plenty of gas money. Frawley had waited over 48 hours before he took action. She could be almost anywhere in the USA.
I told him to go home, and I’d do what I could.
“Leave the pictures of your wife.”
From my second-floor office window, I watched him walk away, eyes on the pavement, shoulders hunched, hands in his empty pockets. I felt bad for the guy.
As soon as he was out of sight, I spread the pictures of Doris Frawley across my desk and did what I could.
Horror Sleaze Trash 
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