The Man of a Trillion Faces

By Mark Nutter

Before I give you my full report, let me clear something up: I really do have a trillion faces. Please don’t ask to see them or we’ll be here all night.

I’m aware I only show four faces on my website: one, me, Derek Organ, Private Investigator; two, me, Derek Organ, Private Investigator with a handlebar mustache; three, me, Derek Organ, Private Investigator with half a handlebar mustache and the other half pasted on my chin with spirit gum like a goatee; and four, the back of my head. I realize the back of my head is not technically a face, but still, I’m completely unrecognizable from that angle. Anyway, you wouldn’t have hired me to shadow your wife if you weren’t confident that I had a trillion faces.

And I don’t need to tell you that having a trillion faces makes me a great people-follower. What? I do need to tell you? Okay.

Here’s how it works. Whenever the person I’m tracking suspects they’re being followed, spins around, and sees me, I just change my face. Technically, I can do this a trillion times, though I typically tire after five and give up.

I’m glad you came to me and not the other Derek Organ online. He’s not a private investigator. I think he’s either a musician or my estranged father who I haven’t spoken with in twenty years.

Anyway, my report:

Using my current face, but with a handlebar mustache in my pocket just in case, I began tailing your wife. She was leaving her hair salon, and I can understand why you’re worried she might be having an affair. She looked amazing. I seriously considered having an affair with her myself after I’d finished shadowing her and you’d paid me.

I followed her for several city blocks, doing a professional job of keeping my distance, except one time I got distracted by her sexy walk and realized my hands were on her hips like we were doing a conga line. I’m pretty sure she got a good look at my face before she slapped it. Then she flagged down a policeman and pointed me out. Uh-oh, I said to myself as I backed into an alley, time to change into another of my trillion faces. Probably should pick one without a big red welt on the cheek.

She ducked into a sexy lingerie shop in the Sexy Lingerie Shop District. This seemed a perfect time to disguise myself as a lingerie salesman. I had five thousand lingerie salesman faces to choose from, so I picked one with a pencil thin mustache, of which I had about two hundred.

I entered the shop and watched from a distance as she examined frilly nightgowns. Confident she wouldn’t see through my disguise, I approached to try gathering more information.

“These nightgowns are very popular with women who are having affairs,” I said.

“Is that a fact?” she said, eyeing my hands as if she suspected they had recently been on her hips.

“In fact, I think your lover would enjoy seeing you in this.” I grabbed a black lace something off a rack and held it up. It was a teddy or a dish towel—I don’t know, lingerie is not my field. She gave me a wary look, not one that said she recognized me, but rather that she’s considering calling the cops.

“Zere is no need to worry,” I assured her in a French accent I’d forgotten to use earlier. “I’m a professional lingerie salesman. If you’d like, I’ll meet you in ze dressing room and help you try on your purchase, madame.”

I dashed into the dressing room and waited. I probably should have let her go in first, but I was eager to see if my disguise was still effective in a confined space.

When she didn’t appear for twenty minutes, I peeked out to find out what was keeping her.

She was nowhere in the store! I had wasted twenty minutes! I panicked for another ten minutes, then prepared to leave the lingerie shop and chase her. With spirit gum and my trusty handlebar mustache, I transformed into a mustachioed Olympic gold medal sprinter, a disguise that helped me run faster.

Back out on the street, I looked in both directions but didn’t see her. I asked myself, if I were a woman having an affair, which way would I go? Clearly I would go someplace downhill from where I stood, because it was less work. I started running.

Then I spotted her. A woman! She looked nothing like your wife. She was a foot taller, wore denim overalls, and had massively overdeveloped forearms like Popeye.

It was then I realized I was dealing with a mistress of disguise. She’s a clever one, I thought, but a woman of a trillion faces can never fool a man of a trillion faces, as the saying goes.

Oh, but she tried. As I shoved pedestrians out of the way in an effort to keep her in sight, she became a skinny supermodel, a feeble grandmother with a walker, a traffic cop, and a pear-shaped tourist from Minnesota. She used even more disguises in the next block.

I, in turn, transformed into a sidewalk Santa Claus, a two-year-old toddler, and a sexy lingerie salesman so I could practice my French accent.

And so, after a day of pursuing your wife, I can say with certainty she’s having an affair. She is also selling arms to terrorists and will soon give a TED Talk on the Five Habits of Successful Entrepreneurs.

What do you mean, you’re not going to pay me? You think I followed random strangers and made up a story about your wife being a mistress of disguise? As a professional investigator, I am deeply insulted.

Okay, pay me fifty percent. No? Then how about $5.95 for a bottle of spirit gum remover?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mark Nutter grew up in a motel near Joliet, Illinois, which is not as glamorous as it sounds. He’s been published in Mystery Weekly, Dear Leader Tales, and the Daily Drunk Magazine. He’s written a short fiction collection (‘Sunset Cruise on the River Styx’), musicals (‘ReAnimator the Musical’), television (‘SNL,’ ‘3rd Rock from the Sun’) and film (‘Almost Heroes’).

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Author Website