4

I couldn't sleep, despite lying in bed. So, here it is. Also, I changed one aspect of the encounter with the client to include Agnes taking one of Ben's business cards.
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I sat there, at my desk, looking across at the lovely Marion for a moment before I started to speak. Well, I really only did just start because I had to stop and shake my head a little when that wry little smile of hers didn’t just not leave, but grew even more pronounced. It’s hard to focus on telling a good story when the listener is sitting there, looking as though she were reading your mind. The cat that swallowed the canary had nothing on Marion when she was doing that thing she does. It’s hoodoo, I say.

I reached into my desk drawer and produced two glasses and a bottle, with just a little remaining in the bottom; just enough for two glasses’ worth of scotch, as it happens. I poured a little into the two glasses and gently nudged one across the desktop to Marion, who took it in her slender hand and tipped the glass back, sipping the scotch slowly. “Are you going to tell me this story any time soon darling, or shall I wait here in suspense until I grow old and grey? Really, for someone with so many adventures, one would imagine you’d be better at telling them to beautiful women who are actually interested in listening.”

I chuckled softly and picked up my own glass, turning it slowly in my hand and looking at the lone light dangling from the ceiling through my drink of choice. “Patience, Marion, is a virtue,” I said with a sidelong look her way, and a playful wink. “And since you seem intent on keeping me waiting for something I believe will be truly captivating, I think it’s only fair to leave you in a little suspense.” But only a little. I did want to tell her, after all, and Marion has a bad habit of getting up in the middle of my stories and going to do something completely unrelated to how I saved the day. And if she were one speck less beautiful, she might not get away with it so scot-free. Knowing better than to press my luck, I told her about Agnes and the job she had for me. I mean, I didn’t have much to go on myself, so there wasn’t a lot to tell Marion. “So that’s it, really. This dame wants me to see if I can sort out who wants to kill her, which she is convinced is the case. And if she’s willing to pay me to figure out that no one’s really trying to kill her, then that’s fine by me.”

Marion smiled brightly and her soft laugh warmed the room. “Shan, you would do anything for a beautiful woman, or money. Sounds like this one’s got both. Just be sure that you keep your head in the game, and not in trying to tussle with the client,” she said. There are very few people in this world who know my real first name, and even fewer who get to use it without getting a poke in the nose for their troubles. My mother - God rest her soul - was one, my sister in Virginia is another, and Marion Clarke. Leon Johnson knows it, but he also knows better than to use it in anyone’s hearing - he learned that after I let him know that I did a little learning of my own regarding certain indiscretions with a certain daughter of a certain prominent politician.

“Your advice, especially when paired with that smile of yours, is always welcome, love,” I said back to her, “but I’m pretty sure I’ve got this one figured out. It’s likely just some fellow who has an interest in the beautiful Miss Wolfe but who can’t muster up the gumption to do anything but follow and admire from a distance. Call it a hunch.” And when you’re a private detective, the hunch is the best tool in the box.

“You have the worst record for hunches in the history of this fine city, my dear,” came the reply. “I think you’re in this gig because you don’t play well with others - which rules out the police force - you’ve taken too many fists to the face to be much to look at on the big screen, and you’re not lucky enough to be much of a professional gambler. Being a private eye is all you’ve got left, especially since it’s not likely you’ll be marrying rich.” Oh, she was desperately in love with me. It was shameless, really, how she flirted with me. It was equally a shame that she just couldn’t admit the truth of her feelings to herself. Can’t say that I was overjoyed with that inability, myself.

I feigned a little hurt. “First my car, then my hat, now a full-out assault on everything I am. Let’s see; you’ve called me ugly, stubborn, and unlucky. A guy can really get his feelings hurt with friends like you, darling.” I flashed her a momentary smile before I drained my glass in one fell gulp and then leaned back in the chair, making it squeak once more, just for effect. “Listen,” I said then, “I think it’s about time we get something to eat. What do you say? You can tell me about dear Leon as we go.”

Dear, sweet Marion - vestal virgin herself - drained that scotch just as easily as I did and then rose with all grace expected of a vision. “You just can’t handle that the truth hurts a little more than you’d like, Shan. But it’s okay. I still love you, even if you are an ugly, stubborn, unlucky man who is rounding a little in the middle.” She gave me a wink that sent shivers up my spine and froze me in me in my tracks for just a moment and then headed over to her coat and waited for me. I, of course, regained my composure and helped her with her coat, tossing my own once she was ready. With my hat on my head, we headed out into the rainy streets.

Fortunately, my car was parked just across the street, so we built a raft out of driftwood and made our way over there. The current was a struggle, but we made it safe and sound and soaked. Fargo, despite the wet weather, started up with that familiar rumble that always brought a smile to my face. A good car, my father used to say, is better than money in your wallet or a woman on your arm. The woman tends to leave when the money’s gone, and the money’s gone just as soon as you get your hands on it. A good car, though, sticks with you even when everything else is going wrong. Fargo was my father’s type of car; reliable as the rain is wet. Shifting it into gear, I asked, “Well, where to?”

I knew the moment I asked that I wasn’t going to like what she said. I just knew the second the words left my tongue that she was going to suggest - no, insist on! - the one place I can’t stand: Barney’s. And, sure as the sun rises in the east, that was the word out of her mouth.

“No way. Not a chance. I am not going there again! We talked about this the last time we were there, Marion. The food is awful and the waitress is rude and the decor reminds me of the men’s room at the train station. Anywhere but Barney’s, please!” The last time we were there, the waitress and Marion spent the entire evening trading insults... directed at me. They were a regular laugh riot, a two woman roast of yours truly. I don’t think they left one piece of me unflayed. If I hadn’t been brought up to not hit a woman, they each would have gotten a poke in the nose for their trouble. Well, my upbringing and the fact that this waitress looked like she could go five rounds with any boxer in the circuit constrained me.

Marion just looked at me, big eyes simply staring holes in me. Warm holes, too. I swear, the War in Europe would be over in short order if everyone was forced to spend 15 minutes with women like Marion staring at them. There’s no real defence against that wile. I protested more loudly. “I’m deadly serious, Marion. I’m not going to Barney’s. You’ll just have to choose another place to eat because that is an absolute impossibility.”

The James Braddock-like waitress was clearing my plate and commenting about my hat for the third time in 15 minutes about thirty minutes later. She’d done it again, and she hadn’t even said a word. There I was, sitting across from Marion at Barney’s, wishing I hadn’t tried the Salisbury steak because I was pretty sure it had more of whatever a Salisbury is than it had steak. Marion, however, was smiling that crooked smile of hers and sipping her coffee casually, taking all the time in the world. And why not? She didn’t have some hulking waitress debasing her at every opportunity. At least my dear Marion wasn’t joining in this time. Dames... they’re more dangerous than a loaded .38, but nowhere near as obvious.