Max Mann, Private Eye J. M. Strother I was just about to bite into my foot long hot dog when I heard the door to the outer office jingle. Anyone here? She had a deep throaty voice, the kind of voice that promised good things to come. In here! I barked. I watched the figure approach the mottle glass door, form and color becoming more distinct as she drew near. The form was just fine from what I could see, and she was dressed in red. The knob slowly turned and the door creaked open. I was dumbfounded. The hints from the textured glass could not have prepared me for what I saw. This dame was a 10 point Oh on the Richter scale and had the kind of moves that left towns like Frisco and Anchorage piles of rubble. I gawked as she entered the room. I wasn't sure if anyone was here. She apologized in a voice that could melt ice cream. Ah, Stephanie's out to lunch, I explained. Stephanie was my secretary. She'd been out to lunch for three months now, ever since I stiffed her on her pay check. The way Stephanie saw it, until I coughed up her back wages, she could take her good sweet time down at Al's Diner. Oh, I'm sorry. she apologized again. I see it's your lunch time too. She gave a shot to my hot dog, and then beyond. I glanced down to see a dollop of mustard had rolled off the bun to land squarely on my tie. Oh crap! I grumbled and put the dog back into it's paper tray. I wiped up the mustard with a paper napkin, smearing it halfway down the length of the tie and cursed again. I loosened the damned thing, pulled it off over my head and dropped it unceremoniously into a desk drawer with half a dozen of it's mates, similarly soiled. I can come back later if it's a bad time, she offered. Oh, no. Please, have a seat! I rose and indicated the chair to the side of my desk. It was on old wooden stiff-backed armless side chair, ala 1930's government surplus, that wobbled annoyingly because it was missing one of it's gliders. It wasn't too bad as long as the match book wedged under that leg stayed put. At my offer, she stepped in, closing the door behind her, and crossed the room in one long slow smooth motion that left me breathless. How can I help you? I managed to ask. Mr. Mann? Max. I offered. Mr. Mann. I just don't know what to do. I need help desperately and the police just won't do anything! She sank into the chair like a swan gliding into a pond. Thankfully neither the chair nor the match book moved. OK, I said, leaning back into my chair. It was an old oak swivel pedestal chair, ala 1950's government surplus, which creaked annoyingly when I rocked back and forth, which I tend to do now and then when I'm thinking. Why don't you tell me what you need help with? It's my husband, Mr. Mann. Her eyes began to get moist. Oh jeez, I thought, don't start bawling on me already. I figured she must suspect her husband of fooling around on her, and wanted me to get the goods on him. Happens all the time. Your husband? I encouraged. Oh, Mr. Mann, I'm so worried. He's missing. I'm just sick to death with worry. I rocked back in my chair and took out a pencil. It was an old #2, kind of dull since I hadn't sharpened it in a while, with the metal eraser bracket all chewed up. I sort of chew off erasers when I'm thinking. The metal sends a jolt through my fillings that sort of charges me up. I find it, ah... stimulating. I see, I said. I knew something did not quite add up here, since the police generally make it their business to do something about missing persons. So I asked the obvious. How long has he been missing? Since last night. I put down the pencil. The police say they won't even file a missing person's report until he's been missing at least 24 hours! The eyes were getting moister. I rocked forward. Ah, yes ma'am, I said. A lot of times guys just don't come home for a night... You know... car trouble. Tanked. Other women. She reached across the desk and slapped my face. Hard. I was so flabbergasted that I forgot to get mad. My husband would never cheat on me! How dare you suggest such a thing! Like an idiot, I apologized. Well there is car trouble... Getting tanked... She shook her head vehemently, sending blond curls dancing like so many ballerinas. My husband does not drink, and his store is only a mile from home. If he had car trouble he could have walked home. She locked her desperate eyes on mime. My husband is a missing man, Mr. Mann, she beseeched me. I'm afraid something terrible has happened to him. Well, ma'am, I guess you know him better than me, I conceded. Have you checked all the usual locations? Her stare was as vacant as the old brick factory over on 41st Street. I could tell I wasn't dealing with the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree here. You know; the morgue, hospitals... She choked back a sob and looked away. I see. I picked up the pencil and chomped down on the ragged metal end. A jolt fired down my spine. Well, you know, in about six hours the police will be happy to take that missing person's report from you, and check those... look into things. She wrung her hands. Oh please, Mr. Mann. Six hours... What if he's still alive, locked in a steamer trunk buried in a corn field and running out of air! How can I wait six hours! You have to help me, Mr. Mann. You are my only hope. Please tell me you will help me find my dearest Jeremy. She batted her big blues at me and I found myself nodding. OK, ma'am. I'll look into it for you. But I ain't cheap. I need a $500 retainer and charge $50 an hour. Plus expenses. She had the check written before I finished the sentence. I looked at it and arched an eyebrow at what I saw. What I found interesting was the address printed on the check, #17 Park Avenue. From the address alone I knew this dame was rich. With any luck her old man would prove harder to find than I expected. I could use a cash cow like her just now. Maybe I could even get Stephanie back. Well thank you, Mrs... I checked out the check again... Jones. I'll get right on the case. Oh no, thank you, Mr. Mann, she said raising from the chair like a morning dove on the breeze. I'm counting on you. Please find my dearest Henry quickly. Henry? Whatever, she said, gliding towards the door in that same smooth move that had brought her in. As she closed the door on her way out I'm sure they had another earth quake somewhere in Japan.

 
~jon
My Blog - Mad Utopia Writing in a new era.