Detective Story
When the lightening crashes, the cheap venetian blinds over the window let in bars of light across my desk like a TV with a broken something. The black funnel shaded lamp wobbles on its chain for no particular reason other than the neat effect it has on the lighting. I pop the top of my zippo with a snap and flick the flint to buzz a flame with that little hiss of air sucking into ignition. The white of the ember ember of the cigarette reflects off the glass, illuminating the little running bubbles.
Then there is a knock on the door. Even from here, I can see the shadow of an eye trying to look in through the peephole. You have a peephole long enough, you notice these sorts of things.
"It's open," I call through a throat thick with bourbon and whiskey, the glass empty but fuming with traces of alcohol on a file envelope labeled "Case - Gordon."
The door opens, and a dame walks in with her brown hair tossed over one shoulder and wearing a black trench coat with a hem that cuts off half way down the thigh. Her lips are full and pouty, a dark shade of gray. Her skin is an ashen shade of white with deep shadows on her eyes. Her cigarette trails white smoke as she plants her hand on her hip and leans against the door frame like she was meant to be there, a statue and a silhouette all at once. The kind of statue you’d like to wake up next to as long as she wasn’t made of marble or had an inflation tube on the back of her neck.
"Can I help you, mam?"
She sticks her head forward and places her other hand on her hip, pouting her lips out.
"You're the only one who can help me."
I puff my cigarette and run my finger around the rim of my dark gray fedora. I reach for the empty glass on the table but stop myself. The bottle of rum is on the filing cabinet by the door. The whiskey and bourbon on the table on the far side of the room. I know that if I am going to get to the bottom of this, I must deal with things one thing at a time, especially if I’m going to get to the bottom of this in a way that leads to me getting her into bed.
I run my eyes up and down her body like a cheap gumshoe, waiting for her to continue.
"And?"
"You're the only one who can help me."
I reach for the glass again, close my fingers around it and lift before I am thwarted again by its emptiness. Unsure of what to do with the glass and feeling a bit awkward by the attractive woman's off-kilter repetition, I slip the glass into my trouser pocket in a surreptitious manner. I can tell already that this is going to be a difficult encounter and I am already doubting whether or not I’ll be able to get her into bed.
“Okay. We’ve established that much.”
She straightens. Smoothes her coat down her sumptuous, pale thighs.
“My husband is missing. You’re the only one who can help me.”
I nod, soberly and realize that I am rapidly approaching sobriety because of the distance between myself and the alcohol and the presence of this dame. Bracing myself for the possibility that this woman has come to my office for more than soliciting sex, I decide that the best course of action is to sit, so I sit on the silver chair and pull myself into the black desk.
“And how can I help you with that?”
She scrunches up her little button nose and a crease appears between her penciled eyebrows.
“Well, you can find him for starters. You’re the only one who can help me.”
“Can we continue this without any further repetitions of ‘you’re the only one who can help me’?”
“If that’s the way you’d like it.”
Then she slides the little padded chair from beside the file cabinet, and the light hanging over my desk wobbles mysteriously on its chain, again producing that curious effect of moving shadows. She crosses her thigh over her knee, preventing me from trying to glance up the bottom of the trench coat. I can’t even tell if she’s wearing anything under that coat.
“So...you’re husband is missing and you want me to find him?”
“Well what did you expect? It’s not like I’m trying to solicit sex.”
I shrug. Disappointing. I figure at least rules of social protocol can relax.
“Well, before we start talking, could you be a dear and hop to the file cabinet and grab me that bottle of rum?”
Confusion on her face as she complies. A touch of irritation. If I wasn’t going to get sex before, I certainly won’t now. She bangs the bottle bottom against the table as she sets it down.
“Can we get down to business now?”
“Well, first tell me why you think I can help.”
“You don’t want to know his name? Where I last saw him? How else will you know if it’s a case you can handle?”
“Case?”
She takes the bottle, pops the plug and swigs. A trickle of rum runs down her thin. The murky gray liquid totters in the bottle.
“Are you just playing hard ball or what? Or is this some trick?”
“What are you talking about? Why are you here? You’re not even wet. It’s pouring outside.”
“Trench coats keep you dry,” she says. “Speaking of which, why aren’t you wearing one?”
I look down on myself. I’m wearing gray jeans and a black and white checkered shirt. The checkers seem to cast shadows in the wobble of the overhead light.
“Should I be? I’m indoors.”
The woman opens one of the pockets of her trench coat and pulls out a folded bunch of papers. She flips through them.
“This conversation isn’t going at all according to my script.”
“You brought a script?”
“Well you don’t enter a detectives office without some preconceived notions of what is going to be said, now do you?”
“Detective?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What makes you think I’m a detective?”
"Well, there's a file folder on the desk, for starters."
I look down at the gray folder.
"That's a red herring."
She shrugs.
“We are in black and white, aren’t we?”
She had me there. Maybe I was a detective. But if so, were was my gun? I didn’t feel particularly hard-boiled unless you counted by now rather confused hard on.
“I guess I can be a detective for you.”
She looks around frantically. Then straight into my eyes. The kind of gaze that makes you want to tear your shirt open and howl at the moon like some lost, wild beast.
“Give me your glass” she says.
“My glass?”
“In your pocket.”
I shrug, pull out the glass and slide it across the table. She takes the bottle of rum, pours two fingers into the glass and sloshes it in my face. I was right. Long night ahead. And not in the good way.
“Not if you’re going to make it sound so dirty.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t be all ‘I guess I can be a detective for you.’”
I wipe my chin with my palm, then suck the rum out of the collar of my shirt. I haven’t even started being a detective and I already suspect that I’m not going to be a very good one.
“Well what should I say then?”
She opens her script.
I wave my hand.
“Look, I’m sorry you’re husband is missing, but I just don’t think this scene is working for me.”
She pouts a second.
“You feel it too, huh?”
I nod. We both stand up and shake hands.
“It was really nice meeting you,” I say. “Sorry I can’t be more help. You might want to try next door. That guy is real gritty.”
“I’ll do that,” She says. “Sorry I threw a drink in your face.”
“Cheap stuff anyway.”
She walks to the door, looks over her shoulder and blows me a kiss. I catch it and shove it down the front of my pants. Then she is gone forever, like a wind in the desert with the name of Sarah.
I step back over to the window. Yep. It’s a dark and stormy night.
Then there is a knock on the door. Even from here, I can see the shadow of an eye trying to look in through the peephole. You have a peephole long enough, you notice these sorts of things.
"It's open," I call through a throat thick with bourbon and whiskey, the glass empty but fuming with traces of alcohol on a file envelope labeled "Case - Gordon."
The door opens, and a dame walks in with her brown hair tossed over one shoulder and wearing a black trench coat with a hem that cuts off half way down the thigh. Her lips are full and pouty, a dark shade of gray. Her skin is an ashen shade of white with deep shadows on her eyes. Her cigarette trails white smoke as she plants her hand on her hip and leans against the door frame like she was meant to be there, a statue and a silhouette all at once. The kind of statue you’d like to wake up next to as long as she wasn’t made of marble or had an inflation tube on the back of her neck.
"Can I help you, mam?"
She sticks her head forward and places her other hand on her hip, pouting her lips out.
"You're the only one who can help me."
I puff my cigarette and run my finger around the rim of my dark gray fedora. I reach for the empty glass on the table but stop myself. The bottle of rum is on the filing cabinet by the door. The whiskey and bourbon on the table on the far side of the room. I know that if I am going to get to the bottom of this, I must deal with things one thing at a time, especially if I’m going to get to the bottom of this in a way that leads to me getting her into bed.
I run my eyes up and down her body like a cheap gumshoe, waiting for her to continue.
"And?"
"You're the only one who can help me."
I reach for the glass again, close my fingers around it and lift before I am thwarted again by its emptiness. Unsure of what to do with the glass and feeling a bit awkward by the attractive woman's off-kilter repetition, I slip the glass into my trouser pocket in a surreptitious manner. I can tell already that this is going to be a difficult encounter and I am already doubting whether or not I’ll be able to get her into bed.
“Okay. We’ve established that much.”
She straightens. Smoothes her coat down her sumptuous, pale thighs.
“My husband is missing. You’re the only one who can help me.”
I nod, soberly and realize that I am rapidly approaching sobriety because of the distance between myself and the alcohol and the presence of this dame. Bracing myself for the possibility that this woman has come to my office for more than soliciting sex, I decide that the best course of action is to sit, so I sit on the silver chair and pull myself into the black desk.
“And how can I help you with that?”
She scrunches up her little button nose and a crease appears between her penciled eyebrows.
“Well, you can find him for starters. You’re the only one who can help me.”
“Can we continue this without any further repetitions of ‘you’re the only one who can help me’?”
“If that’s the way you’d like it.”
Then she slides the little padded chair from beside the file cabinet, and the light hanging over my desk wobbles mysteriously on its chain, again producing that curious effect of moving shadows. She crosses her thigh over her knee, preventing me from trying to glance up the bottom of the trench coat. I can’t even tell if she’s wearing anything under that coat.
“So...you’re husband is missing and you want me to find him?”
“Well what did you expect? It’s not like I’m trying to solicit sex.”
I shrug. Disappointing. I figure at least rules of social protocol can relax.
“Well, before we start talking, could you be a dear and hop to the file cabinet and grab me that bottle of rum?”
Confusion on her face as she complies. A touch of irritation. If I wasn’t going to get sex before, I certainly won’t now. She bangs the bottle bottom against the table as she sets it down.
“Can we get down to business now?”
“Well, first tell me why you think I can help.”
“You don’t want to know his name? Where I last saw him? How else will you know if it’s a case you can handle?”
“Case?”
She takes the bottle, pops the plug and swigs. A trickle of rum runs down her thin. The murky gray liquid totters in the bottle.
“Are you just playing hard ball or what? Or is this some trick?”
“What are you talking about? Why are you here? You’re not even wet. It’s pouring outside.”
“Trench coats keep you dry,” she says. “Speaking of which, why aren’t you wearing one?”
I look down on myself. I’m wearing gray jeans and a black and white checkered shirt. The checkers seem to cast shadows in the wobble of the overhead light.
“Should I be? I’m indoors.”
The woman opens one of the pockets of her trench coat and pulls out a folded bunch of papers. She flips through them.
“This conversation isn’t going at all according to my script.”
“You brought a script?”
“Well you don’t enter a detectives office without some preconceived notions of what is going to be said, now do you?”
“Detective?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What makes you think I’m a detective?”
"Well, there's a file folder on the desk, for starters."
I look down at the gray folder.
"That's a red herring."
She shrugs.
“We are in black and white, aren’t we?”
She had me there. Maybe I was a detective. But if so, were was my gun? I didn’t feel particularly hard-boiled unless you counted by now rather confused hard on.
“I guess I can be a detective for you.”
She looks around frantically. Then straight into my eyes. The kind of gaze that makes you want to tear your shirt open and howl at the moon like some lost, wild beast.
“Give me your glass” she says.
“My glass?”
“In your pocket.”
I shrug, pull out the glass and slide it across the table. She takes the bottle of rum, pours two fingers into the glass and sloshes it in my face. I was right. Long night ahead. And not in the good way.
“Not if you’re going to make it sound so dirty.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t be all ‘I guess I can be a detective for you.’”
I wipe my chin with my palm, then suck the rum out of the collar of my shirt. I haven’t even started being a detective and I already suspect that I’m not going to be a very good one.
“Well what should I say then?”
She opens her script.
I wave my hand.
“Look, I’m sorry you’re husband is missing, but I just don’t think this scene is working for me.”
She pouts a second.
“You feel it too, huh?”
I nod. We both stand up and shake hands.
“It was really nice meeting you,” I say. “Sorry I can’t be more help. You might want to try next door. That guy is real gritty.”
“I’ll do that,” She says. “Sorry I threw a drink in your face.”
“Cheap stuff anyway.”
She walks to the door, looks over her shoulder and blows me a kiss. I catch it and shove it down the front of my pants. Then she is gone forever, like a wind in the desert with the name of Sarah.
I step back over to the window. Yep. It’s a dark and stormy night.
posted by Andrew Najberg at 1:50 PM
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