This story, my take on my beloved pulp detective genre, was originally published in Stick Your Neck Out. Word count ~ 1100. Estimated reading time ~ 5 minutes.
Please, Call Me Sal
"So it was all just a lie?" I asked, as I leaned back in the tattered wood chair, a lit cigar dangling from my mouth. The room was dark. Always dark. Twenty five years of smoke hung in my office, like the smog that suffocated my City of Angels. The world-famous Hollywood sign, a shameless beacon for all no-talent dreamers, was now barely visible across the polluted landscape from my streaked windows. This town was going to Hell and I was just along for the ride. I propped my tired dogs on the worn desk and took in the beauty that sat across from me. This dame who spoke of lies.
"Yes. A lie . . . and I just can't go on." She was a real beauty, 36-24-36, well, maybe a little thicker in the middle, give her a 26 there, and while I'm at it, probably a little smaller up top. But, you get the picture. This was a fine damsel in distress. A dismayed looker who needed me. I would not let her down.
I tossed my hat on my Buster Browns. "You came to the right place, miss. It’s my job to help you. So, let's go over the facts."
"Yesterday he was here. Today he isn't!"
"When did you last see him?"
"Uh . . . yesterday." This was going nowhere fast. I stood from my chair and walked to the Mr. Coffee.
"Coffee?" I offered.
She shook her head, blond locks falling to and fro. My heart in my throat. From my new vantage point I could make out her legs, crossed at the knees. Defined like a dictionary and extending into next week. This lady was special, indeed.
In order to concentrate, I went back to my desk. I took a sip of coffee. It was hot. Too hot. I let out a little yelp and knew I wouldn't be tasting anything for a week. Muy caliente, my friend.
I gathered myself and took my seat. "Why not go to the police? Why come to me?"
"The police won't help . . . you'd understand if you knew him."
"Who is he? Is he in the mafia" This was getting good. This case could make me a major player in Tinseltown.
"I …" she trailed off, looking at her legs. I couldn't blame her. If I had those legs, I'd never look away.
I gave her Mr. Sensitive: "I know this is hard for you."
"No, you don't! You don't know anything about it!" I couldn’t argue with her on that one. Now, it wasn't really my fault seeing how she hadn't told me anything and I'm not a mind reader. Still, I let it slide.
"Miss. Miss." I waited for her to look me in the eye. I have a lazy eye and it sometimes takes a few minutes for a person to find the right one, but I waited. Always waited. There, she got it. "I want to help you. I can help you. But, miss, you've got to tell me what happened." I looked down at the notes scribbled in my Big Chief Tablet. "You told me that he had lied to you all along. You told me he was here yesterday, but gone today. That really isn't much to go on."
Her eyes filled with tears and my heart broke. "Look, if you can't take the case, just say so. I just need . . . help." She broke down. Tears were flowing like that busted sewer line at Sunset and Vine back in ‘95.
I crossed the line and went to her side. If there's one thing I've learned in this business, is you never cross the line. But this gal was different. You break the rules for this kind of woman, let me tell you. I knelt beside her and held her in my arms as the waterworks came with force, her face buried in my chest. Uncontrolled sobbing accompanied by extreme nasal discharge. My shirt was covered in mascara and snot, but I didn't care. I would care later when I couldn’t get the stain out of my favorite Roundtree and Yorke pinpoint, but at the time, I honestly did not care.
The squall slowed to a trickle. She gave me a grateful look. I stood and went back to my chair.
"Thank you Mr. Hayes."
"Please, call me Sal." My name is actually Robert, but I've always liked Sal so I thought I’d try it out.
"Sal, you are very kind." Hey, that sounded nice coming from those beautiful lips. I could get used to that.
"Miss, I'm just here to help. Now, tell me what happened. Tell me about the lies. Tell me exactly what happened so I can help you. If the mafia’s involved, I need to know." I sat with my pencil poised above paper. My big break, I could feel it.
"I know, I know.” She summoned her strength and looked me in my good eye. “There was never any question that he loved me. I knew he’d never leave me . . . knew it my heart.” She clutched her chest as a point of emphasis. I liked it when she did that. “But, he just disappeared. He was living a lie. This morning I got up and he wasn't in my bed like usual."
"So he disappeared at some point between last night when you went to bed and this morning when you woke up?" Now we were getting somewhere. “Did you hear any noises? Was there another woman? Any mob guys lurking about lately? Did he have a gambling problem, drinking problem, anger management problem, problem with directions? Is he a bed wetter?” I was getting ahead of myself, desperate to crack the case, end her suffering, and become Mr. Big.
“No no. Nothing like that. Everything was the same.” Sounded like a kidnapping to me. I jotted that down – “possible kidnapping.” I even underlined “kidnapping.” She continued: “He was incredibly loyal.”
"Loyal." I wrote that down as I said it.
"My best friend, really." Got it. "He has curly black hair. A cute little nose." Got it. Got it. "It’s always wet." Got it. What?
"Miss, what was always wet?”
“His nose.”
"What is his name?"
"Mr. Fuzzy Face."
***
I found Mr. Fuzzy Face. Of course, that’s my job. The mutt had taken up with some bitch down the block; a poodle, I believe. Loyal, my eye. As for that once-in-a-lifetime lady who sauntered into my office that one day, she was out of my life as quickly as she’d entered, along with my shot at being the Hollywood Hero. Gone. Just like that. But, you get used to it. Almost. After all, once-in-a-lifetime ladies are a dime a dozen in this town. It’s being the Big Kahuna that’s fleeting. Now, I just kick back in my unstable chair, blow smoke rings, and wait for Miss Opportunity to knock again. She’ll come back. She always does.
THE END
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