Another hung-over day at the office. The life of a starving freelance PI can be pretty dull,
like the office itself. A desk I could imagine belonging to an elementary school teacher
holding a PC I thought might be collectible. A calendar on the wall above the desk. A
filing cabinet I used to store my stash. A pre-WWI map of the earth on the wall behind
me. A fish tank below the map. I looked up from the desk and tossed another dart at the
map, aiming for Marrakech. The dart hit somewhere around Medellin and bounced,
landing among several others on the floor. You can't say I'm not consistent.
I looked down at my desk, thinking I'd get the key to the filing cabinet from the top
drawer and see if something to drink would steady my aim. Then I froze as I heard my
office door open. looking up I saw an amazingly sexy dame standing in front of the map.
I'd say she had legs up to her eyebrows, but there was a lot of topography that couldn't be
legs. She was wearing tight trousers and some kind of halter top.
Before I could stop gawking and drooling she started talking in a throaty contralto.
"Dirk? You are Dirk Bunsen aren't you. What's the cop who busted the Benzene ring
doing in a dump Like this? Why aren't you still with the force?"
We never caught one of the cabrones who made up the ring. Nothing was ever linked to
him. I think he was a cop, someone high up. I got bounced out on trumped-up evidence
making it look like I was on the take. But I didn't want to tell her that. "Oh, I wanted a
change of scenery." I said. "The scenery around here has just begun to improve."
She laughed, walked around my desk and sat down on the arm of my chair, leaning
against me so that some of that topography pressed softly against my face. "Mr. Bunsen
- Dirk - I need your help."
"Dead men don't wear plaid, babe."
"What do you mean, Dirk?" I couldn't see her face at the moment, but I was sure she was
wearing a cute puzzled frown.
I keep hoping someone will know what that means. "Never mind, I'll explain later if we
have time. What's the problem, babe."
"Ooh," she said with a distracting wriggle, "for some reason I like it when you call me
babe. Anyway, it's about a cop. Maybe he had something to do with your leaving the
force, I don't know. But I do know he got my dad kicked out. It's completely unfair!"
She sounded sincere and angry but I was getting to be pretty sure this dame was poison aren't they all? Still, I couldn't ignore this kind of lead.
"You interest me strangely, babe." She jumped off my chair and began pacing around the
office, which requires reversing direction about every two steps.
Hey, your breasts are all out of whack. Let me adj"
"Huh? Oh, that can wait. Come on, we need to go talk with my dad." She turned and
headed for the door and I jumped up and followed, pulled by some kind of strong bond.
Out of habit I glanced around the office as I left - a wistful look at the filing cabinet,
empty desk, map with lots of holes in it, darts on the floor, fishbowl. The piranha was
floating belly up. I was right, this dame was poison. But at least we had chemistry.
Her car was a little red Mazda Miata. She drove like one of the damned on holiday. We
didn't talk much. She was busy running red lights and swerving toward pedestrians. I
was busy keeping my eyes closed and nursing my hangover. It did occur to me that her
dad might be someone I'd known on the force.
Finally we pulled up in front of a trim white bungalow on a quiet street in the suburbs.
There was an aging Ford Focus in the driveway. The front door was open. "Probably
messing around in the garden." she said. "Dad! Dad!" she called. No answer. I wasn't
expecting one. I had noticed a smear of red on the floor just inside the front door.