“Please, Mr. Wayne, you have to help me!” She pleads, leaning over my desk, the straps of her burgundy silk dress slipping dangerously low on her shoulders.
“No can do, Ms. Huckerland.” I light up a cigarette, giving the hysterical woman some privacy before her bosom heaves its way out of her neckline. “I don’t work pro-bono.”
“There must be something I can do, I–” she paused, “I can take out a loan, maybe. The bank won’t give me one, but perhaps Mr.–”
“Stop! That jackass mafioso may give you a loan, but the interest’ll bleed you dry, and then he’ll take his pound of flesh from you! A beautiful young woman like you shouldn’t be sullied by something as dirty as debt.”
Ms. Huckerland sniffed, sparkling tears rolling down her porcelain skin. I hand her my handkerchief before taking another drag of the cigarette.
“Tell you what. If you leave me your pearl necklace as insurance, we can work out a deal later. It’s gotta be worth a pretty penny, and my integrity’s at stake here.”
Ms. Huckerland hesitates, and I take the opportunity to examine the rest of her. Her dress is expensive, fitted to her small waist and gently curving over her hips, but there’s barely any sparkle, no jewelry apart from the pearl necklace around her slender white neck. Her hands are soft and pale, with gently rounded nails. The hands of a rich girl. So why’s she here with a gumshoe like me?
“An’ then, would you believe it Ms. Huckerland, the perp starts runnin’!” Joe mimes twirling his trusty Desert Eagle (with silver filigree down the barrel and black alligator leather grips) out of its holster. “So I shot him! Like BLAM!!”
Sent into another fit of giggles, Ms. Huckerland shyly tries to cover her blushing face with her fourth glass of red wine. I match her, swirling my glass of barrel-aged whiskey-on-the-rocks before locking eyes and taking a sip. In the dim lighting of the bar, I swear I can see a different kind of thirst behind those wine-dark eyes.
Lowering her glass and licking the wine remaining on her plump lips, she says, “Ms. Huckerland is too formal.” She pauses, twirling a lock of the golden hair I’ve begun to dream about, the gentle curls that brush her bounteous chest, “Please, call me Miriam. It’s more… intimate.”
“Shhhh,” I whisper, our bodies pressed close in this dingy alley, my hand on her lips. I can feel her soft mammaries quivering. “Don’t move, they could hear us.” I can feel her shaking under my gloved hand, she’s trying so hard not to cry that she doesn’t notice how hard she’s gripping my clothes. Were we not surrounded by dumpsters and trash, well… The kidnappers wouldn’t be the only ones doing some hard labour, let’s put it that way.
Minutes pass like hours as we listen to the footsteps fade into the distance. I pull my hand away from her mouth and say, “I think we’re safe now, Miriam. Those bastards don’t know I called my other cop buddies to surround the area. There’s no way they’ll get away, and with your testimony they’ll be put away for a long time.”
She falls forward, her small hands trembling on my broad chest, her eyes blown wide in admiration at her saviour. “You saved my life, Joe! How can I ever repay you!”
The pearl necklace in my pocket, Miriam’s only memento of her dead mother, feels heavier. “I think I may have an idea…”