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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."
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