You know, one of the things I miss most is the view out of my office window. You never know how much you value the little things, until they're gone. Just sitting there, watching the traffic, watching the people walk by, Tommy Dorsey, Bing Crosby, the Andrews sisters singing on the radio, yeah, there's no better way to spend the afternoon.
Maybe I should introduce myself. The name's Mallory, Duncan Mallory. I used to be a cop, once upon a time, but someone accused me of picking up envelopes from Jimmy "Fat Man" Ricotti, and my otherwise unbrilliant career came crashing to a halt. Never mind the fact that my accuser had just been arrested, by me, for kicking the shit outta one of his whores. Never mind the fact that I was about three days away from nailing the Fat Man's ass to the wall on about four counts of conspiracy to commit murder. And it didn't help matters any that I had just bought a brand-new '39 Pontiac, either. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was free to seek employment elsewhere, and to consider myself lucky that they had no evidence with which to prosecute. So I did what came naturally, and went private.
By August of '42, I had been a private cop for over three years, and needless to say, I hadn't gotten rich in the meantime. I managed to hang on to the Pontiac, (just barely), and keep my office, and my secretary. I suppose that I could've gotten along without her, but she worked cheap, and besides, she was a great lay. Her husband was on a destroyer somewhere in the north Atlantic, and she was too much woman to go without for the duration. At first, I felt bad about fucking a married woman, particularly a serviceman's wife, but she said that he was probably dipping it into anything that said Yes or Maybe. She wasn't going to worry about it, and I shouldn't either. In the end, I figured somebody was going to get that great ass, so it might as well be me.
My caseload, never staggering, was particularly light at the time. Two divorce cases constituted my entire list of clients at that moment. In the first case, a woman had hired me to find out if her husband was cheating on her. I'd been following the guy for a week, and finally managed to get pictures of him fucking around on his wife. Only thing was, it wasn't another woman.
My client had just about puked when she saw the pictures of her husband blowing some young stud's cock. I didn't bother to show her the ones of him taking it up the ass. She told me to meet with him, and explain to him that if he didn't give her an uncontested divorce, the house, the car, and $25,000 a year, then she'd sue him, and use the pictures as evidence. I knew the husband was a wealthy businessman, a real pillar of the community-type, and figured that he would do just about anything to keep this quiet. So I had an appointment to meet with him at four p.m. It was now just a quarter-past twelve, so I was just killing time, staring out my window. Gwen had left for her lunch fifteen minutes ago, which was a shame. Usually, when things were this slow, it didn't take much to talk her into a little desktop date. For about the 100th time since I hired her, I decided that she really was worth the money I paid her.
I heard knocking on my outer office door. I got up to answer it, figuring that Gwen had locked it when she left. I was almost to the door when it opened. Standing on the other side was easily the most beautiful woman to knock on my door in a long time, all due respects to Gwen. At least 6 feet in her five-inch stiletto heels, I figured she probably run 5'7"- 5'8" barefoot. Her stockings were silk, and they encased a breathtaking pair of legs that just kept going upwards. She wore a rather short black skirt, with an emerald green jacket, black gloves, and a small, black pillbox hat. The overall effect was not so much to cover her body, as to accentuate the delicious curves that were so apparent. Her golden-blond hair was swept back from her face, and silken curls cascaded down her back, halfway to a perfectly shaped ass. Her breasts were large, but not excessively so, and her hips were perfectly flared. But what was easily her most captivating feature were her eyes. They were a clear green color, and looked like they had been carved out of jade. They transformed her; from merely beautiful, to absolutely stunning.
She smiled when she saw me, and extended her hand, "Hello. Are you Mr. Mallory?" Just a trace of an accent in her voice.
"Fortunately for me, yes. How can I help you?"
"I was told by a former client of yours that you might be able to help me with, ah...a certain problem that I have."
"Well, I certainly would be happy to try. Would you care to step into my private office?"
When she was seated across from me, I grabbed my pad and pencil, and asked her to begin.
"First of all, Mr. Mallory, I need to know that you will never, never, breathe a word of this to anyone. Will you promise me that?"
"Miss, I promise you that anything you say to me will be held in the strictest confidence."
She hesitated for just a second, then went on. "Very well. My name is Gabrielle Montaigne. I moved here from Montreal several years ago. I was very young at the time, and soon after I came here, I met a man, a photographer named Eric Hennessey, and fell in love. He was unable to marry me, but I didn't care. I began living with him. I was with him for three years, with him always promising that, as soon as he was able, he would marry me. He claimed that his wife was Catholic, and refused to give him a divorce. Like an idiot, I believed him, and kept giving myself to him. Finally, a year ago, I found out that he was already divorced, and had been for the past four years. He had been using me as his whore all that time."
"Well, Miss Montaigne, while it sounds like your friend is a real bastard, unfortunately that's not against the law."
"Is blackmail?"
"Is he blackmailing you?"
"One of Eric's passions is nude photography. He had me pose for many pictures while we were together. At first, they were just nudes of me. But, then, he asked me to pose with other men, even other women. He demanded that I actually have sex with them, 'in the interests of realism', he said. And, because I loved him, and wanted desperately to please him, I did it."
"What does he want now?"
She was quiet for a long minute. "My name is no longer Montaigne. I recently married Thomas Donovan, Jr. Do you recognize the name?"
I did. "They say that your father-in-law's going to be the next governor. He also owns half a dozen banks throughout the state. I know that his son's on the Board of Directors of a good dozen of his daddy's companies. How did you and Junior meet?"
"His sister is one of my best friends."
"And now he's threatening to send him the pictures. What does he want from you?"
"$50,000 dollars."
"Do you have that kind of money?"
"Not even close, I'm afraid. I did work as a fashion model. Now, I'm just Thomas' wife. I have no money of my own."
"What about asking your husband for the money? He's supposed to be worth millions."
"Mon Dieu, why didn't I think of that?! I'll just go up to him and say, 'excuse me, darling, but I need $50,000 for shopping.' I'm trying to keep him from finding out, Mr. Mallory!"
"Miss Montaigne...excuse me, Mrs. Donovan, even if you had the money, that might not be possible. More than likely, this guy has made several sets of photos. You pay him, he gives you one set, maybe even gives you the negatives. Then, a few months down the line, comes another letter, another phone call, and it all starts over again. Until you can't, or won't pay anymore. In which case, he promptly sends the pictures to your husband. You'd be better off to come clean with him. If he loves you, then he'll forgive you."
In reply, she just opened her handbag, and took out an envelope. She handed it to me. I opened it and looked inside. All it contained was a 4"x 4" photograph, slightly grainy, but plenty clear enough to recognize the woman sitting across from me. She was completely naked, lying face-up on a rather well endowed man, whose dick was partially buried inside her beautiful box. She was definitely as gorgeous naked as I had imagined that she was, and I found myself wishing that I was the lucky bastard in the picture. She reached over to take the picture back, and blushed a deep crimson when my eyes met hers. "Could you forgive that, Mr. Mallory?"
I sighed deeply, "It won't be easy to get the pictures back, Mrs. Donovan. To be honest, I don't think that it can be done. And I don't think that you're able to afford for me to try. I normally charge $500 for something this difficult."
She didn't hesitate a second. "Will you accept something other than cash, Mr. Mallory?"
