Detective Story 12

"Where's your boss, Honey?" The broad speaking sported the whole package -- gift-tied.

I tossed back another slug of jo before I answered. Slow, so that even this top-heavy dame could understand. "You're looking at her. Samantha Spade. Call me Sam."

The reaction to that line is usually as good as watching the slots come up cherry triplets. This little lady didn't bat a false eyelash. "I'm here about a stalking."

"Your ex?"

Her gaze slipped away like A-Rod's curveball. "No. We only … just once."

I knew the type. "You swapped fluids and now the guy thinks he owns you." I made a quick survey of the area under claim: botoxed lips, implanted cleavage, liposuctioned thighs. "That's a high-interest mortgage most guys would jump at paying."

The compliment slid off her like jello from a shot glass. "You don't understand. I need you to give it to him."

"I'm not a cop. I just find 'em, follow 'em and finger 'em. You want him filed in triplicate, go talk to the civil servants."

"There's already a restraining order. I'm out of options." She pulled a 9x12 bubblewrap from her purse. When I saw the name on the envelope, the pieces clicked together like a Tetris screen. "I'm not allowed within 1000 feet. Please, can you find him and give him this?"

So, it had happened again. With his blazing wit and cavalier 'tude, he seduced them all. "Don't do this to yourself, Doll-face. Those blue words? Meaningless. He doesn't care about you. He's going for the spew and the spurt. That's all. Take that manuscript and send it to someone who cares. Someone like --" I passed her a business card.

Her eyes saucered as she read the name. "How can I thank you?"

"A hundred bucks should cover it."

--Phoenix