(With apologies to Dashiell Hammett. For unfamiliar readers, the cast of characters so far includes Adam, a twenty year old college student; Janey, also twenty and the object of a crush by Adam; and Paula, their forty something year old supervisor. In the first story, Adam discovered that Paula and Janey were lovers. In the second, Paula seduced Adam, who never found out that Janey was secretly watching them. This time... well, we'll see.)
She walked through the doorway and examined the room, or more accurately, its contents. There was a tarnished brass coat tree in the left corner with a rumpled topcoat thrown on one of its ears. The other corner held a table with spindly legs and a battered typewriter. A wooden desk was the center piece. It was marred with scratches and stains, and decorated by an ashtray, a pint bottle of what appeared to be cheap whiskey, and a pair of scuffed shoes.
There was a rasp and a flame sprang up. A lighter touched the end of a cigarette and then snapped shut before being tossed on the desk beside the ashtray. There was a snort from behind the desk.
"A dame. Every time I think it can't get any worse, a dame walks in my door. And then it always does."
Her eyes returned to the shoes. They led to a pair of crossed ankles, covered in black socks. After that was a pair of unpressed slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie that was pulled down. What first appeared to be suspenders, when carefully examined, became the straps of a shoulder holster. The butt of a revolver peeked out from under one arm.
Above the open collar was a face, shadowed by a snap brim hat pulled down over the eyes, as though the wearer had been using it to cover his face. Little could be seen of that face beyond the cigarette stuffed in one corner of the mouth. Hands rested behind and below the hat, undoubtedly braced on the back of the neck, the elbows sticking out.
"Close the door, sweetheart," came the gruff command. "I ain't interested in heating the whole damn building." The voice was hoarse and throaty, as though from too much smoking and too many nips at the whiskey bottle. "I can't afford any increase in the rent for this joint."
She turned to close the door. She seemed to feel the eyes under the hat brim taking her measure. Perhaps deliberately, she leaned forward a bit as she shut the door, allowing the material of her dress to pull tight over her bottom. She carefully shut the door and walked to the middle of the room.
"What can I do for you doll face? I don't mind a reasonable amount of trouble, but somehow you look like you could cause more than just that."
"I came in response to the ad." When no comment was forthcoming, she plowed on. "The one looking for a secretary? This IS the Spade Detective Agency, right?"
"Damn, I'd about forgot that ad. Well, it used to be the Archer and Spade Detective Agency, but with Miles taking the long sleep it didn't make much sense to keep his name on the door. I'm Sam. Pull up a chair and show me what you got."
The woman sat down in the armchair that was positioned in front of the desk. She crossed her ankles, tucking her legs to one side. There was the flash of black lace. Her dress was dark blue with a ruffled front. A fur stole was draped over her shoulders. Her dress came down to mid-calf, but the slit on one side had shifted, exposing one silk stocking clad leg above the knee. She wore heels with a strap around her ankles. Her features were slightly shaded by the hat and veil she wore.
Sam rose from the chair and circled around to the front of the desk. The left hand fumbled for the ashtray, crushing the cigarette without looking. A quick hop and the figure was seated again, this time on the front of the desk. His other hand tipped the hat up onto the back of the head, exposing fine, almost delicate features and a hint of blonde hair.
"Well, I tell you what I told everyone else and then you can probably scamper away like all the rest of the broads that done been here. I need someone to type letters and reports, handle the files, answer the phone and deal with my clients. The files are a mess since Effie left. I don't pay much and what I do pay is generally going to be late."
"Its a deal."
Sam laughed. "What's your name, sister?"
"Call me Brigid."
"Okay Brigid, you're hired." Sam fixed the woman with a steely gaze. "Let me warn you though, the clientele here ain't exactly Nob Hill. Some of them are dangerous, none of them are society swells. They're mostly bad men, with the occasional bad woman thrown it for good measure. They've all got something to hide. But then, so does everyone."
The woman looked away and then back. "That's okay, Sam. I've been bad, worse than you could know."
"You know, that's good, because if you actually were as innocent as you pretend to be, we'd never get anywhere."
"And where are we going to get?"
