Hash Browns

My name is Frank Fanta. I'm a private investigator and I notice things.
I was having coffee in Dunkin', reading how the Jets got slammed again. I put the paper down and check out the guy to my right, who has spread his hash browns across a napkin. I counted twelve before he began wolfing them down.
A moment later, a young girl with that peppy expression I hate sits down with her hash browns looking concerned. I could see her hash brown pouch wasn't full. She went back to the counter and asked if she could have several more. The counter guy, stocky, swarthy, bulbous nose, barked out a no. There was no compromise in his face. Hands on hips, he was ready to stare her down. You got what you ordered, lady, he said.
She turned away defeated. I don't like guys who bark at girls, so I got up slowly and walked over.
"That guy over there got twelve hash browns," I whispered hoarsely. "I believe you owe this young lady some food."
I gave him my steely glare.
"This is none of your business, buddy," he said.
"I'm making it my business."
I touch my jacket. He saw the bulge. Yeah, I was packing.
Frank Fanta, P.I., I growled, flashing my ID.
The punk flinched and skulked over to the oven for a new pack of browns. I handed it to the grateful girl with a slight nod and returned to my seat.
Then the dame entered the picture.
She must have been hanging in the corner out of my sight. If liquid could move it would look like this. Tall and leggy, with a Veronica Lake  hair sweep, eyes that seethed trouble and announced this was one lake that needed to be drained and I was dying to be her sump pump.
"I heard you say you're a private eye, Mr. Fanta. I may have a job for you. I believe my husband is cheating on me."
I leaned back and gobbled her up with my eyes, trying not to twitch.
"Sit down. We can talk here, Mrs..."
"Webster. As in the dictionary."
"Can I get you some hash browns?" It wasn't a question.