Curt Colbert - Seattle Noir

“Dorothy Demar,” she said, adding a last name, her eyes a deeper blue than the last swimming pool I dove into.

I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I drew on all my years as a professional to compose myself.

“Glad to meet you. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

“I want to hire you.” Curvier than ten miles of bad road, she slid into the green wingback chair across from me.

“I figured you weren’t collecting for the Milk Fund.” I pushed the liverwurst out of my way and replaced it with my stenographic notepad. “I might be able to squeeze in a new client. Shoot,” I told her, uncapping my fountain pen. “What’s the scoop?”

“I need you to keep an eye on me.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, that won’t be difficult.”

She smiled for the first time, her pearly whites glistening between her full red lips.

“Just for the record, though,” I continued, “why do you need me to keep an eye on you?”

“I think I’m in danger, Mr. Rossiter,” she said, a little quaver in her otherwise strong voice.

“Why’s that?”

“Does it matter?” she snapped. “I want to hire you! Isn’t that enough?”

I studied her for a moment, a bit put off by her sudden fire. “Not quite.”

“I think I’m in danger,” she repeated.

“Look, let’s try this again,” I told her, taking out a Philip Morris and lighting up. “Maybe you’re new to this sort of thing, but I’m not really big on mysteries. I like my cases nice and straightforward. And my answers plain.”

Dorothy jumped to her feet. “Maybe I’ve come to the wrong man.”

I stayed seated. “Maybe you have,” I said, thinking about how fast lust can go wrong.

She reached into the small ivory clutch that she carried, and laid four fat C-notes face up on my desk. Ben Franklin never looked more handsome. “Is that enough to make you the right man?”

“Well, now…” I pulled the bills toward me. “I could maybe handle a certain amount of suspense for this kind of dough.”

“Thought so.” Looking smug, she sat back down and took a gold-filigreed cigarette case out of her clutch. Tamping one of her smokes against it, she said, “Now maybe you’ll start doing like you’re told.”

“Could be.” I offered her a light. “But you haven’t told me anything yet. No, strike that, you’ve spilled loads just by the way you’ve been acting. Let’s see… you’re rich; undoubtedly spoiled rotten as a child; used to getting your own way and you tend to throw tantrums when you don’t. How am I doing so far?”

“Good as a gypsy.” She took a deep drag off her cigarette and gave me a wry look. “I can tell a few things about you too. Let’s see… you’re not rich, otherwise you wouldn’t have this crummy office in the Regrade; you probably had to do for yourself as a child; you’re used to making your own way in this world and you tend to be cynical and sarcastic when things don’t go like you think they should. How am I doing so far?”

“Good as a gypsy.”

“There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that, pray tell?”

“You seem to be one of those people who act just the way they look, Mr. Rossiter. Smart but tough. Exactly the type of man I need to help me.”

This dame was smart herself. And definitely drop-dead gorgeous. Volatile, potentially explosive mix. Whether it was the edgy thrill she gave me, or the fact that her moola would more than cover my two-way car radio debt, I don’t know. All I can say for sure is that I could feel my better judgment flying away as fast as a pheasant that you’d missed with both barrels.

“Okay. You’re rich, I’m not. That about covers all the bases except one: I still need to know why you feel threatened and want me to watch over you.” I pushed the money back toward her. “No answer, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your case, even though I might kick myself later.”

“You have integrity. I don’t need integrity. But it will have to do, I suppose.” She slid the C-notes back at me. “I strongly suspect that my husband is planning to kill me.”

“That so? I didn’t know you were married.”

“We live apart,” she said, a definite sense of finality in her tone. “I have my own place; Harold has his.”

“Harold, huh?” I wrote his name down. “Tell me about Harold, Mrs. Demar. What makes you think he’s got it in for you?”

“It’s Mrs. Sikes, actually,” she corrected. “Demar is my maiden name.”

“Sounds better than Sikes; I don’t blame you.” I fixed Harold’s name in my notes. “So, once again, why would Harold have homicide on his mind?”

“He thinks I’m two-timing him.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Her candor brought me up short. For want of anything better to say, I replied, “That’s refreshing.”

“Harold thinks he owns me. He doesn’t. That’s why I need you.”

I leaned back in my chair and blew a smoke ring. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Keep an eye on me, like I said.”

“That could get expensive.”

“I have my own money. I was rich before I married Harold, and I’m still rich.”

“Have you tried marriage counseling? It’s bound to be cheaper.”

She laughed. Only the second time I’d seen her crack a smile. It vanished as soon as she began talking. “You have a sense of humor too. Keep it. Do you want the job? Yes or no?”

“When would you want me to start?”

“Now.”

“How close do you want to be followed? I can tail you from a distance or so close we might have to get engaged.”

Another smile-very small, very brief. “While the latter method might prove interesting, Mr. Rossiter, just keeping an eye on me from a distance will be more than adequate for the time being.”

“In that case,” I said, picking up the phone, “I’ll have my right-hand man on the job before you leave the office.”

She stubbed out her butt in the ashtray. “You won’t be watching me personally?”

“I’m saving myself for you.” I grinned. “I want to be fresh as a daisy if you ever need the close tail work.”

“I see,” she told me, the hint of a flirt forming in her eyes. It disappeared the instant I got Heine on the horn.

“Heine. Got a gig for you.” I could hear the click and clack of pool balls caroming in the background. As usual, he was downtown, just a few minutes away, at Ben Paris’s pool hall. He haunted the joint trying to shark a few simoleons whenever I didn’t have him working a case.

“That so?” Heine asked. “Good. Where do ya want me and when?”

“Over here at the office. Now.”

“What’s up?”

“Dame I need you to keep tabs on. She’s with me as we speak. Make it a discreet tail, but don’t let her out of your sight. Her life may be in danger. Name’s Dorothy Demar. Just honk when you show up. She’s got better gams than Betty Grable. You’ll like the work.”

“Say no more, brother,” Heine answered quickly. “I already left.” The line went dead.

“Thank you,” Dorothy told me as I hung up the receiver.

“For what? The compliment or for taking the job?”

“Both. I’m very grateful.”

“Maybe you should save your gratitude until I’m sure I can keep you safe.”

“You will. I have no doubt.”

“You’re pretty certain about me, huh?”

“Everybody says you’re the best.”

“Can’t argue with that. Even so, I’d advise you to lay low for a while if you think your life’s in danger.”

“No, I won’t do that.” She stood up like she was preparing to leave. “I’m going to lead my life as usual. Neither your well-intentioned advice nor Harold’s ill-intentioned behavior are going to stop me.” She glanced at her diamond-studded wristwatch. “I hope your man hurries. I have a final fitting for my winter trousseau at Frederick’s, after which I have a date for dinner and a night out on the town.”