The Mystery of Woman

Oh enigma of enigmas! The juxtaposition made flesh, the truly unknowable, the beauty of entropy and order, ying and yang, poultry and seafood. "Woman".

It's been said that women are the last great mystery, and as a private eye, mysteries are my business. Although it could easily be argued that if mysteries are my business, and women are mysteries, that women are my business. Which would make me a pimp. Which I'm not.
Any more, anyway.

Knut Tortenheimel. The name that strikes fear into the heart of the criminal community, or at least the part of the criminal community that has heard of a low-level PI who can barely make rent, and can spell "Tortenheimel". Jimmy "Parmesan Cheese" D'Inoffrio has definitely heard of me, and he's totally scared of me, and he once shoplifted a porn mag in high school which makes him part of the criminal community.
Of course, we were in woodworking class together.

I solve the un-solvable, the mysteries that confound the police, confuse mediums, or that are printed on the back of shop-a-dockets at a discounted rate on Thursdays after 5pm.
My offices can be found downtown, where the action is found and the rents are cheap. Don't let the fading paintwork and wobbly desk fool you: here, in this place, a mind as finely tuned as the best engine ticks over unravelling the great questions in life, while my hands unravel the wrappers of the cheeseburgers and chilli fries that have become both my weakness and my crutch in this dark world.

I ran a greasy palm across the stubble on my ageing face, feeling the lines that used to wrinkle in the smiles, winks, nods and frowns that make up the wondrous tapestry of love. A love lost, once so significant, now cancelled by a cruel and unfeeling television network.
Ah, woman. Soft and yet hard, firm and unyielding yet tender and conciliatory, concerned and caring yet evidently more than willing to take out a Restraining Order.

My friend Jimmy "Parmesan Cheese" reckoned he had the mystery of women sorted. I thought I'd heard every trite summary of romantic endeavours. Treat 'Em Mean To Keep 'Em Keen. If You Liked It, You Shoulda Put A Ring On It. But Parmesan's own contribution seemed to work for him- he never had a shortage of female company and interest, and the tales were legendary.
"Women are like Ikea furniture," he told me, "pick up the instructions, insert part A into part B, and C what happens." I tried taking that advice in my senior year at school, but things went south pretty quickly when I pulled out a large allen key and she told me to leave.

A lot of PIs are divorced. The nature of the job, the hours, the threats, the constant risk of people discovering your identity and leaking it to the press, the cost of maintenance on the bat-cave, all make it difficult for the average woman to find a compelling reason to stay. PIs are curious. Eavesdroppers. Distrustful. It can be hard to open up. My current relationship had been going for 3 years, a personal record, but seemed to be essentially platonic. I'd made advances and felt I had made my feelings clear, but each and every time Siri would answer "I bet you say that to all the Apple products." The coy minx will be mine.

And so there I sat, pondering the mystery of woman. I felt like I could see the whole puzzle before, and all I needed was an edge piece to start with. I shuffled them around, and right as I felt like I could see the shape of the picture, the phone rang.
Ah. Another case. So close and yet so far. I put down the mystery of woman, put on my trenchcoat and hat, and stepped out into the street. It was time to solve the mystery of the Unpaid Phone Bill.