Painted Ladies

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My first client of the day (and of the week, truth be known) came into my office on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving and sat in one of my client chairs. He was medium-height and slim, wearing a brown tweed suit, a blue paisley bow tie, and a look of satisfaction.

“You’re Spenser,” he said.

“Yes, I am,” I said.

“I am Dr. Ashton Prince,” he said.

He handed me a card, which I put on my desk.

“How nice,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“What can I do for you, Dr. Prince.”

“I am confronted with a matter of extreme sensitivity,” he said.

I nodded.

“May I count on your discretion?” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“I’m serious,” he said.

“I can tell,” I said.

He frowned slightly. Less in disapproval than in uncertainty.

“Well,” he said, “may I?”

“Count on my discretion?”

“Yes!”

“At the moment, I don’t have anything to be discreet about,” I said. “But I would be if I did.”

He stared at me for a moment, then smiled.

“I see,” he said. “You’re attempting to be funny.”

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