Me and "Hormone," as I call the over-built owner of the gym, had been pumping iron since 7 a.m., and now we were shaving in the Men's dressing room. "A lawyer-woman wants me to help her look into a possible fraud and murder at our insurance company. Get us killed," I mumbled, "or fired." "Is there a third choice at that women's insurance dump where you work?" Hormone asks. "Prove the fraud and the murder -- and be heroes?" "Humph." I say. "That's what she says." I rinse my face, strap on my leg, which I earned in Afghanistan, and I head for work, where I know there will be chaos, pure female chaos. And accusation.
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