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by kathryn dc

Rain, big city. A night where the neon lights from the many bars downtown streak the pavement like a kid's paintbox. My last cigarette, soaked through. The last swig of bourbon from my flask long since gone. No smokes, no hooch, no hope. Story of my life. I make my way down the thoroughfare, trying to keep the rain from pouring off the brim of my hat into my eyes. I could use a new client, although all the poor suckers bumping into me with their shoulders and umbrellas are not doing much for my humanitarian side. Finally I make it back to the cramped hole I call an office. Not much there; a desk, a typewriter, a phone. Still, it makes for a base of operations. Not many dames in this line of work, but I never meant to win any medals at it. I shake the worst of the rain from my overcoat as I approach my office door, when through the frosted glass pane, I notice someone inside.

An exhaled cloud of cigarette smoke surrounds the silhouetted figure. And an interesting figure it is; looks like the short spiky hair of a man, but even the shadow of those nails reveal that they are long and definitely manicured. I throw open the door and turn on the light. It is a man that sits there, relaxed, elbow propped on the soiled arm of the ancient green worsted chair as he slowly turns his head toward me. I don't rush as I take in his heavily lined blue eyes, bright red lips, and mostly full pack of cigarettes resting on the corner of my desk. He notices the shift of my gaze. "Have a fag?" he offers with a silky English accent. "Don't mind if I do," I say. As I take the pack and shake out a cigarette, I feel his eyes on me. OK, not many people have seen a female transvestite, but I'm in no mood for sightseers tonight. I light the cigarette, and hike up my pants leg as I sit on the edge of the desk. "Have a good look, buddy," I think.

Fortunately I have enough feminine intuition to match the fawn and cream stripes in my button-down shirt to the rich brown of my leather suspenders. I've never liked the way my over-endowment ruins the line of those suspenders, but I've learned to live with it. Inhaling deeply on my cigarette, I take off my hat, and notice with satisfaction the visitor's eyes grow slightly wider as my hair tumbles about my shoulders. I exhale audibly, pause, and then finally get down to business, "So. What can I do for you?"

"Are you 'V. Smith'?" he asks, gesturing to the name on the door. "I am," I say. His painted lips twist sideways into an amused smirk, "I wasn't expecting a Miss V. Smith."

"Few people do, dollface," I crack, "and who might you be?" I lean towards him slightly to hang my hat off the typewriter carriage. He sits up a little straighter as he replies, "Edward."

I lean back and kick the low metal filing cabinet beside the desk with my heel. The bottom drawer trundles out an inch and a half, as fatigued as all the other furnishings in this stale room. "Do you drink bourbon, Edward?" I ask, reaching for the bottle hidden away in the drawer. His eyelids drop slightly to veil his incredibly expressive eyes; "Of course." He turns his head to his upraised hand and lifts his chin in order to bring his cigarette to his mouth. This was one sexy customer alright. From his tailored black silk jacket to his leather pants and high-heeled boots, he was the picture of allure. "Uhoh," I thought to myself, "this one could be trouble." The long red fingernails, the accent, the attitude, were all playing on my interest, which I had always worked long and hard to keep separate from any business dealings. I pass him the bottle of bourbon, trying not to betray my intense interest in him, and not just interest in what he wanted with a private investigator. "No glasses, I'm afraid."

As he reaches to take the bottle, I can't help but notice what delicate hands he has.

My eyes are riveted and it seems as if I am holding the bottle out for an eternity as his hand sweeps in to take it from mine. Once it is firmly in his grip I glance at his face and realize he had caught me staring, because I have yet to let go. He seems amused, but I am mortified. "Just take it easy, kid," I thought, "no matter how pretty, he is a man, and you better watch yourself." He had gotten to me like a cocktail waitress to a rich customer. I wait until he brings the bottle to his lips, and say, "So what is it? Long lost relative? Jilted lover? Partner in crime abscond with the take?" I allowed myself a smug grin. Edward swallows a healthy portion of my last bottle of bourbon. I raise my eyebrows, waiting. "Well?" I figure the best way to keep him at arm's length would to be abrasive and insulting.

The look he gives me, almost hurt to be reduced to three mundane categories, makes me ashamed of myself. I lean forward, "Sorry, these are unusual office hours even for me." Edward leans in conciliatorily, and in a soft voice tells me, "I'm sorry to keep you, Miss Smith…" "Victoria," I interject. "Erm, Victoria, but actually it is two of the three you mentioned." "Really? Which two?"

Edward suddenly looks at the floor, and in the harsh light from the hanging bulb I could see him blush. "I was in love with an ambitious girl……and she had plans……" He looks pained but continues, "plans to make us rich……" "Lemme guess," I interrupt, "She had you do the dirty work and once the scheme was pulled off she disappears with the stash leaving you to face not only the police but any debts she left behind." I concentrate on lighting another cigarette, saying callously, "Don't feel bad, happens all the time." I reach for the bourbon but freeze when Edward looks at me. The anguish in those tear-filled eyes is enough to make me wish I hadn't guessed right. Or had I? Suddenly I had a thought. "Is that all of it?" I ask.

Edward continues to stare at me, a tear escaping down his smooth cheek, as if he is trying to communicate telepathically. "Is it so terrible that he can't even say it?" I think. Softly I say, "Somebody's dead?" He begins crying in earnest.

I go over and pat him awkwardly on the shoulder. "What is it about this guy?" I wonder. As I stood there, he poured out the whole sordid tale: stacked blonde, seemingly easy cash, double cross. The twists in this particular case were the fact that the insurance adjuster lay dead, and that Edward was feeling remorse. Heartbreak, unfortunately, was nothing new in this game. Edward was beginning to collect himself. I hand him the handkerchief from my pocket as I move around him and go to sit down behind the desk. I grab my hat from the typewriter and, finding no place to for it, put it back on, pushing it back out of the way. I grab a notepad and lean back in my chair. "OK, Edward, let's just take this easy. What are we talking here? Finding the blonde? Recovering the dough? Alerting the police?" "I…I… just want to talk to her." "Mm hmm." I pause, fighting the twinge of jealousy his tender answer has sparked in me. "So finding her is the first order of business. I'll need her name." He swallowed hard. "Miranda Otendes." "Ah geez, sounds like stripper material," I think, but merely press my lips together. "Any family or out of town friends that you know of?" "She has a sister. They rarely spoke." I lean forward and make a note on my pad, "Sister married? Same last name?" "I've no idea." Edward is twisting my handkerchief into a pretzel. "No idea." I repeat, looking at him. He sighs. "I'd really rather not paint the whole ugly scene for you, Ms. Smith." "Oh? I'm just supposed to throw the dice and that will be my guide?" I throw the pad aside in order to take another of his cigarettes and light it. "The way this usually works is the client does the talking, and I decide if I'll take the case and what the fee will be. Then the client decides if he'll pay it. Let's be honest, Edward, if you're here," I make a gesture to indicate the office, "modesty should have been left behind a while ago. Is that the problem? You're embarrassed?" Edward just looks at me, blue eyes aglow with some unfathomable emotion. His silence spurs me on, "You live with a girl, I assume, and you don't know her family or their names or where they live."

I put the cigarette to my lips and raise my eyebrows. "I gotta tell you, it's a little irregular. So you can just tell me the situation, or I can draw my own conclusions. Frankly I'm losing interest." Edward stood up. "Perhaps I shouldn't have come." He made for the door. I'd gone too far. I knew I couldn't let him leave. I stood up, looking directly into his eyes. "I'm sorry. I really am trying to help you."

I gestured back to the horrible green chair. "Have a seat, and let's try this again." He paused, his hand resting delicately on the doorknob. Looking at the floor he said, "I have tried everything I could think of to find her. You're my last resort; if you think there's a chance you could find her…" He looked up at me; hope shining in those impossibly blue eyes and completely washing away my ability to resist his charms. I could only nod in response and try to sit down as if my knees weren't buckling with desire. He crossed over to the chair slowly enough for me to completely take in his leather pants; creased and well-worn, they still clung well enough that I was glad I was already sitting down. In an effort to concentrate on something other than Edward's nether regions, I reach for the pad again.

"Now, where did Ms. Otendes work?" "Her last place of employment was Steadman Insurance." "In what capacity?" "She was in the secretarial pool." "Mm-hm. How long was she employed there?" "A little over a year." "And at what point did you begin your acquaintance?" "Sorry?" "Was she working there when you met her?" "No, I knew her before; she sang at the Green Dragon." I can't help but open my eyes a little wider. "The Green Dragon." "That's correct." "What is that? A massage parlor?" Oops. Sarcasm slipping out once again, and here we were actually getting somewhere. I cursed myself as I see his eyes harden. "It's a Chinese restaurant." "With a floor show," I venture. "The owner does fancy himself a bit of a showman, yes." "I see." Reluctantly I realize that the interview is pretty much over, and there's no doubt that I'm on this case like a mother hen on her eggs. "Well, Edward, I think I've got enough to go on for now. My usual fee is $100 plus expenses. If that's acceptable, I think we can do some business." Edward looks down at his hands. "I'm glad to hear it." Looks up at me. "At one point, I wasn't so sure." For the first time he smiles at me, a lopsided smile that reveals a hint of a dimple. "Would you like your fee now?" "That's the usual way; I'll bill you for the per diem." "Sorry?" "I'm never sure how long these cases take to solve, and the expenses I mentioned are tallied on a daily basis." "I see."

He reaches for a black leather bag, a soft-sided briefcase but with a very long strap, that had been hidden between his chair and my desk. "Is cash fine?" "Cash will work." I can't resist smiling. I know better than to hope that my smile comes anywhere near the electricity of his. Almost effortlessly, he draws five twenties from some part of the bag and holds them out. Once again I am staring at his hand and it seems my own is weighted and in slow motion as I move to take the money. I could swear that he purposely brushes his fingers against my palm in depositing the bills, but then chide myself for my wishful thinking. "At least you'll see him again," I think, then say, "How can I reach you?" "I have a phone; you can ring me on Plaza-9450." Pocketing the hundred, I write the number on the pad; then his name, "Edward --…" Sheepishly I look up, "I don't know your last name." His eyes are kind as he registers my embarrassment. "Carlson. With a C." I write it down and drop the pencil. Standing, I say, "I'm glad we could come to an agreement," extending my hand, this time for a handshake. He stands and takes my hand in his, not really shaking it, just holding it, looking me right in the eye. "His girlfriend, he wants to find his girlfriend," I recite to myself. "Victoria, I hope to hear from you soon." I tighten my grip just a little in lieu of a shake and he lets me go. The world is suddenly a little colder. He takes up his bag, arranging its strap over his shoulder and moving it to a comfortable place at his hip. At the door he looks back at me, where I'm still standing behind my desk like I've been poleaxed. He opens his mouth, then closes it and slides it into that sideways arrangement. "Good night." I don't move as the door closes, and as I stand there I realize he has taken my handkerchief with him.