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She was waiting in my office when I got there, and I don't leave the door unlocked. Never. Tricks of the trade and all that. I wasn’t worried about it; the lock could
be picked by a third-grader with a bobby pin. In fact, I was impressed. It didn’t hurt that she looked like Marilyn with black hair and the kind of body that altered gravitational fields. She was magnetically charged. So was I. I started wondering whether
we would attract or repel. Her red dress revealed much.
“Ma’am?”
“Mr. Saunders. I’m sorry I had to … let myself in. I can’t be seen here. Anywhere really. That’s why I’m here.”
“Somebody’s looking for you?”
“Yeah. Cops.”
“Ma’am, I’m gonna stop you right there. I don’t mess with the blues, and they leave me alone. I don’t…”
“It’s a frame up.”
That’s usually a guarantee of guilt right there, but her eyelashes were practically tickling my chin, so I bit.
“Who framed you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are they saying you did?”
“Murder.”
“And you didn’t.”
“Of course not.”
She smiled. Didn’t look a bit offended. That set off all the red, blinking lights and whistles, but I was still enjoying the way she smelled – like cigarettes, butterscotch,
and perfume people like me can’t afford. She was dressed to the nines, too. Her fur could have covered the rent on my office for half a year.
I reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch.
“Drink?”
“Please.”
So, I made the fucking drinks. I even lit her a cigarette. Ain’t I a goddamn prince?
“Do you believe me?”
“That doesn’t really matter.”
“I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
She said it in a way that meant maybe more than greenbacks, and I wasn’t sure if I was happy, angry, or tired. I yawned. Adjusted my pants.
“Would you tell me if you
did do it?”
“No.”
“Smart.”
“I try.”
I put my worn boots on the table and lit a cigarette. I took a deep drag and let the smoke envelope my face. Even through the smoke, she looked like a goddess. You gotta worry
about all of them, but especially the pretty ones. The prettier dames are, the worse off you are. Cinch.
“So, what do you want me to do? Start poking around?”
She smiled bayonets.
“No, Mr. Saunders; I want you to kill my husband.”
A sip of scotch got caught sideways in my throat. I coughed for a good thirty seconds, but she didn’t move a muscle.
“Listen, lady. You are very, very pretty. You also seem crazy and misinformed. I’m not a hired killer. I’m a detective.”
“Everybody has a price.”
“Not me.”
She passed me an envelope, and I took it. I expected it to be fat with cash. No such luck. Maybe just an offensively large check, then? But no. It was a polaroid picture.
A picture. Of me. A picture of me that would put me back in prison for the rest of my life. I thought I’d destroyed all the evidence. The picture was like a punch to the solar plexus. My hands were shaking as I filled my glass and watered the table with cheap liquor.
“Where did you get that?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I guess not.”
She pulled out another envelope. This one was as thick as a Presbyterian’s skull. I looked inside. Enough money to buy my way out of the game. I extended my palms. She stood
up and walked slowly around the desk, making sure I was watching every little hip twitch.
“Can I ask why you want your husband dead?”
“Sure, doll. I’m tired of him, but divorce is so unseemly.”
I was about to tell her to take a leap, but then I looked at the picture. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, but it looked plenty bad, and I had no convenient explanation. She
sat down on my lap and looked into my eyes. She ran one manicured finger along my jaw. The jaw I hadn’t shaved for weeks.
“So, what do you think?”
“I think it’s time to make a terrible decision. Or a few.”
I took her on the desk. She was calling the shots, though. I was just too scared to do anything about it. And, well, she wasn’t ugly – it wasn’t a chore is what I’m saying.
And there was a good chance I wouldn’t be seeing any women for a long, long time. No matter how it played out. Only thing I knew was that I was not calling any shots. On the desk or anywhere else.
When we finished and got decent, I grabbed my hat and overcoat and slipped a flask of scotch into my pocket. She freshened her lipstick and wrapped silk around her head.
Big sunglasses. No point putting it off. I dragged a hand down my face and tried to look ready. It didn’t work.
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