(I wrote this story back in 2003, just for fun. Enjoy! — Claire)
The blonde showed up late Friday night.
My heels were up, my guard down, and I was having a chat with my good friend Jim Beam, when Doris walked into my office. She had a funny look on her face, but all she said was, “Client to see you, Nick.”
“Tough.” I lit a cigarette. “You know I don’t take cases after five o’clock on Fridays. Tell her to scram. No one’s home.”
She looked from the half-empty bottle to my glass. “Maybe. But I think you should see her.”
Doris is my secretary and a real prize. I’d come a long way since those bad old first days of gumshoeing around the city. These days, I had a new suit, a downtown office, and a mailbox with my real name on it. I also had Doris—at least, I wished I did.
“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “Send her in. But if you’re wrong about this one, you owe me dinner.”
Doris didn’t even bother with an answer to that one. She just gave me a raspberry, before deserting me with my new client.
And what a client. The blonde rolled into my office like a creme puff riding a tray. I took one look and decided Doris was right. This dame wasn’t your run-of-the-mill double-X chromosome set. I mean, this cupcake could inspire old man Roget to a whole new page of synonyms for gorgeous. I stood up—all of me—and introduced myself. “I’m Nick Speakeasy. How can I help you?”
The lady smiled, real sweet, and took my hand. “Pleased to meet you Mr. Speakeasy. My name is Cookie Crumbles, and I need your help.” She looked around, like she was waiting for someone to finish her lines. The lady was nervous.
“You came to the right place,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
“Well, it’s my—my—”
When she burst into tears, I filed my hormones under “Later” and pulled out a chair for the lady. Then I introduced her to my friend Beam, patted her on the head, and waited for her to calm down. She told me her story. Her husband’s name was Duncan Donuts. A real sweet type, she said. Never a problem between them. I nodded like I agreed with her. Two days ago, she said, Duncan went out for a drink and never came back. With a pretty flutter of her eyelashes, Cookie started crying again.
I sighed. The story was so old, it sounded new. My common sense told me to drop the case right there, but I tried to let her down easy by feeding her some excuse. “Honey, I’d like to help, but I don’t take missing husband cases. They just don’t pay.”
Her voice was sweet and low. “Mr. Speakeasy, they told me you were the best—the very best—and I’m willing to pay for that. Here’s a retainer.” She handed me a hundred-dollar bill and a look. It was the look that got me.
Call me a sucker, but I took the case. Cookie told me which bar and what Duncan had been wearing. She also gave me a recent photograph. I left her with Doris, while I checked out the bar.
The joint was a place called Cruller’s Café, a crummy dive on the main boulevard to nowhere. Luckily, the barkeep recognized Duncan. “Yeah, I saw him two nights ago,” he said. “The man had one drink, then went out the back door–fast.”
I thanked the man with a twenty and followed Duncan’s trail into a typical alley, littered with old drunks, skinny cats, and last week’s garbage. This end of town had a dozen hiding places for a man on the run, and no matter what Cookie had told me, Duncan was running from something. Down the street, a neon sign advertised rooms for rent. A hunch told me Duncan was there.
It seemed too easy, but I was right. Room 13, the desk clerk told me, taking twenty number two for his trouble. When I knocked, a man’s voice whispered, “Who’s there?”
“Your wife sent me,” I said, trying to be original.
“Cookie?” Duncan opened the door slowly. He had a glazed look on his face. “How’d you find me, mister?”
Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me. Before I could turn around, a gun barked six times. Duncan looked surprised, then he looked dead.
“Who are you?” said a little man with a big gun.
The creep held all the chips, so I answered him straight. “I’m Nick Speakeasy, private eye. Who are you?”
He laughed. “I’m Frenchie Toast. This rat owed me money, lots of it, and you led me straight to him. Thanks.”
“What are you—his loan officer?”
“No, his bookie.” He pointed the gun at me. “Bye-bye, Mr. Private Eye.”
His gun clicked empty, so I showed him my own .38. “Bye- bye, yourself,” I said, and shot the punk.
I took my time on the trip back.
Back at the office, Cookie was still there. “I found your husband,” I told her.
She looked funny. “You did?”
“Yeah, I did, but he’s dead. Somebody named Frenchie Toast shot him.”
“Oh—but didn’t—”
I could see she was trying to decide how to react, so I helped her. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Frenchie’s dead, too. I shot him.”
“Oh, Mr. Speakeasy, you’re so brave.” The lady gave me a kiss that could make dough rise, but I wasn’t buying.
“Sorry, sugar.” I pushed her away.
“What’s the matter?” she cooed. “Don’t you like me?”
“You’re funny,” I said. “Two hours ago, you were bawling ’cause you couldn’t find your husband. Now he’s dead, and you can’t wait to frost my cake.”
“Hey,” she yelped. “I’m not like that.”
“Oh, yes, you are. You see, I did some checking on the way back here. You knew Duncan had bookie trouble. When he scrammed, you took out a life insurance policy, then hired me to find him. Bookie tails me, shoots Duncan, and you collect thirteen thousand dollars—a real baker’s dozen. I can’t prove it, but that don’t mean it ain’t true. Now get lost.”
She remembered to slam the door on her way out.
Doris waited a minute before she came in. “What’s the matter?” she said. “Was Cookie too sweet for you?”
“Yeah.” I poured myself a fresh glass of Beam. “And I’m on a diet.”
