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The dame slides into my office and for the first minute I'm just trying pay attention to what she's saying. That's a little tricky given I'm preoccupied trying to figure out on my own what her deal is, and that's not even to mention trying to coolly avoid looking at her. It's not just a hardboiled detective move. I also just know if I look at her, my jaw'll be too firmly on the floor for me to catch what she's actually here for.
She's tall- maybe not Pickle Inspector tall, but taller than me. She's wearing a hat with a wide brim, and her hair loose and long beneath it, falling down her back and past the curve of her hip. It's evening, and my office is thrown into chiaroscuran relief, all sharp blacks and whites and angles. Chiaroscuran. Big word, but a good one.
She doesn't wear any jewellery, but it's easy to see she's used to it- the way she holds her wrists, her long fingers, her shoulders back and her head posed, all imply she's dripping with wealth, though she's not demonstrating it. She wears a long dress, slinky, and a clinging coat. There's some sort of shiny weave to it; in my little world of all black and white and sharp points, the dame's curves seem to stand out green.
It's sort of hard not to notice. She's only the most gorgeous set of legs ever to walk into my office, and I'm just damn glad I cleaned earlier.
She's spinning me her story. It's mundane and entirely believeable. Her eyes are big and her lips part a little as she earnestly tells me her history. I wait until she finishes, and then wait a bit more.
"So, Mister Sleuth," she says, her voice still ringing with that utterly believable honesty, "do you think you could possibly help me?"
I tip my hat back and look up at her, standing in front of my desk. Her hands are clasped together, holding her purse in front of her. I know she's not a kid, but in that moment, she looks like one; some filly right out of boarding school and into a marriage her parents orchestrated and on her own for the first time.
"Lady," I say, "maybe if you want my help, you should try not telling me a pack of lies."
There's a pause, as she decides whether to be offended. In the end, she smiles. Then she sits down on my desk, right in front of me. "Well, then, Detective. Maybe you can tell me what you'd like to know." Her lips are Cupid's-bow curved.
I lean back. Her perfume is starting to make my head spin. It's not strong. It's just good. "Alright, then," I say. "I'd like to know what makes you think I'd buy that in the first place."
She laughs softly. "I've never met you. I like to test rumours for myself."
"Alright. I'd like to think I passed your little test." I reach into my pocket and pull out a book of matches and a case of cigarettes. She mimics my gesture, pulling a long cigarette holder out of her purse. I fit it in for her and give it back, and she leans in close as I light the match. Her eyes are on mine the whole time. They're deep, dark, and full of stars.
"Perhaps," she replies after a long drag, breathing a plume of smoke from her perfect lips. "I understand in colleges, professors don't release your marks until midterms. Are you a well-schooled man, Mister Sleuth?"
"Men like me never have time for extra studies," I say. "Don't need a degree to do what I do."
She smiles. "No, perhaps not." Her whole attitude has changed now. She's all sensual curves, secrets and smiles, and I can tell this is already a lot closer to her real self. Not all the way, though. She already said she was testing me.
"Alright, lady," I say abruptly, cutting the banter short. "Let's get going. I'm not known for my patience, which I'm sure your word on the street informed you. How about you cut the act and tell me what you really need?"
She raises an eyebrow delicately, and seems to shift slightly, retreating a little as she drops her second act. The first, mild rich housewife. The second, seductive and strong. And this one already seems to suit her better. I don't think she'll try the trick a third time.
"Alright, slick," she says, and her voice has lowered, quiet and slow like syrup, "if you're so eager to get around to business, let's talk."
I kick back in my seat, satisfied. "Sounding better already. And don't call me "slick". I'm not your boyfriend."
Her head tilts down a little, so she's looking up at me. "Not now," she says quietly.
"Not ever," I say with force.
"Alright, then," she accepts. "Maybe I was a fool to come here expecting anonymity. You and Slick, you're so close. Of course you'd know who I am."
"Not so close as all that, Snowman," I say. "But yeah, I know who you are. And I knew the second you walked in that door. And I know why you're here."
She smiles again. When she got here, she smiled timidly. When I called her on it, she smiled sensually. Now, she smiles like a tiger, slow and sharp and overwhelmingly in charge. "You do, do you, slick?"
"I told you not to call me that," I say. "You can't just give everybody that nickname. And yeah. I know why you're here. But I want you to spell it out for me."
Again, the predator smile. "I think you and Spades Slick are closer than you say," she muses. "You know him so well. That's why I came to you."
I know what the answer is. And I knew I'd say yes. But I want her to say it. I want her to prove she's willing to meet me on this smallest thing. My voice seems lost in the room as I ask her. "And what do you want me to do, being close as I am with Spades Slick?"
She smiles again, and I feel more than ever that though I had to hunt out her secrets in this whole conversation, that she's the one hunting me. Her words are simple and her voice is soft, but the words she says just turn my world around.
"I want you to find him," she says.