A Tough Night

By NFalc


Part One


I should've realized something wasn't right the minute the broad walked in. There was a funny glimmer in those big, dark eyes of hers, which didn't fit. People who come into my office, they look sad, or vengeful, or desperate. This girl, she looked different.

I sized her up the second she was past the door. Long brown hair, nice long legs, big hips... very ample in certain areas but not overly showy about it. Then, there was that look in her eyes. I still couldn't place it. But my case list was emptier than a Depression-era bank, so I thought, hell, I'd see what the broad had to say.

She sat, crossed those long legs and introduced herself as Marilyn F. Dodgson. I'd heard the name before. Her dad was some big-shot in Hollywood before he vanished, leaving his wife and daughter with a huge inheritance.

The dame starts talking in this slow, sexy voice of hers. "I've been very worried about my husband as of late." Damn, married. All the good ones are always taken. Not that a broke, no-good bum like me has a chance of getting a girl like that. "He often goes missing for a few months at a time, but this time..." And it's the usual story from there: Track him down, see what he's been doing, don't get caught, yadda yadda yadda.

Always the practical man, I talk money first. She promises some big reward, but won't talk turkey. So I make her swear it's over ten thou, and tell her I want two grand in advance. My coffers were running dry like an old L.A. riverbed, so I figured I'd squeeze her for all she would give. But she doesn't even hesitate before nodding her head, and putting a fat stack of bills on the table. I'd been afraid of going any higher, but this dame, she's got dough to burn. So far, so good.

Then I go into brass tacks. Does she have a photo or portrait of the husband? She slides a still over the table, and I throw it back at her after one glance. "No good," I say. She asks me why. "For one, he's wearing a fedora and sunglasses. I can't get hair or eyes, both of which are crucial for P.I. work. But even without that, the photo's so out of focus that it's practically one big blur."

She says it's the best she's got, but gives me a description: he wears a big trench coat, gray fedora, dark shades. Average height, slim build. In other words, nothing that's remotely useful. She did, however, give me a location and a time.

As soon as the dame was out the door, I walked out into the lobby. "Whaddya think?" I asked Grace, sliding the stack of dough across the table. She quickly stuffs it into a desk drawer for safekeeping.

"She's trouble, Max," Grace said, her short, platinum blond hair bouncing as she emphatically shook her head. "I wouldn't try it."

"You sure you're not just jealous?" I teased.

She shot me a look that could wither the healthiest roses. "She's a looker, but you'd better watch yourself."

"If I'm not back here in six hours..."

"I'll come looking for you," Grace says. "Same as always." She smiles before looking back to her typewriter.


An hour later, I climbed out of my rusty Model A (still good after ten years) and was blasted in the face by the muggy summer heat. I'd parked about ten miles away from the meeting place in the redlight district. No wonder Mrs. Dodgson wanted me to do the tailing; women who are unaffiliated with the local business are frowned upon on this side of town, excepting the few who are looking for some action.

I kept my head down, my gaze fixed on the paving stones. You don't go for a stroll if you're in the redlight district. If you're there, you'd better be buying, or you're in for a world of trouble from the girls. I wasn't interested in the merchandise, so I tried to keep a low profile as I thought out my plan. I figured my job would be pretty simple. Tail the hubby, snap a few photos, then go back to Marilyn and confirm it was him. Then we'd talk about what she wanted done. I had my 9mm and portable camera on me. I figured this would be a cinch, and I'd be back in time for supper.

It's amazing how far you can be from the mark.

I took a turn to the right, and saw the place where Rodgers was supposed to be. A tiny, hole-in-the-wall joint. The neon sign above the entrance was kinky, and I mean that in both ways; it showed a lurid picture, and it was slightly busted, constantly flickering. Mistress Loretta's. The smoldering crimson light in the windows reminded me of a cigarette butt.

I walked in, quickly casing the joint as I took a seat in the back. The place was small and dingy. A stage took up most of the room in the theater, and there were two doors off to the left which were probably for private shows. Sure enough, front row center was a guy in a gray fedora and trenchcoat. A tall, thin girl in a red dress comes out of one of the doors to the left, and the trenchcoat stands up. There's a chance it isn't Mr. Dodgson, but it's about the same chance as an ice cube surviving on a boiling summer night like this one.

Trenchcoat and Red Dress disappear behind the red door. I wait a few seconds, take a deep breath, then follow them, hand on the butt of the pistol. I try the door, and thank God, it isn't locked. So much for the easy bit.

I carefully open the door, and see a long hallway covered floor, walls and ceiling with red velvet. Even for a strip club, this place is overdecorated. I tiptoe carefully down the hallway, and see two doors on opposite sides of the hallway. Both are closed. They could have gone through either of them. I'll have to take a chance and guess.

I open the door that's farther from me on my left, ready to pull out my gun. Instead, the second the door opens, I'm hit with a face-full of weird, smelly perfume. No, I mean the stuff actually is sprayed in my face. It tingles all over, like I dove face-first onto a porcupine's back. I go weak at the knees just like a dame or a fairy would, and fall over, giving me a knock on the back of my head before I say goodbye to consciousness.


The ropes around my wrists are what wake me up. They're too tight, but they don't have the sandpaper-rough feel that normal ropes do. I slide around a little in them, and discover that they're silk. At least I'm not gagged, not that crying for help would do any good in the middle of the redlights. There are a couple hundred S&M joints 'round here, so if someone heard you scream they'd just think you were getting your kicks.

There's a door in the wall opposite me, and in walks a dame. But not any ordinary dame. This one's raven-haired, curvaceous, with scarlet lips and a wicked smirk on her face. She's dressed all in leather, but I can't say she's dressed heel to toe, because in reality she's barely dressed at all. And, oh yeah, she's about ten feet tall. I'm thinking it's the dizziness from the perfume, but no, she's really that big.

"My name is Mistress Loretta," the woman says, one hand on her hip, the other hanging by her side. "And yours is?"

You know in the movies, when they ask the hero his name, and the hero, calm as he likes, just spits in their faces? Yeah, that sort of crap doesn't fly in the real world. "Max Salem," I say, and hope she doesn't hit me just because of it. I don't have the best reputation in the redlights.

The woman squats in front of me, and she has such amazing boobs, I don't mean to stare but they're just bursting out of that little strip of leather she has over 'em, hanging right over my face. "Well, Max, you've been a naughty little man. Playing detective here in this reputable establishment. How could you?" She says it in a sarcastic sing-song. Taunting me. It's okay, I'm used to it.

"I'm sorry, Madam, I can assure you it had nothing to do with this particular place. I was just trying to find a certain person..." Behind my back, I'm fiddling with the ropes...

"We value the privacy of our customers, Max," she says, using a single huge finger to tilt my head up towards her face. "And since you were trying to disturb that privacy, we're going to have to teach you a lesson."

I get a bad feeling that she's about to get out a whip, or something worse. Since I really don't feel like getting whipped by a ten foot amazon dominatrix tonight (gorgeous as she may be, it just ain't my style), I can't help but feel glad when there's a pounding on the door. Mistress Loretta pouts, turns around and calls, "Who is it?"

There's a faintly Slavic female voice on the other side of the door. "Open the door, slut. We know you've got it."

"Oh, sure I'll open the door," Loretta says, clearly blowing her top. "I'll open the door for you." And instead of pulling out the whip, she pulls out a goddamn hand cannon, a Glock that's bigger than me. She fires two shots through the door, screaming, "Fuck you, Katya!"

There's a pause, and I quickly snap my hands together. When they come apart, the ropes are so loose that I can slide out of them. I love that trick, it's been handy for getting me out of many a tough situation.

As soon as I slide loose, the door bursts straight off its hinges. Standing in the doorway is a woman that's even taller than Loretta. She looks like a Soviet, but definitely not a Commie - Reds don't wear skintight black jumpsuits. She's thin and pale but she definitely looks good. She also looks mad as hell.

The woman - Katya? - takes two big steps into the room, then lifts a fist and smashes Loretta on the chin, shouting, "Where is it?"

Much as I'd like to stay and watch, I know that this is my chance to make a break for it. I slip the ropes and dash for the exit, the sounds of the fight echoing behind me. I run out through the theater, fast as my legs can carry me, and out a rusty door with a dim "Exit" sign above it.

I burst out into a dark, wet alleyway. It's night-time. How long have I been out for? The sun had just been setting when I arrived.

I head back out onto the street, trying to remember where I parked my car, when I'm suddenly hit by this weird feeling, like I've been hit with a bucket of ice water. Everything seems out of proportion, and it's growing more so by the minute. It's growing...

No, no, I get it now, nothing's growing. I'm getting smaller. That Loretta somehow turned me into a damned midget! It seems like something out of "Buck Rogers", "Amazing Stories", the funny pages, but it's true.

Suddenly, I feel something tap me on the shoulder. I turn to find myself face-to-face with two huge thighs in fishnet stockings. I stumble backwards a little, and look up into a face that's sweet, even if it's plastered with makeup.

"Hey little guy," the tart says, "You lookin' for somebody tonight?"

Everyone knows, you don't go to the redlights unless you're looking for somebody. If I refuse her, it's an insult. And I'm not in a position to be insulting anybody. Plus, she's got some pretty nice hams.

So I say, "Yes," and she giggles, one hand on her mouth. I feel myself turning red. She's laughing at me. Look at the shrimp who thinks he can get himself a hooker. But no, it looks more like she's... excited? Is that what it is? Either she's a kink or she's a great actress.

I turn and take one last look over my shoulder for the trusty Model A, but it's nowhere. And I could've sworn I parked it on this street... Well, cars don't usually last too long in the redlights. And if I manage to make it through this alive, and somehow get back to my normal height, I can just buy myself a new one with what I earn.

The girl grabs my hand and starts leading me through the dark streets, saying, "It ain't too far to my place..."

***

Grace pauses her typing for a second and looks up at the clock. Almost twelve. She wonders what Max has gotten himself into this time. Hopefully nothing so big that she can't bail him out. Even with the advance on the new case, she's only got three grand in the drawer.

She smiles at the thought of her coming to the rescue again, the poor lug with a cut on his forehead, looking so happy to see her. She'd never admit it, but she likes taking care of him. It's why she's hung around all these years.

There's a nagging thought in the back of her mind. She flips open the case file, looks over it once more. Then she walks over to the file cabinet, and searches through a drawer before pulling out an old, tattered newspaper clipping.

The headline reads, "Update: Ten Year Anniversary of Dodgson's Disappearance". She scans over the rest of the text, the wife's sorrow, the pitying remarks from others, the heavy-handed writing style. It reminded her of Max's writings (he'd convinced her to proofread his memoirs a while back). "Nobody knows where he went or why, but he was never seen again." How melodramatic.

It takes her a second to see what she's been looking for. She reads it over a few times just to be sure, getting more uneasy all the while. "I knew that girl was trouble," she says, getting up and running for her coat.

In the article, a portion of a sentence has been underlined: "...Dodgson's fortune has been left to his wife, Elizabeth, now 45, but if she ever passes, the heir will be their daughter, Marilyn, 22 and still unwed."

A Tough Night

By NFalc


Part Two


The apartment was cramped. As cramped as a coffin, musty and dim. The coffin I mean, not the apartment. No, the apartment smelled too strongly of cigs and cheap wine to be called musty. The hooker pointed to a bed in the middle of the room. It came up to my waist.

"Sit yourself down, tiger," she said,

I clambered up onto the bed, embarrassed at just how short I'd gotten. Even getting onto a bed was difficult. I sat back, tried to look comfortable and relaxed, and kicked off my shoes.

"I'm gonna go wash up quick. Be ready when I come out." The whore said, with a wink.

She stepped into the nearby bathroom and closed the door. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering what exactly I'd gotten myself into. I was something like four feet tall, stranded in the middle of the redlights, without even the photos I'd come for. I fell back on to the bed, which was harder than concrete and springier than May. It was going to be a long night.

***

She quickly closes the door behind her and locks it. Takes a few deep breaths and slows her breathing. Then she heads over to the sink, cups her hand and splashes herself with dirty water from the faucet. She does this until the makeup that was caked over her face is either loosened or gone. Then she takes a rag and wipes away the remains.

She's herself again in the mirror. How she hates the crap they put her through at the office. "Becca, we've got an undercover job for you," they say, snickering behind her back. They think she doesn't notice. "That shrinking cult, it's being run in the redlights. We're not allowed down there, but we think we'd be able to sneak you in..."

Next thing she knows she's dressed like a ten-dollar slut and is trolling for midgets, looking to take them back to the most run-down building in the redlights.

If anything, she shouldn't feel guilty. Each person's entitled to their kinks, but when you put something illegal into you, that's when the State steps in. The little man outside her door was just one small piece of the puzzle, a means to an end. She would deal with him. She won't feel guilty at all.

She ties her hair back. She takes one last deep breath, blows it out slowly, shaping her mouth into an 'O'. Then she reaches for the handcuffs on her belt.

***

"By the authority of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, you are under arrest!"

I look up, and the hooker's no longer a whore - she's grade-A classy, even though she's still wearing the fishnets. This is enough of a shock without her reading me the riot act.

"Rebecca Laughton, FBI." She pulls a badge. A copper. I just got suckered by the Feds.

I don't even fight back when she slaps a huge set of steel cuffs around my wrist, and clamps the other end 'round the bars at the back of the bed. She has to close the cuffs all the way down to their last notch so they fit tight on my wrists.

"Where did you get the solution?" she asks.

"Wha?" I answer, still trying to get my head around the situation. I know, I'm real bright, a regular flashbulb.

"The shrinking solution."

"Oh," I say. My wit shines through with every word. "That. No, I didn't take it. They sprayed it at me."

She gives me the dead serious, you're-shit-out-of-luck-and-you-better-know-it look. "Do you know that it is a federal offense to be in possession of or to use shrinking solution? That it is produced and sold by terrorists? By using this, you may think you're just having a good time, but you are actually aiding the enemies of the United States."

"Lady, I couldn't care less about this shrinking stuff. I was just doing my job when I get this weird perfume sprayed at me -"

"I'm no sap. Tell me what I need to know, or I'll take you in and let the boys in blue deal with you."

The cops ain't too gentle with me when I'm normal size, so I'd prefer to avoid getting brought in. I rack my brains for something to tell the broad. "Mistress Loretta gave it to me," I say, crossing my fingers and praying that this is what she's looking for.

"So she is their distributor," The woman says. "Now we've just got to find the source." She grabs a pad of paper from the clutter around the bad, scribbles something on it, then picks up the phone and dials. "Cutter, get a team assembled at the docks. I've got a witness, we're going after Loretta." She slams the phone back on its cradle, a creepily triumphant smile on her face. Then she gets up and heads for the door.

"Hey, what about me?" I ask.

"Stay here," she says. "We'll still need you when all of this is over."

And just like that, she's out the door. In the movies, she'd be saying how she can't help but be attracted to me, despite the fact that we're on opposite sides. She'd be taking off her top right this minute.

I hate the movies. You walk away with higher expectations and nothing to show for 'em.

Suddenly, that feeling like ice water hits me again, and I'm reeling. I fall over onto the bed, clawing at the mattress, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Feels like I've just had one too many absinthes at the wrong kind of bar. Reminds me why they made the ol' Green Fairy illegal.

When the room slows down, I'm sweating and twitching a little, lying face-down on the bed. But this makes no sense, because I was handcuffed to the headboard. I hold my hands in front of my face. The cuffs are gone. I've slipped out of them.

Everything has just gotten a whole lot bigger. The bed could be a first-story balcony above the floor. The ceiling's high up out of my reach. The apartment could be a concert hall.

So, what am I now, two feet? One and a half? My clothes are pooling all around me, and I won't be able to fit in my shoes now. Good thing it's summer or I'd be freezing, but I don't feel like running stark naked around the redlights tonight. I rummage around the clothes and junk on the floor, and manage to find myself a pair of flats which are smaller than my other shoes, and are wearable even though I'm swimming in them (not to mention how they look...) I button my shirt down all the way and it's so long that it easily covers my legs. Sure, this may not be the most fashionable outfit, but until I go to the toddler department of the nearest clothing store, it's the best I'll be able to get.

I ease myself off the edge of the bed until I'm hanging by my fingertips, then carefully let myself drop to the floor, breathing a sigh of relief when I land gently. Then I take the nearby chair and begin pushing it over to the door so I can turn the knob...

***

Grace takes a deep breath, and hopes she's doing the right thing. Max never told her where he was going, and she doesn't think he'll be down at the prison just yet. So she'll have to go to the source of the problem. The scene of the crime, except the only crime was fooling an honest P.I., and his secretary will be avenging him. It's an odd thought, but she's in an odd mood. After all, it isn't every day an ordinary secretary finds herself in the glamorous part of town. Granted, she wasn't in a terribly glamorous state, on foot and with little makeup, although she did have the platinum blond hair to suit the look.

She's out of breath when she rings the bell in front of the massive mansion's door. A small slot in the door opens quickly, and she can see a single eye peer out at her.

"I'm here to see Ms. Dodgson," she says quickly, but the slot closes. The door doesn't open. She rings the doorbell once more, but realizes that it won't do any good. If you don't look the part, you don't get in. Unless you're tricky about it.

***

The streets were steaming like a pot of lobsters when I headed back out, trying desperately to seem inconspicuous. You see, it's hard to fade into the background when you're two feet tall and dressed in nothing more than a very large white shirt. I was worried. I could get picked up, this time by a real call girl. Or that fed, Rebecca, could catch up with me again. She was a real minx, and I could tell she'd know her way around a guy's sensitive spots. Hurting those sensitive spots, that is.

Call me chicken, but dealing with a gal three times my size just wasn't my idea of child's play, and to be honest it kind of intimidated me. That shrinking stuff, it didn't just rob me of my size, it robbed me of my dignity. I couldn't stare down an alley cat, much less a broad. And forget about a regular guy.

Still, I had a case to solve, and that meant I had to go the only place I had a lead. Loretta was headed for the Docks, and hopefully Mr. Dodgson was with her. Or at least she could tell me where he was. It wasn't much to go on, but it was all I had.

Now all I had to do was figure out a way of getting down there. With such short legs, both driving and walking all the way there were out of the question. No, there were no buts about it - I'd have to hitchhike.

After about half an hour of tough walking (when your legs are less than a foot long, it gets real easy to trip on the paving stones) I was finally out of the redlights. I wiped about a gallon of sweat off my brow as I stepped onto the highway, my thumb stuck out at the headlights passing by. I'm shorter than those headlights, so I'm hoping someone'll have their eyes peeled.

Lucky me, though, a car pulls over to the side of the road. A door opens up, and a nice young girl, maybe twenty, gets out the other side. I give her the ol' one-over as she walks over. Long skirt, cardigan sweater. Perky boobs. She's your run-of-the-mill goody-two-shoes brunette, a regular dollface. I think she'd be short if I was normal height, but as it is she completely towers over me.

Her peepers get all wide when she spots me, and she walks up and kind of crouches over me, staring. I can smell the spearmint gum on her breath. "You need a ride, little fella?" she asks.

I feel like snapping at her for condescending to me like that, but what can I do? I'd look ridiculous trying to talk tough to this girl, ten years younger than me and twice my size. So I settle for simply saying "If I could have one, please."

"All right," she says, perfect white teeth in a big grin, "But it's gonna cost ya."

I start reaching into my pockets before I realize that I don't have any. My wallet, it's back in my pants, and those are back at Rebecca's place. And there's no way in hell I'm going back there to have her book me for a room in the big house. So I blush and cross my fingers and blurt, "I don't got any change."

"Oh, that's not what it's going to be," she says, running her tongue over her lips. "My parents are the real traditional types. They don't want me to screw around before I get married. They want a white wedding. But I've been dying to have some fun. And I don't think you're big enough to pop my cherry."

Some goody-two-shoes.

***

Grace hates heights. She especially hates them when she doesn't have anything protecting her if she falls. So she's very unhappy as she scales the thick ivy growing on the walls of the Dodgson estate, trying to sneak in the second floor window. The Dodgsons were smart about building their home - no windows on the first floor, all the doors are heavy. You couldn't break in unless you were carrying heavy duty explosives.

So Grace climbs. Until finally, she sees a window, and reaches out, holding her breath, struggling not to look down. A quick pull on the edge and - amazingly - it opens. Grace grabs onto the ledge and carefully pulls herself up, managing to slide herself in without so much as tearing her dress.

She lands clumsily though, bumbling onto a plush carpet floor. When she sits up and gets her bearings, she sees that it's an extravagant bedroom, four-post bed and all. Whether it's Marilyn's or Elizabeth's, she can't tell.

She looks around, seeing the countless framed photographs on the walls, the expensive furniture, the sheer opulence of it all - then her eye catches movement. She sees it dart behind a chair. Slowly, on all fours, she crawls towards the chair. It didn't look like a mouse. In fact, she was almost positive that it was standing on its hind legs.

She pads softly over to the chair, then swiftly ducks her head behind it. The little creature panics, trying to run away but tripping and falling on its face. Instantly, Grace darts out her hand and grabs onto it, even as it flails and claws at the carpet.

She turns it over in her hand, and it suddenly lies very still. Grace takes a deep breath. She could've sworn she'd heard about this, but dismissed it as a rumor, a silly child's story. Cults with mysterious potions. She'd brushed it all off.

Yet there, in her palm, is a man just two inches tall.

A Tough Night

By NFalc


Part Three


Above me, the girl gasped. Falling back against the car seat, I gasped. I hadn't put this much effort into things in a long time. I think it was that whole thing about not being able to pop her cherry - I'd taken it as a challenge. You think I'm just a small fry? I'll show you who's boss.

"Is that it?" She asked, staring down at me.

So much for that. I just couldn't win tonight. "Yeah, that's all folks," I said, stretching backwards. Truth was, I was totally tuckered out. Dollface: two, Max: zip.

"Well, it was nice while it lasted," she says, and looks back at the road. I'm such a shrimp that I can't really climb over her thigh, so I just curl up between her legs and watch as she drives. She's a looker, but I've got a job to do.

"Can you take me down to the docks?" I call up to her.

"What are you going to do down at the docks, sweetie?" She says, big brown peepers staring at the road. "Lots of big, bad men down there. You should come on home with me instead."

For a second, I can't help but smirk to myself - so I did do somethin' after all! - but I don't like where the conversation's going. I may be a midget, but I'm still a man, and this whole mother-knows-best act ain't gonna cut it. Now, to put my powers of persuasion to work. "Honey, I really, really gotta get to the docks tonight. I've got work to do."

Her lips seal together so tight it'd take a crowbar to open them. Not a good sign.

"Please, lady? I did everything you wanted me to, it's only fair."

She takes one huge finger and shoves it in my face. "Shhh," she says, "We're going home."

Now, under any other circumstances I might not mind playing sex slave for a pretty twenty-year old gal, but I had a job to do. Plus, if I didn't get to the bottom of this mess, I might never make it back to my normal height. So I did the only thing I could in my situation. I wrapped my arms around her finger, opened wide and bit down.

"Ouch!" The girl shrieked, waving her hand up and down and tossing me about like a ragdoll. Distracted, she swerved left and right down the road while I was tossed about like a tugboat in a typhoon. I heard the squeal of brakes. "Get it off, get off, get off!" She screamed. Then, with one huge wave of her arm, I found myself flying out into space. She'd tossed me right out the window.

I hit the pavement like a ton of bricks, then roll to the side as her massive tires squeal off into the night. Crazy broad. She had it coming to her, treating me like a toy. I spit in the grass as I make my way off the road.

I scramble up a small hill which is the size of a mountain to me, and look out into the dark, steamy city night. Just off to my right, I can see the water rippling, the overhead lights and warehouses of the Docks. For once, a bit of luck comes my way. I'm just a block over from the waterfront. Of course, with my newly stubby legs, it'll take me a while to get there. I sigh as I start walking, and hope that I'm on the right track.

***

Two minutes have passed before Grace is able to talk to the little man cowering in her palm. "H-hello there," She says hesitantly. "Who are you?"

The tiny person takes his head out of his hands and looks up at her meekly. "What are you going to do with me?" he asks.

"I asked you first," she says gently.

"My name... my name is Ritchie Nichols, and I used to be an insurance salesman. Well, I'd only had my job for a day when this happened to me. I thought I had everything all figured out: other people aim low, head out to suburbia. Me, I thought I'd go door to door at the Hollywood mansions. If you sucker one of the rich and powerful, think about how big a commission you'd get!"

As the little man got more absorbed in his story, he became more confident. "So I came up to Dodgson's house, thinking she'd be a good target. Rich widow, probably paranoid. I could nail her for a huge coverage plan. The butler opens the door, and I ask to see Miss Elizabeth. He says that I certainly can, sits me down in a chair. Suddenly, I feel really drowsy, and I can't help it, I fall asleep.

"Next thing you know, I'm three feet tall, and that - crazy - bitch..."

Without any warning, the man bursts into tears. Grace feels a sudden urge to comfort the poor thing; he looks like he's been through a lot. She raises a hand to stroke him, and he doesn't flinch away. "You don't have to tell me any more, Ritchie. It's okay..."

Suddenly, the little man looks straight at the door. "She's coming. Quick, hide!"

Grace hastily lowers Ritchie to the floor, then clumsily scuttles under the massive bed. She flattens herself out, tries to slow her heartbeat and quiet her loud, panicked breathing. She positions herself so she can see out into the room beyond.

A pair of dark leather high heels stride confidently out into the room. She hears a woman's voice, arch and aristocratic. "How's our newest little one doing?"

Ritchie doesn't respond. He slowly walks out into Grace's field of vision, hanging his head and staring at the carpet.

The woman walks forward until she is standing directly over the little guy. Grace, having an almost identical viewpoint two inches off the ground, can sympathize with the poor man. The woman towers over him, utterly dominating. When she kneels down, Grace almost gasps, imagining the scene from Ritchie's perspective. Those huge thighs plunging down from the sky...

"Come on, little bug, you've got a job to do," the woman says imperiously.

She extends her hand, and the little man climbs on. Then, without any warning, the woman plunges her hand into the crotch of her silk stockings, rubbing herself violently. With a shock, Grace realizes the little man is still in her palm. She's using him as she masturbates. Grace closes her eyes, but she can still hear the woman moan with pleasure. She imagines she can hear Ritchie's screams.

After what seems like an eternity, it's over, and Grace opens her eyes to see Ritchie, sopping wet and bedraggled, kneeling on the woman's hand, which is once more just above her lap, within Grace's sight.

"Wasn't that fun?" The woman says. "Now, what do you say afterwards, little bug?"

"Thank you, Elizabeth."

"Good pet." She pats him on the head with a finger. It looks like it's enough to cause a concussion. Then she places Ritchie back on the ground, and stands up, walking to the exit.

"James, have we heard from Marilyn yet? I do hope she returns soon, she hasn't been back in ages..."

The door shuts softly, and Grace can breathe once more.

***

By the time I've reached the docks, I feel like I've run a mile or two, which in fact is probably pretty close to the mark. I lean on the rusty corrugated metal of a boathouse, and take a minute to catch my breath. That's when it hits me again, that old familiar feeling.

When I look around now, I barely come up to the boathouse's doorstep. I must be six inches tall. At this height, I won't even be able to save myself, much less handle any dangerous circumstances. Lucky for me, I'm not a cop, I'm a detective. All I've got to do is snoop around, and at my present height that should be easy. Provided some alley cat doesn't decide to make me his lunch, first.

I hear noises coming from the door behind me. Nobody should be out this late. Then again, it is the docks. Still, on a hunch, I look around for a way in. There it is, a gap the size of Kansas between two sheets of rust-covered siding. I carefully crawl my way in, and take a hiding spot behind a large shipping crate.

There, in the middle of the room, are my two old friends, Loretta and Katya. They don't look too good - Katie's got a nasty cut above her eye, and some bruises. Loretta, well Loretta's had the tables turned on her. She's been tied with duct tape to a chair, and someone's kicked a fair bit of the snot outta her. My bet is that the Russian broad saw to it personally.

"Don't make me ask you again," Katya says in a tone of voice that suggests that she's willing to rough her up a good deal more if she has to. Or maybe even if she doesn't have to. "Where the hell is the shrinking potion?"

"I told you, I don't have it any more," Loretta says bitterly. She doesn't seem to be happy to be on the receiving end of punishment.

"I shipped you two dozen cases of it," says Katya, baring her teeth in a vicious grimace. "Did they suddenly vanish?"

"I don't have them." That's all she says.

Katya pauses a moment before whipping her hand backwards, smacking Loretta so hard that blood wells up in the corner of her lip. "Then tell me who does."

"I do," says a woman's voice off to the right. I can't see her from this angle, but her voice sounds awfully familiar.

"You?" Katya asks, surprised. "What the hell are you two doing here?"

***

Grace rushes out of her hiding place on her hands and knees, almost on top of the little guy, (and probably, she realizes, scaring him half to death) before she gently sweeps him to her cheek.

"You poor man," she says, nuzzling him. "You must have been through so much."

He strokes her much larger cheek. "I'm okay," he says, "You learn to deal with it."

She kisses him quietly, feeling an immense desire to comfort the miserable thing. She whispers to him, "I'll get you out of here. We'll tell the police about her, and she'll be arrested, and I'll keep you safe." She doesn't know how she'll do it, but she's sure going to try.

"That won't work," Ritchie says, shaking his tiny head. "People like her, they don't function within the same society we do. They're above the law. If we accused her, she'd either pay her way out or use her lawyers. Sure, we'd cause a scandal, but she'd come back and get us in the end."

"There has to be some way," Grace says desperately, as she takes out a clean kerchief and begins to wipe away some of the mess that the little man is covered in. "I won't let her keep you here like this."

"I'm not the only one. She's got more of them spread around the house. In fact, I'm not normally even hers..."

"We'll free the others too," Grace says with absolute determination and certainty. "All we have to do... What we really need is some concrete evidence."

She watches him closely as he drums his fingers on his chin, a cute miniature pantomime of thought. Then he suddenly waves his arms in excitement. "I've got it!" he says. "Her diary. She keeps a record of everything she does, or so I've heard. It's lying on the desk in her bedroom. All we'll have to do is snatch it, and we'll have all the evidence we'll need! If we released it to the press, they'd be crawling all over the story, and then we've got a good shot of getting all the men released..."

"Where's the bedroom?" Grace asks.

Just as Ritchie begins to explain, they both hear the noise, and turn to see the bedroom door open...

***

Loretta looks towards whoever is off to the right, and smiles cruelly. "They're the ones you want, Katya. They took everything I had."

"Is this true?" Asks Katya, her voice perfectly neutral.

"Quite frankly," the third woman says airily, "Neither of you were using the shrinking potion to the correct ends. Shrinking your enemies may be your tactic, Katya, and selling the potion at a premium may be yours, Loretta. But both of you miss the point. The point is in the simple pleasures that can be derived from its use. So, yes, we took the potion. We had to; we were the only ones who knew the right way to distribute it."

Right now, the thing I want most is to leap around the crate's edge and see who this third woman is. Her voice is so familiar that her identity is itching at the back of my mind, like a mosquito bite that I've gotta scratch. She's the key to the case...

Unfortunately, Katya takes this moment to pull out her hand cannon. "Stupid American cow," she sneers, "You can talk all the philosophy you want. Unless you hand over every last canister of the potion, I'll pump you so full of lead they'll have to keep the casket closed at your funeral."

"If that's the way you want it," the woman says, and I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. Katya begins firing all over the place, her lip trembling with rage, eyes burning like lit newspaper from her fury.

Firefights always make me start shitting bricks; the fact that the fighters were about twelve times my size didn't help too much either. The loud noises make it hard for me to think straight, so I duck between crates and start running around like a confused rodent trying to escape an exterminator. Running blindly away from the shooting, there's a sudden motion in front of me, and I turn to see Loretta's immense face come crashing down right in my path. "Holy shit!" she screams, the wind from that big mouth of hers almost knocking me over.

I turn and run as she heaves herself towards me, still bound to the chair. Bullets continue to fly through the air and I can't tell if anybody's winning, and suddenly I hear sirens in the distance.

"The police!" The familiar voice cries out.

"Let's finish this right now," Katya says, her tone murderous.

"Have it your way," The third woman says, and fires two shots. I hear Katya groan behind me, dark liquid leaking down the front of her black jumpsuit. I see her slump, then turn back again and keep running.

Suddenly, I round a bend and can't see any cover. There, standing at the doorway, are the other two who had entered the room. And now I see why they were so familiar. With the summer moonlight shining on her face, Marilyn Dodgson looks even more beautiful than she did in my office. And right next to her is the guy in the gray fedora and trenchcoat.

"The cops are here," Marilyn says quietly. Somewhere behind us, Loretta is still ranting and raving.

"Do you think we have time to get away?" Trenchcoat asks. And the thing is, although his voice is towards the deeper side, it sure as hell ain't deep enough.

"Not without them seeing us," Marilyn says. She takes Trenchcoat's hand. And each hand has nails polished a different color.

"Let's do it, babe," Trenchcoat says, taking off the fedora. Long, silky brown hair flows loose down to her (yes, her) shoulders.

I stand speechless for a minute as each pull out huge Tommy guns, and head for the door. Then, I realize that by the time they're gone, it'll be just me and the police.

Well, she wanted me to tail the one in the trenchcoat. It's time for me to do my job.

A Tough Night

By NFalc


Part Four


From the moment Grace laid eyes on her, she could tell that Elizabeth Dodgson was a glamorous woman, the kind used to getting what she wanted - no matter what she had to do in order to accomplish it. She was blonde, roughly 45 although certainly not showing it, and from the width of her eyes she was about to have a heart attack.

"Who the hell are you?" she growls.

Grace responds by clasping Ritchie to her chest with one hand, sticking the other hand out and pushing right past Marilyn like a football player. Marilyn falls back against the doorjamb, shocked by this sudden onslaught, giving Grace just enough time to brush past her and out into the hallway, running as fast as she can in high heels on carpet.

As she runs, Grace carefully wraps her fingers around Ritchie and lifts him to her ear. "Where does she keep the diary?" she asks.

"When I saw her writing in it, it was in her study, on the first floor," Ritchie says hurriedly. "We have to move quickly, if she catches you she'll kill you."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Grace asks, feet flying down a set of extravagantly polished wooden stairs, trying not to trip. She rounds the corner onto the first floor, and finds herself in a long hallway. "Which door?" she asks.

"Last one on the left," Ritchie shouts. "I think..."

Grace bursts through the last door on the left, only to find herself surrounded by hundreds of vials filled with clear purple liquid. "The shrinking solution," she gasps. "She must have enough to shrink all of Los Angeles..."

"Leave this as evidence for the cops," Ritchie says. "We've gotta find the diary. Try the door opposite this." Grace nods, and runs to the next room. "There it is! The desk, open it!"

She opens the desk drawer, and snatches a leather-bound book inside. "Got it. Now lets get out of here." She dashes back to where she thinks the lobby will be, then stops short.

Directly in front of the exit stands Elizabeth. "You're not going anywhere," she says. In her hand is a vial of purple liquid.

***

I'm running after the ladies as fast as my stubby legs can carry me, but they manage to outrace me anyway. They've got legs like skyscrapers though, so I suppose I can't beat myself up too bad about it. And hey, being so short makes it pretty easy to keep out of sight, so I'm not a target for the ten cop cars that pull up, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

At least twenty cops get out, and without breaking a sweat the ladies unload on 'em, gats banging like firecrackers. They aren't actually aiming at the coppers, just their cars - trying to scare the boys in blue so they can make a clean getaway. And it seems to be working. I stick with them as close as I can as they hustle to their car.

It's an old soft-top with a leaky oil tank and rust obscuring the paint, but it looks like it'll get us all far away from there, even if the two ladies don't know about their third passenger. Marilyn opens the driver door and I jump up and pull myself in right before she closes it. She slips off her high heels in order to drive, leaving her feet covered by her silk stockings.

"Drive!" yells Trenchcoat as she hops in the passenger seat, and I narrowly avoid being squashed under Marilyn's huge foot as she shoves it onto the pedal, flooring the car. We take off like a cat running from a blowtorch, the cops piling into their cars behind us.

Just seconds after we're rolling, it hits me like a punch in the gut. Shrinking again. And this time more than usual. When I look up, it seems like I'm in a huge cavern, with two huge legs coming down from God knows where. I duck under Marilyn's left foot, which is on the pedal, and dash over to one of her high heels, trying to avoid falling over due to the car's motion.

I'm about as tall as the spike on the high heel, which by comparison looks like two inches. Ladies, meet Max Salem, bug-sized private investigator. When Grace hears about this, it'll crack her up.

I have to get the girls' attention somehow, or I risk getting trapped in their car. If that happens, either they find me, the cops do, or I starve to death, so it's best to get it over with now.

Running around the moving car feels like standing on a tugboat in the middle of a hurricane, but I've got to get over to Trenchcoat and get her attention. Lucky for me (hell, I've been real lucky so far tonight, right?), she's slipped off her shoes also, and I'm able to tap on her foot. For a second, I think the big doll's gonna squash me flat, but she looks down, notices me, and slips me a big five round my whole body.

"What's that you got your paws on, Jessie?" Marilyn asks, keeping her peepers on the road.

The babe gives me a thorough lookover. "Well, look who we got here? It's Max Salem, gumshoe extraordinaire. He almost ended up as gum on the bottom of my shoe!"

"Pleased to meetcha," I say. "Now, do you mind explaining what the hell's goin' on? Cuz I think I'm missing somethin', if not everything. F'r instance, who's your husband here?"

Marilyn glances at me, a big grin on her sweet puss. "Max, you really should do background checks more often. I'm single. Jessica's my lover."

"Ah," I say, finally putting the pieces together. Two broads in forbidden love. Her mother probably didn't approve, so the two didn't get hitched. I bet the trenchcoat was so they could be seen together without getting dirty looks. "But I still don't see how the shrinker cults fit in the picture. Or me, for that matter."

"Well, me and Marilyn are wacky about each other," Jessica says. "And we're not too keen on guys at full size. But it's nice to have a man involved too - especially when he's so cute and little."

"So you two got involved with buying from the shrinker cults - that's how you know Loretta."

"Close, but not quite," Marilyn cuts in. "That's why we used Loretta to get our hands on shrinking solution."

"A hundred gallons of it," Jessica smirks.

"And that's what made the Ruskies mad," I finish. "But how do I fit into all of this?"

"You don't," says Marilyn abruptly.

"You've been had," Jessica adds, still showing all her pearly whites.

"We just were looking for a new little guy - all our old ones kept getting lost. And we don't like the ones Loretta supplies - there's no fun in them unless they're fresh and surprised. You looked like an easy lure. All we had to do was offer you some dough, and then we could fool you into anything."

"Of course, you wound up being a little trickier to get than we thought. Still, all's well that ends well, right?"

"It hasn't all ended well yet, babe," Marilyn says, looking over her shoulder. "The coppers are right on our tails!"

Jessica drops me in her lap and gets out one of those Chicago Typewriters, turning in her seat and propping it against the back of the car. Marilyn revs the engine as Jess starts throwing lead at the sirens behind us...

***

Rebecca Laughton had been feeling pretty proud of herself. All three of the major players in the shrinker cults cooped up in a house on the docks, surrounded by squad cars. It looked like she'd finally nailed the big one, the case that would make her a star.

Then those two Dodgson girls had popped out with Thompsons, drilled holes in all the cars and took off.

Now, driving furiously in her own Cadillac, she heard them shooting at the cop cars in the distance. This was getting too messy. If she got unlucky, a cop or two would die.

But she was still going to nab those two. She knew right where they were headed, back to the Dodgson estate. Those two thought they were only being chased by the police. Little did they know the FBI was also on to them, just on a different route...

***

Grace takes a deep breath. She knows she's cornered. There's got to be a way to think herself out of this.

"You've got my journal, huh?" Elizabeth Dodgson says. "So many secrets in there you could blab to others. You'd be famous, and I'd be in jail. All the little men would go free. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Too bad I've got this little vial right here. This baby is full of the most concentrated shrinking solution around."

Grace gulps, and searches her brain for anything that can get her out of this. Rush Elizabeth and try to tackle her? No, then the woman could spill the solution all over her. Talk her way out? Grace was too much of a liability for Elizabeth to let go. There was no window to jump out, no exit except the one Elizabeth blocked.

"Tell you what," Elizabeth says, "That journal has... sentimental value. Give it to me and I'll let you live after I shrink you, instead of squashing you like the little pest you are. Maybe you could be my personal pet."

She takes another step forward...

***

Jessica sprays bullets one more time, then calls out, "That's the last one."

I wipe the sweat off my brow and focus on holding onto the trenchcoat. One slip from this height and I'd wind up floor putty. And the two dames are so dizzy for each other that they probably wouldn't even notice I was gone.

The soft-top pulls into a garage that would be gigantic even if I wasn't a pipsqueak. "Let's go!" Marilyn shouts. "We've got to get inside before they see us and the car!"

Without warning, I'm being swept up in Jessica's mits again, as she leaps out of the car. We burst through the door and into a mansion.

Marilyn turns back to Jessica, and then gets real close and spreads her arms to give her lover a big bear hug. I find myself getting intimate with the doll's neckline as they embrace. And for the first time tonight, I feel my luck's changing.

Of course, that all changes when we hear a scream from upstairs...

***

"You want the journal?" Grace asks. "Take it!"

She flings the leather-bound book with all her might. It crashes into Elizabeth's outstretched arms, tipping the vial, which promptly spills purple liquid all over her fancy, sequined dress. The rich woman lets out a horrifying scream as she begins to diminish in size. She runs towards the door, only to have it burst open right in front of her.

Standing in the doorway are a blonde and a brunette, both stunningly beautiful. Grace quickly recognizes the blonde as Marilyn. In the brunette's hand is something that looks at first like a very lifelike doll. It's only when it waves that Grace realizes it's Max.

"Mother?" Marilyn calls down to the rapidly shrinking woman.

Elizabeth lets out a shrill squeak and turns in the other direction, only to find herself face to face with Grace's office pumps. She's completely surrounded.

***

For a few seconds, no one speaks or moves. The door closes behind the two women. Then Jessica crouches down and places Max gently on the floor. Her hand darts out and wraps around Elizabeth, squeezing her tight. She lifts the squirming woman up to her face.

"Hello, Mrs. Dodgson. Remember me?"

Mrs. Dodgson only screams in reply.

Jessica goes on as if she hasn't heard her. "I'm your daughter's lover. The one you looked down on as a freak. The one you tried to keep your daughter away from. The one you banished from your home."

"No no no," Elizabeth mewls.

As Jessica leers at the tiny woman, other small things begin stirring on the floor. Tiny men coming out of cracks in the walls and floorboards, looking on in amazement.

"All the men we once had... You stole them from us!" Marilyn gasps.

"All these things you've done to us, and to others... You don't deserve to own all this. You deserve to be powerless."

Grace, thinking quickly, flips open the journal as Jessica talks to Elizabeth. She lets out a small cry as she reads.

"What?" Marilyn asks.

"'September 14, 1922'," Grace reads aloud, "'Today I gave that fat old bastard just what he deserved. A full vial of concentrated potion, stirred into his evening tea. He looked even more pathetic at one inch tall. I told him just what I thought of him. Then I had an evening snack of my own. I didn't even chew when he went squirming down my throat. I swear I could hear his screams as he went down.'"

"September fourteenth... that's the night my father disappeared..." Marilyn says, astonished.

There's a stunned silence.

"You killed Daddy?" Marilyn demands angrily.

"Honey," Jessica says to her lover, "Have you ever heard of the Code of Hammurabi? 'An eye for an eye'..."

"No! I'm your mother, Mari, don't let her! Don't let them do this to me!" The tiny woman cries out.

Marilyn looks completely unemotional. "Goodbye, Mother."

And with that, Jessica lifts the shrunken heiress and tosses her into her mouth. She closes it but does not chew. She swallows hard and forces the one-inch-tall woman down her throat.

Just then, the door bursts open once more.

"Nobody move!" shouts a woman in office attire. "I am an officer of the law!"

"Rebecca?" Max calls up, puzzled.

"You escaped? I'll deal with you later. For now, all of you put your hands behind your head."

"You don't understand, let me explain..." Marilyn says.

"I heard everything," Rebecca says, "I know exactly what's going on. And I know that you're under arrest for possession of ..." She looks around the room. "At least one hundred gallons of illegal substances. And your girlfriend is now wanted for murder."

"Wait!" Max yells, as loud as he can. "Hear me out!"

Rebecca looks down at him imperiously, and pauses to think. Then, against her better judgment, she picks up the shrunken private eye.

"I understand that you want to make a big arrest. I used to be a fed too. And I know what it's like for dolls in the Bureau. You get all the shit jobs, and none of the respect the guys do. You just want to make one big arrest, so that they'll finally treat you like you deserve. So that they see you as an equal."

Grace sees that Rebecca's lip is quivering. She bites down on it and nods.

"What you don't understand is, you are equal. You're more than equal. You're the only one who managed to get to the bottom of this whole mess. And in my eyes, you're already quite the powerful woman."

At this, the agent smiles. "You're all talk."

"I swear, I'm telling nothing but the whole truth. You're beautiful, gal, and you've got lots of spunk, and even more brains. But look into your heart. You know that arresting these girls isn't the right thing to do."

Rebecca closes her eyes briefly, and sighs. "You're right. That rich bitch deserved to die. But I have to arrest somebody for this mess. Do you know how many cop cars have been shot?"

"We're forgetting somebody, I just know it," Max says.

"Loretta!" Jessica cries. "She's still tied up back down at the docks."

"And Katya Ivanovich's corpse is lying next to her." Marilyn adds.

"Do you have the murder weapon?" Rebecca asks.

"It's in the car. We used gloves when we were holding it, so there are no prints."

"Ladies, I think we have ourselves a patsy," Rebecca says, sounding like she can't believe what she's saying. "But I will have to take all of those vials of shrinking potion as evidence. And the FBI will also want to have some of the shrunken men as witnesses."

"Will you guys testify on our behalf?" Marilyn calls down to the little men around them. They nod, and she smiles.

"One more thing," Rebecca adds. "I'm doing you a huge favor for all of this, and I need something in return."

"You want money? A car? Name your price," Marilyn says.

Rebecca smiles tightly. "I want the men the FBI doesn't take. Somebody has to take charge of them. And... And I like feeling powerful. I like being around admirers."

Marilyn frowns, but Jessica speaks up. "You've got a deal. But you have to let us keep a few. Some of them are very dear to us."

"Like?"

"The one you have in your hands," Marilyn says. "He just saved our skins. Plus, he's so cute!"

There's a yelp from Grace's direction, and a small man appears in her hands. "I want to stay with Grace!" He says. "That is, if she'll have me."

Grace smiles down at Ritchie. "Of course I will, little guy."

Rebecca slowly lowers Max to the floor, so that he's looking up at her. "You've got yourselves some very special men, ladies," she says. "I'll be back for the potion and the men in two days."

***

Three Months Later

***

Loretta wound up getting fifteen years in the slammer after a very speedy trial. The papers were all over the case, and it wound up getting lots of publicity. Unfortunately, this created even more demand for shrinking potion, which caused several new "shrinker cults" to spring up. Rebecca, who's now head honcho of her branch at the Bureau, has got her hands full with the issue. Her hands are full of paperwork at her job, and when she gets home, they're full of her new friends, admirers and lovers, each of whom can easily fit in her pocket.

She still comes 'round every so often, and she and the Dodgsons have become very good friends. They even give her a little dough so she can keep the little guys and herself in clover.

Another frequent visitor to the Dodgson Estate is my former secretary, Grace. She and her fella Ritchie are pretty well off too, now that Grace has her own peeper agency, which I'm ashamed to say makes my own look like a trip for biscuits. She and her guy are totally dizzy for each other, but sometimes Grace comes over and joins in our games here at the mansion as well.

And what kind of games do we play? Well, let's just say that we've pitched woo and made whoopee in just about every way possible with three people, and done it almost every way you can with four. I'm actually eating better off the gals' table scraps than I could when I was feeding myself. Hey, I'm sharing a four-post bed with two hot mamas, and we're all gaga over each other. Life could be worse.

So that's my new job. Private house dick, the flatfoot who can be flattened underfoot. My name's Max Salem, and if you've ever got a very small problem, give me a call.