True Detective True Detective

True Detective

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True Detective

Somebody had made a helluva mess in this classy art deco boudoir or else the broad was a real oinker. You couldn‟t tell about dames. All primped up, she looked like the cat‟s meow — coulda been a model right off the runway for Maison de Frog‟s designer line. But, blast-it, clothes were all over the place. Not a bad place, either — it smelled of bucks: mahogany King Edward chairs covered with burgundy crushed velvet; mirrors framed in ornate gold leaf; vanilla cream colored chest and dresser with 24-carat gold fittings and, center stage, a matching four-poster framed with elegant silk ruffles, top and bottom. Everything strewn with lingerie, silk cover-ups, a rainbow of pumps that coulda stocked Bonwit‟s shoe salon. He got lost in the lingerie, his eyes looking the silk nothings over. What a mess! “Concentrate!” he told himself. He wasn‟t here to write up a commendation for a Good Housekeeping award. Maybe the maid broke a leg and they had to shoot her. Who knows? He picked up a black lace chemise, sniffed the fragrance that still lingered and pictured the dame filling it out—she was a looker. Nice rolling curves, cresting in just the right places. Full red lips. Eyes that sparked with passion. Long brunette hair his fingers would love to roam through. And she seemed Ok, at least from a distance. Not one of those high society willowy string beans, languidly looking down on the world over a stuck-up nose. CRASH! A sound like a case of crystal being smashed brought him around quick. Somebody couldn‟t a been more than twenty feet away. “Damn!” He scanned the room. Could he duck under the bed? Yeah, right? Lay on the floor so someone could lift the ruffle and shove a snub-nosed .38 in his face? Claiming he was takin‟ inventory of the dame‟s sweet nothings probably wouldn‟t buy him a whole lot of time. He made like Joey the Dwarf, the midget ballplayer the Bronx Bombers would wheel out when they were so desperate they‟d play for a walk. Only 4‟8”

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standing, the dwarf crouched so low in a batting stance that even Ty Cobb couldn‟t hit his six-inch strike zone. Stooped and scuttling, he caromed off the wall, slapped the light switch off, flung open a closet door and eased in, pulling the door closed. Crunch! What the hey? His feet were on broken glass. Out of nowhere, a rabbit punch caught him in the kidneys. Knocked back, he fumbled for the door catch, released it and dove back into the bedroom. He straightened up, the adrenaline overriding his pain, ready to do battle. Grabbing his own piece, a trusty .22 semi-automatic, he found the light. The room was still empty, the closet door ajar. Was this a bad case of the DTs? Nobody else was around. But whatever the hell was in that damn closet was gonna have to deal with one angry SOB! “Hands up, you goniff!” he yelled, kicking the closet door open and crouching in the dwarf‟s shrunken stance. He pointed his piece up: he wasn‟t out to castrate the guy, just stop him. Wait a minute. It was the looker, trussed up like she‟d been on the wrong end of calf-roping contest. Lying on the closet floor, her eyes blazed at him with the look of a treed lioness ready to rip out his throat. Dangerous? God, she was beautiful! And she was helpless, her legs and arms bound together with a pair of stockings, a face cloth wadded in her mouth and held in place by a length of phone wire. He just stared at her. All she had on was a black silk slip. She had the shapely gams of a bathing beauty, smooth and firm, tanned, athletic thighs that could have graced a channel swimmer. Her melons strained against the black silk, their bullet tips threatening to punch through the fabric. This was a gorgeous dame, a ferocious feline animal. She looked back, unselfconscious and unafraid, glaring at him — challenging him. He opened his coat and slid the .22 back into a pocket.

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“Hi, beautiful — hope you‟re not too tied up to talk to me,” he murmured, favoring her with a schoolboy grin. Crouching beside her, he unwrapped the phone cord. She spit the cloth out of her mouth, gagging momentarily. “Who are you, junior G-Man?” she asked sarcastically. “Hey, I‟m Captain Midnight, doll — out protecting god fearing citizens, saving widows and orphans, rescuing damsels in distress.” He locked eyes with her, flashing a warm smile. Bending down, he studied the knotted stockings binding her arms and legs together like a rodeo calf. The stockings were taut silk cords, creasing her flesh as they held her forearms and thighs together. One thing he was sure of: no Boy Scout would have tied that great granny of a knot. “Listen, Midnight — you here to look or to help?” Startled, he studied her face. Did he know this woman? Had he seen her before? What was it that made her seem so familiar? Or, was it just wishful thinking … “Wouldn‟t want me to ruin this fine pair of stockings, would you, doll?” he asked, his fingers probing the silken knot. “Very thoughtful, Midnight, but gangrene is setting in! When they have to cut off my legs I‟m not gonna have much use for these stockings.” “Then you won‟t mind if I take them as a souvenir,” he said, using his fingers to unsnarl the knot. “My legs? You lookin‟ for body parts, go dig up a grave,” she said with deep, throaty laugh. Startled, he laughed too, and then he realized: it was her voice, where had he heard it before? There was something about that sick sense of humor he found very appealing. She had a wry, knowing smile, too, he noticed as he loosened the knot.

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“There you go,” he murmured, gently unwrapping the silk bindings. She grimaced as the stockings pulled free, leaving scarlet welts on her flesh. “I must look like a red-banded, sap-sucker,” she mused, gently rubbing her sore thighs. “You‟re not a sap, Midnight, are you?” she added, unleashing that throaty laugh again. He stood up, chuckling as he admired her. Taking hold of her upraised arm, he pulled her to her feet. She wobbled, momentarily, holding on to him for support. “And to think I haven‟t had a drink all night,” she laughed. Then she eyed him seriously. “So, what‟s your game, Midnight — and, for that matter, what‟s your name? And, while you‟re at it, what are you doing nosing around in my bedroom? “You first. Who are you? Where do I know you from?” he asked, looking at her quizzically. “The radio, right? That‟s it — Lucky Strikes Comedy Hour — you‟re the one who does that patter with, uh …” She smiled teasingly, shaking her head back and forth. Puzzled, his mind raced to place her voice. One of the drama series … a commercial? “I‟m not on the radio, Midnight,” she offered, reading his mind. “You„re sure you‟ve heard me?” she asked seductively. “But more than my voice is familiar, isn‟t it? She smiled, touching his face gently. Turning to the wall mirror over her cream dresser, she watched him out of the corner of her eye as she raised her slip: the welts were fading from her thighs. She smoothed the fabric but it persisted in clinging, taking on her form, accentuating the rounded hills of her derriere, giving shape to her ample breasts, clinging to the small mound that rose invitingly below her narrow waist. “Well, Midnight?” she prompted, querying him with a broad smile. “We go to school together?” he asked.

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“Why? Were you left back a half-dozen times? — I think you got a few years on me, Midnight.” “You worked the counter at Joe‟s?” he wondered aloud. She turned away from the mirror, fixing him with a teasing smile. Stepping up to him, she shook her head, holding his stare as she ran a brush through her long brunette strands. This was beauty. Alluring, poised, seductive — not the kind of girl he‟d seen behind Joe‟s counter or anyone else‟s. It was her presence, the alertness of her eyes, the tantalizing, provocative way she held herself. No shyness, no coquetry, no hesitancy, none of the schoolgirl nervousness you‟d expect a dame to display when she‟s wearing nothing more than a silken slip and standing next to a stranger who‟s got no business being in her boudoir. “Still can‟t place me, can you? — Why don‟t you relax, Midnight. You look uncomfortable; take off that coat, let me loosen your tie.” Get a hold of yourself, he thought. Something wasn‟t right; kinda that dipsy feeling that comes over you when you‟re losing too much blood too fast. The looker was bending over, her sunset red nails flashing before his eyes as she opened his collar and loosened his necktie. He flung his necktie aside and his mouth was on hers. He grabbed her, holding her tight, pressing himself against her. “Whoa, boy!” she cried, pushing him off. “Thanks for the rescue, Midnight, but I‟m not ready for a dependent. You‟re gettting a bit too familiar with my night deposit box.” “Sorry, kiddo,” I murmered, “you swept me off my feet!” (See, I had a thing about women —well, what man doesn‟t?) I thought I‟d better get back to basics, if only to distract myself. “So tell me, babe—what happened here and why? You tee off some rodeo cowboys or you just like playing Houdini in the dark?” The woozy feeling came back with a bang, like he‟d been slammed in the noggin and put down for the count. There was something . . . something just beyond his mind‟s reach—a welling sense of deja vu; tendrils of familiarity,

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tantalizing yet elusive, wafting in the unreachable corners of his consciousness. It was her, she held the key, he thought, collapsing to the floor. * * * “He loved those old movies,” she offered by way of explanation. An explanation more puzzling than helpful to the paramedics strapping her husband to a stretcher. “He said I would have been Rita Hayworth‟s twin if I‟d been born fifty years earlier.” The paramedic nodded silent agreement as he eyed the distraught woman. “Let me make sure I‟ve got this right, OK? You were lying on the bed, your husband got up to adjust the TV, he tripped and hit his head on your dresser?” “We were watching The Maltese Falcon,” she amplified. “He‟d say all of Bogey‟s lines . . .” She glanced at the still form of her husband on the stretcher, a sob catching in her throat. “The bump made him delerious; he was saying things that didn‟t make any sense . . . mumbling about goniffs, calf-roping—even Captain Midnight. Remember that old radio character? “No, ma‟am—can‟t say that I do,” the paramedic said. He motioned to his partner to pick up the other end of the stretcher, “Gotta get going now; you coming with us to the hospital?” “No, no I‟ll follow in my car,” she said, showing them out. She clicked off the TV violently. He knew she hated those old movies. She‟d snapped, it was one too many—but she hoped she hadn‟t put out his lights for good. # # # Copyright Richard Puz, 2009 [email protected]