It was a quiet day. The heat of the sun mixed with the humid air coming off the Potomac river and the result was a haze that hung heavily like a wet blanket over the city. It was the kind of day that comes up to ya and grabs ya by the lapels and says, “Hey buddy! You better watch your damn step or I’ll – wait, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. Never mind. ” And then it lets you go and walks away. One of those kinds of days.
I was leaning back in a chair in my office looking at the Washington Monument – the kind of fine memorial that can only be planned out if you happen to have five minutes and a straight edge. The old rickety wooden chair creaked as it rocked gently. I had four slugs in me – one was metal, two were whiskey, and the fourth was a particularly bad piece of escargot that I’d gotten for lunch from Larry’s Escar-a-go-go on Third. The metal one I’d gotten back in the war – Grenada. It wasn’t really war, but I called it a war because that’s what I wanted to call it. I also sometimes called rabbits fuzz muffins, but that’s another story. But Grenada – it was the worst four days of my life – I’d forgotten to set the VCR and I’d missed “Dallas.” And I don’t watch reruns – I’m not that kinda guy. Oh, and I got shot.
The name’s Sam Marlowe. I’m a detective. I get 10 bucks an hour plus expenses plus a $50 bonus that goes directly towards my student loans. I went to the University of Miami (Ohio) at their San Diego campus. I spent two semesters just trying to figure out where the hell I was. Turns out I was in Denver. Whatever the case, I’m a hired gun – if you got something
that needs doing, I’m your man. Preferably in the shady, crime-related area – not so much in the housecleaning or dog-walking area.
It’s been a while since I had a case and times were tight. That’s why I’d only been able to afford to eat one escargot. So it was with a great sense of relief that I heard the door to the outer office open and the clicking of my secretary’s typewriter stop. Something stirred in my gut and I checked to see that my trusty revolver was loaded and in my shoulder holster. I felt the cold steel and realized with dismay that I’d forgotten the knitted revolver cosy that I’d spent all last week making. Damn it.
The door to my office opened and my secretary Eva slipped in to the dark room.
“Sam,” she said excitedly, “there’s a woman out here who looks like she’s worth about a million bucks. She says she’s gotta case.”
A dame – it figured. I’d been waiting for weeks for a case and in walked some rich broad who probably lost a poodle. Just what I needed. “Well, send her in, baby. Let’s see what she’s after.”
Eva slipped back out into the outer office and I heard a murmur of voices. Next thing I know, the door opened and in walked Trouble with a capital “T”… and a small “r” and “o” and “u” and, well, you get the rest. Brunette, as usual.
Boy, she was a looker too. She had a set of legs which just wouldn’t
quit. And it’s a good thing to, because if they did, she’d have fallen flat on her pretty face. And it was pretty – dark blue eyes, ruby red lips, cherry cheeks, and a belly the shook like a bowl full of jelly – wait, got confused there. Well, let’s just say she was hot – as sultry as that muggy July day.
She sashayed into the office and surveyed me with an appraising look. I must’ve passed muster because she nodded her approval and extended her hand. “Penny Bouvier,” she said, in the kind’ve voice that makes a man want to call her answering machine over and over again to listen to her talking about the beep. Hell, it makes me wish I was the beep so that she’d be talkin’ about me.
“Sam Marlowe,” I said.
She indicated the chair in front of my desk. “You mind if I have a seat?”
I leaned back in my chair and looked at her with half-closed eyes underneath the brim of my hat. “It’s a free country,” I said.
She picked up the chair and walked out of the office with it. On the way out, she grabbed my stapler too.
This was going to be interesting.
To Be Continued…