It was late but I was still at my desk. I had a hunch. I was waiting for something. Someone. Anything. Anyone. Outside, the rain hung in sheets as big as the ones on my ex-girlfriend’s bed. She was fat. REAL fat. I thought about calling downstairs for a sandwich but the joint closes at nine and it was coming up on bourbon o’clock. My mind and the desktop calendar compared notes. Both came up blank. I hadn’t had a case in weeks.

The night was as black as Tupac Shakur’s funeral and I was getting restless. To make matters worse, I was suffering an erection that threatened to leap off my body, run away to Mexico and start a Mariachi band. My only recourse was to slap it silly, hoping a good beating would sedate it for a few hours, giving me time to think. I had been handling jalapenos all day so I snapped on a surgical glove. Better safe than sorry you burnt your joint off. That’s when She walked in.

I realized two things simultaneously. One…I’d never be the same again, and Two…my diarrhea cramps were getting worse.

It took my eyes a few seconds to climb all the way up to hers. What can I say, they’re out of shape and had to take a break somewhere near the top of her kneecap. She stared at me like we were long lost pals or at least kissing cousins.

“Are you coming to bed?” She spat, bluntly. Her voice was a machine that had a little sand in the gears. She sounded like a million cigarettes but smelled like a patch of daisies.

“Are you takin’ a survey?” I said. Not the best response but it would do.

She just stared at me. I guess I had thrown her off.

“Why are you wearing a fedora?”

She was good. My mother hadn’t raised a gentleman but I knew the difference between indoors and out. I threw the hat on a worn ottoman.

“Sorry Doll. Sometimes it feels like it’s always raining. Even inside.”

“Are you wearing a rubber glove?”

Now I was on the defensive. I couldn’t tell a potential meal ticket that I had lost a burrito eating contest that afternoon and didn’t want to sully my man-muscle with traces of hot pepper juice. I yanked off the glove and threw it an empty bin.

“I was about to make a salad.” I responded, and then, changing the subject, “What can I do for you doll face? I charge $700 a day plus expenses…in advance. If you ain’t paying I’ll be getting back to the mystery of where the bottom of this glass went.” I took a big slug and rested the tumbler back down on a coaster that read, “Do I look like a people person?”

“Rob, are you drinking? It’s, like, three in the morning.”

I had to think fast.

“Yeah, well it’s three in the morning somewhere!”

This threw her off long enough to buy me a few minutes to think. Rob. I hadn’t heard that name in about a million lifetimes. Maybe she and I had been around the block a few times. Her face did cast a familiar shadow.

“You’re wasted. Come to bed.”

That’s when I noticed she was wearing a bathrobe. Funny. I was about forty-five seconds into the case and already felt like someone had slapped me on the back of the neck. I wiped the sweat off my upper lip and plodded on.

“Come on sweetheart, what’s the story? Deadbeat dad? Mean boyfriend? Buried treasure? Or perhaps you want me to solve the mystery of how you traipsed into my office in a bathrobe and didn’t get a drop of rain on you. If you hadn’t noticed its raining hounds and pussies outside.” I popped a few Tums for emphasis. Extra-strength.

“Stand up.” She said.

Now we were talking. Her station was coming in crystal clear. I stood up. My slacks felt tight and I remembered my little problem. I didn’t have to wonder how red my face was. I saw it reflected in hers. Damn mirror faced broad.

“Oh my god. Are you jerking off to porn? Rob…”

“How about I ask the questions Kitten?” I said, sitting back down.

“You are! Isn’t that impossible when you’re drunk? Come to bed.”

And like Chevy Chase’s career…she was gone. I slumped back into my seat.

In my business it’s as easy as that. They come and they go, with an emphasis on the latter. This one was different, though. Perhaps I’d follow up tomorrow. Do a little snooping on my own, gratis. But before I could make a note or ink a page on the calendar, I found myself swimming in a hole as deep and as black as the night outside. It closed in on me and I sank.

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.