MOAR Marcus Remington!

...
"Grease on his sleeve?" I had my doubts that the husband was having an affair, but he was definitely acting suspiciously. Still, she wanted my services, and I had been short on cash lately. Turns out, getting a reputation as an exceptional private investigator, especially when the word spreads to the criminal underground, tends to make the scum who are still free avoid your city like the plague. I hadn't had a case in almost six weeks! "Seems like you have an unusual set of circumstances, Miss, ah..."
"Sander."
"Thank you. I'll take the job, it's ten an hour. I'll start tailing him tomorrow." It was a lot of money to charge, but I was running dry, and my notoriety hopefully made it worth it.
"Very well then, Mr. Remington. I'm hoping for the best, and that my husband isn't up to anything. Here." She handed me her address and number, smoothly written on a scrap of paper. Then she got up, paid the bartender, and left. I got up myself, to pay for my drinks and head back to my apartment. When I got there, Mick said, "You getting more, or ya leavin'?"
"I'm headin' home. What do I owe?"
"Nothin'. Yer lady friend paid for your scotch." I raised an eyebrow.
*to be continued*