Everybody makes mistakes.
God created heaven and earth and every living thing under the blessed sun. He created bees--the perfect swarm. And for each curvaceous female bee there was an affected but rock-hard male bee. Then for some reason we mortals can't fathom--he made an extra bee. That was his mistake. Life became a game of musical chairs. Circle all you want; someone will be left out when it comes time to sink your stingers. When left out enough, you compromise, you rationalize, and rearrange priorities. When I answered my phone "Wadword Investigations. Bobby speaking," Allison Nichols responded in a voice that would make an overcooked spaghetti noodle hard.
"Are you available?"
A question open to interpretation to say the least. My infallible intuition said: no, but I heard myself answer, "Yes." That was my mistake.
She rattled off an address in Belmont Shores, another southern California marina community--this one tacked onto Long Beach--and I dutifully penciled it into my empty appointment book. An hour later, like a starving puppy, I showed up at Beachside Way ready to kiss this queen's ring or whatever else she offered.
"Who is it?" the intercom asked after I rang the bell.
"Bobby Wadword."
A series of clicks followed, the door cracked open, and by the time I had stepped into the foyer, Allison Nichols was halfway back across her den.
Without a calculator and graph paper to measure precisely, it was part guess, but from where I stood Mrs. Nichols had a perfect ass. It was wrapped in black slacks, and as she walked, it threatened escape, pushing against the fabric in all the right places.
"Would you like a drink?"
Nine in the morning is a little early for me, but I'm easily swayed. The glass she held contained only cubes and a hint of amber in the bottom. Somehow I didn't think that had been her first and she was on her way to the bar no matter how I responded.
"Sure."
"Scotch?"
In an earlier life, I drank scotch. In a fit of honesty one day, I decided camel piss couldn't taste any worse.
"Bourbon if you have it."
Apparently unconcerned if I preferred a cola or water accompaniment, she glanced up as she stuck a bourbon on the rocks in my hand. Allison Nichols had blue eyes that could pierce a kevlar vest; and something told me maybe I should have worn one.
I sat on the puffy red love seat behind me. She folded one leg under the other as she sat on the matching sectional sofa. Her chest wasn't large, but my intuition, which is usually excellent, told me there was something unusual and exceptionally beautiful beneath her shirt.
"My husband is cheating on me." She came to the point.
"I didn't know Marilyn Monroe was still alive."
"Is that a joke?" she answered. When I didn't respond, she went on. "He's fucking the little two-bit, adolescent bitch at work and I want to divorce the bastard!" "This--adolescent--she is...?"
"He calls her a secretary, but she couldn't spell 'cat' with a two-letter head start."
She caught me glancing at her legs, even the tucked under one. It was only about the hundreth time I had done so. Women like Allison Nichols are accustomed to being stared at.
"The cost won't matter. Just get me the goods. Victor has money, for now. But not for long."
There was no haggling over price or even if I was right for the job. Apparently, my membership in the communist party and my eight bankruptcies didn't matter. Also, I didn't mention the deep discount she would get if she let me break off a piece of that heaven she had shrink-wrapped in those black slacks.
Armed with a picture of the "lout," a description of the "little bitch," and sugar Daddy's addy in hand, I was soon cruising back to downtown Long Beach, a little glow in my tummy from the bourbon and a half-awakening a little further down from watching Mrs. Nichols show me a thing or two about wearing pants.
You know what they say about real estate: location is everything. Weatherby Towers, where her husband worked, was only a couple of par fives off Ocean Boulevard, but this thousand yards made all the difference. Someone had built the faux marble ten-story at the edge of "planet gangland" in hopes that progress would push the cess pool back. It looked as if the tide had turned the other way and the building was in the lead cell on rental death row.
Every private dick carries a piece, and yeah I have a nine-mil strapped to my chest. Sometimes at Tim's Gun Emporium I shoot it just to blow the cob-webs out of the barrel. My main weapon though is a camera. Specifically, my passenger seat carries a digital with a regular, a zoom, and a behemoth tele if I need it. A small palm-sized video cam was in the back seat, if I felt the urge. I racked on the zoom lens and settled in next to the curb one block west of the Weatherby Towers.
About thirty minutes later I was rewarded when Romeo exited with his executive secretary on his arm. I could see how he was interested: thick blond hair, small waist, big tits, long legs. I lowered the window and aimed the zoom at them as they walked to the parking lot.
"Don't turn around, Mr. Peepers." I felt something cold behind my left ear. "Step out of the car, Cecil B.; I'd hate to get the seats bloody."
