Eight by Ten Glossy

Author's Note

This is my third entry into the Spillane challenge. My other stories are The Maltese Pussy Cat and Racing Dames. Both feature the character of Samantha "Sam" Spade. They're connected through the characters and chronology, but reading them in order (or at all) is not critical to understanding this tale.

* * *

I present this story with a tip of the hat to Maonaigh and his character of Sam Malone, who I have shamelessly referenced in each installment of Samantha Spade's adventures thus far.

* * *

Eight by Ten Glossy

The office of Sam Malone, 8:00 p. m.

I scanned the dozen or so manila folders littering my desk, technically Malone's desk, as I looked for the one most likely to contain my recently misplaced case notes. Business was good. Almost too good. I was up to my eyeballs in cases. So when I heard the rap at the door, for the first time since I fell into this line of work, I started rehearsing the spiel I was going to use to send a client packing.

I turned my head toward the sound of the knock and let my eyes linger on the lettering painted over the pebbled glass.

rotagitsevnI etavirP enolaM maS

Or Sam Malone Private Investigator, for whoever was standing on the other side, knocking.

"It's open, come on in," I hollered, while thinking about how maybe it was time to move out of this borrowed office and finally get set up in a place of my own.

I settled back in my chair and listened to the doorknob turning while watching the door open just a crack. I practiced my spiel in my head. Too many cases right now. Come back in a week? A month?

But then the door opened, and in walked the most beautiful pair of gams I'd laid eyes on in a while. There was a dame attached to those legs too, and the rest of her was just as easy on the eyes, particularly poured into that dress as she was.

"Evening, ma'am," I said, hopping to my feet and tugging down the cuffs of my suit coat.

"Mr. Malone?" she said, furrowing her brow for just a second.

"Sorry, no," I answered. "Malone's working a case upstate."

"Oh," she said. "I was hoping..." She fingered the corner of the portfolio case tucked up under her arm as she trailed off.

"Sorry you had to come out in this weather," I said, eyeing the case she clutched to her side and the smattering of water droplets staining it. "Looks like the rain predictions were right."

She nodded briefly and dropped her eyes to the folders spread over my desk... Malone's desk. And I thought about how I was going to send her packing. A first for me. A paying client, a gorgeous one at that, and I was going to turn her away.

"Listen," I said. "I'd like to help, but--"

"Looks like you've got a few cases already," she said.

"Yeah," I said, feeling like a ham.

"Margaret," she continued, rolling the glove down and peeling it off the fingers of her right hand to extend to me. "Margaret Sullivan."

Normally, my policy on dames is not to get attached. And there was the little matter of the caseload spread all over my desk. But when I felt her fingers in mine, my intention to shake her hand just long enough to be polite was forgotten like a red-headed orphan on their birthday.

"Spade," I said. "Samantha Spade."

"Miss Spade. My hand."

I looked down and let go. "Please, call me Sam," I added. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Margaret flashed a smile. And with just that little flash of pearly whites, she lit up the room. "I'm wondering if you might be able to help me," she said. "With a missing persons case."

As I turned to dig in Malone's filing cabinet, fishing out his stash of Canadian Club and two tumblers, I practiced my full caseload spiel in my head one more time. Still thinking about Margaret's smile, my story was starting to make about as much sense as a screen door on a submarine.

And the entire thought washed out to sea as soon as I turned back to find Margaret perched on the corner of my desk, her dress riding up as she crossed her legs to rest her portfolio case on her thigh. She reached inside the case and pulled out a single, eight by ten glossy portrait.

The picture wasn't of Margaret, I could see that right away. She wasn't a dog by any means, but Margaret had a few more miles on her than the gal in the photo. It wasn't even a younger version of herself, as far as I could tell.

"I take it this is your missing person," I said, plunking down the bottle and two glasses.

"My sister," said Margaret.

Looking again at the glasses, a little island in an ocean of the unfinished case files, reality once again reared its ugly head.

"Miss Sullivan," I said, running through the details of my spiel, shaky as it was. "Sorry you had to come out in this weather. I can offer you a drink for your time, but I'm afraid--"

"Miss Spade," she said, fishing into her portfolio case again, this time pulling forth a plain white envelope. Plain, that is, except for the First National Bank logo printed in green across the upper left corner.

So much for my spiel.

"Miss Sullivan," I said. "Can I offer you a smoke?"

Margaret Sullivan flashed that easy smile of hers again as I dug the pack of Luckys out of my suit coat and shook one off the deck. "You got a pen in there too, Miss Spade?" she asked.

And when I pulled one from the desk drawer, Margaret Sullivan proceeded to write a phone number across the back of the bank envelope. "Call me at this number when you find her," she said. "My sister."

"Sure thing, doll," I managed, as the dollar signs tallied up in my brain faster than a prairie fire with a tailwind.

* * *

Club 21, 10:30 p. m.

I stood outside the club, fingering the fat stack of Margaret's cash in my pocket and thinking about my quick payday. She gave me the lowdown as we sipped whiskey and she kept pulling photos of her missing sister from her portfolio case. There was the big eight by ten she started with, but also a few five by sevens and a handful of wallet-sized. All different poses.

Why anybody needed that many pictures of her sister, I didn't ask. But the gal sure was a looker. A little on the young and innocent side, too, which is why I was surprised at the type of clubs Margaret said her sister liked to frequent. But it also made sense why Margaret was so keen to find her. A girl like her didn't belong in Club 21, or any place like it.

The place I was standing outside of now was the type where you paid for every dance, if you catch my drift. So when I was done rifling through the sweet stack of green in my pocket, the advance on my fee plus expenses, I fingered the.45 in my shoulder holster as insurance none of the shady characters inside would be relieving me of my payday.

It wasn't hard to find her. Mary Sullivan. Out on the dance floor in the arms of a lonely sailor, probably on leave far from his native shores. Not a bad bit of luck, I told myself. Only the second club of the night. I pulled the wallet-sized photo out of my pocket for one last check. Even in the dim light, it was her. Dolled up quite a bit more, but definitely Mary Sullivan.

"Hey buddy," I said, tapping the sailor on the shoulder. "I'd like to buy you a drink. And maybe cut in for a bit."

He didn't look too happy about it, but when I peeled off a Hamilton to press into his palm, he looked like he might get over the inconvenience soon enough.

I turned to the girl. "May I?" I asked, extending my hand.

"You've got to pay the manager, first," she said.

"It's just a dance," I said. "I'm sure he won't mind.

The manager was over in a flash. He did mind. But a few more bills off the stack sent him back the way he came and Mary Sullivan settled into my arms.

"The name's Spade," I said.

"You don't have to tell me," she whispered, laying her head on my shoulder. "And I can be whoever you need me to be tonight."

"How about Mary Sullivan," I said.

The girl in my arms stiffened and nearly flubbed the next step as we danced.

"Your sister's looking for you," I continued, as we swayed together.

"I don't have a sister," she muttered.

"Look, I won't pretend to know your story," I said, "but you've got family looking out for you, and that's more than most people can say about life."

"I told you," she said. "She's not my--"

Mary Sullivan didn't get to finish. And that was entirely due to the big dummy lumbering up beside us trying to cut in like we were a subway turnstile and he didn't have the fare.

"Scram, buddy," I said. "The lady and me, we're just getting acquainted here."

"I'm cuttin' in," said the dummy.

He smelled about three sheets to the wind and stood just about as steady, so I went easy on him. "Why don't you talk to the manager," I suggested. "I've paid for my dance. Maybe enough for the rest of the night. So what do you say you find another girl, or better yet, come around again tomorrow after you sleep it off?"

"Lousy dyke," he muttered. That did nothing to help my opinion of him. But then the dummy did something that really changed my demeanor entirely. He opened up his jacket to reach for a piece.

Didn't have it in his hand long enough to do anything about it, though. I cuffed him in the mouth and relieved him of the pea shooter before he could make a move. It felt light, maybe a.22. I stashed it in my pocket.

"Don't you know better than flashing heat?" I said. "And in front of a lady?"

The dummy wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and stumbled away while his booze-addled brain worked some serious overtime trying to process what just happened.

"Do you know who I am?" he slurred.

"Nope," I said. "Don't care, either." I turned back to Mary Sullivan. "Where were we, Miss Sulivan?" I said.

"Dancing, Miss Spade." Mary Sullivan rested her head on my shoulder. "We were dancing."

"The name's Samantha," I whispered. "Call me Sam."

"Were you serious?" she said. "You paid for the whole night?"

"You can check that with your manager, but I gave him a good stack of bills. And there's more if it's not enough."

"Thanks, Sam," she said. "I don't think I'll mind being your girl tonight. Not one bit."

* * *

Hopper's Diner, 1:00 a. m.

I didn't mind the idea of Mary Sullivan being my girl either, even though it was pay per dance and the songs were short. Having Mary draped in my arms, and her head on my shoulder with her breath fogging my neck, was a nice place to be. And I told her so. But I also told her she looked about ready to drop and that we should probably cut our night short before that happened.

I threw some more cash at the manager and walked out with Mary on my arm. And every so often, she would lean in and rest her head on my shoulder as we strolled, until finally we ended up here. Outside Hopper's Diner.

I caught Mary's reflection in the big plate glass window and smiled. She didn't belong in Club 21. Not this girl. And I was happy I hadn't decided to send her sister packing and leave Mary in a joint like that.

The bell over the door rang as I pulled it open. No sooner did Mary and I step inside than Ed was over with a steaming cup of joe. "Miss Spade," said Ed, nodding my direction, then turning to Mary. "And what can I get for the lovely lady?"

Mary Sullivan chewed at her lip for a moment. "Um, maybe water?" she said. "Anything besides coffee?"

We took a seat at the counter and Ed dashed off to the back. He came around again with a steaming cup, but lighter in color than any cup of joe I've ever seen him pour. That and a glass of ice. No water, just ice.

"Ed?" I said, looking sideways.

"Try this, miss," he said, ignoring me, and proceeded to upend the steaming hot cup over the ice in the glass.

"Oh," I said. "Iced tea. So that's how you make it."

"Mm-hmm," said Ed, sliding the glass over to Mary. "I know what Sam's having. It's always the same thing, she never changes. But I'll give you a minute to look over the menu."

"Thanks, mister," said Mary.

"Oh, please call me Ed."

"Thanks, Ed. I'm Mary."

"Mary," mused Ed. "I've got a daughter named Mary. Just a little bit older than you, in fact."

"Does she work here?"

Ed shook his head. "She's working overseas. Her first job out of college."

"Sounds grand."

Ed nodded. "I'll let you look over the menu."

"I'll just have whatever Miss Spade is having," said Mary.

"Sure thing," said Ed, and turned to the kitchen.

"I told you, you don't have to call me Miss Spade," I reminded Mary. "Please, call me Sam."

"Thanks, Sam. And you don't have to be so nice to me."

"Why not? You got plenty of people looking out for you besides me, kid. You've got your big sister. And I think Ed's ready to adopt you as another daughter and maybe offer you a job."

I thought I was being witty, but Mary didn't even crack a smile. She just stared at the counter instead. "She's not my sister," said Mary.

She didn't say anything more. When Ed came walking out of the kitchen, Mary clammed up.

"Anybody need a refill?" asked Ed, looking at our drinks.

Mary and I just shook our heads, and Ed moved on to greet a new pair of customers walking in.

"Not your sister? Margaret Sullivan's not your sister? She sure seemed--"

"That's not even her real name." Mary shook her head. "I mean, Margaret is, I think. But it's Margaret Lewis. At least that's what she told me when we met."

"So what's the story?" I asked. "She seemed pretty adamant that I take on the case to find you. Not too concerned with the cost, either. I figured family, for sure."

"She's a modeling agent, Sam. At least that's what she told me. It's just that..."

"I guess that explains all the photos," I said.

"That's not all of them, Miss Spade." Mary hung her head and stared at the counter. "Not all the photos."

Ed came out with our plates and once again, besides a few pleasantries about the food, Mary clammed up until he left.

"Mary," I prompted. "Are you in trouble?"

"Oh, Miss Spade," she said. "I... I did some things. And now... Oh..."

"Hey," I said, "why don't you get some food in you, first. Take your time. You can tell me when you're ready."

Two bites of steak dragged through runny egg yolk, and a long pull on Ed's iced tea was all it took. Mary was back to staring at the countertop, but at least she wasn't all clammed up.

"She told me I was going to be a big star," said Mary, pushing her fork around on her plate. "Told me my face would be on magazine covers, maybe even in the movies. But I needed publicity."

I nodded, but otherwise kept my trap shut and let her continue.

"Publicity photos cost money. A lot of money. But don't worry, Margaret said, she'd find me work. And that's how I ended up in those clubs until late at night."

"How much do you owe her?" I asked. "Work's been steady for me. I can probably help you out some."

"You don't understand, Sam."

Mary was back to staring at the counter again, so I reached out to rub my hand over her shoulders and waited for her to tell me what I didn't understand. "It's just money," I said. "We can fix it."

Mary shook her head. "It's not just money," she muttered.

I stopped rubbing Mary's shoulders ad moved to rest my hand on her arm. "Whenever you're ready," I said. I figured I knew the answer, especially after seeing the photos and how enticing she looked all dolled up, but I waited for Mary to say it.

"There's more photos," she said.

I had a flash of the last pin-up girl I had seen, tucked away at the back of the newsstand.

"With less clothing?" I asked.

Mary nodded, but said nothing else for a while. She sniffled, and I offered her the corner of my napkin.

"Margaret was so nice at first. She kept telling me I was going to be a star. Then she started giving me drinks. I'm not old enough to drink, I told her, but she said it didn't matter, because when you're a big time model on the cover of magazines, people do whatever you want."

I gave Mary's arm a squeeze and waited.

"She kept asking me to show her more. For the photos. More skin. That's what magazines are trending toward, she said." Mary paused. "And before I knew it."

"She had you posing naked," I offered.

Mary nodded.

"I told her I didn't want to do it anymore, but she insisted. And when she stopped being so nice about it is when I ran away. But I didn't get far."

"Does she know the club where you work?" I asked.

"I don't know. I haven't seen her there yet, but... Oh, Sam, what am I going to do?"

"We'll figure it out," I said. "Together, we'll figure this thing out."

"Everything okay out here?" asked Ed, stepping through the kitchen door.

"Delicious as always," I said, watching Ed plop down a fresh glass of ice cubes and pour a hot cup of tea over the top.

"Refill, miss," said Ed, smiling at Mary.

"Thanks, Ed," said Mary. "Your way of making iced tea sure is swell."

And I swear, she just made his night. I've never seen Ed smile so big.

"Hey Ed," I said. "You see Mary in here and she's not with me, you be sure to whip up another one of your special iced teas for her, okay?"

"Sure thing, Sam."

"And anything else she wants. Steak and eggs. Whatever. You just put it on my tab, got it?"

"Will do, Sam." Ed turned back toward the kitchen. "Let me get you topped up, too," he said. "You're cup's a little low."

Mary turned to me. "Miss Spade, you don't have to--"

"Already done," I said. "And Ed's gonna be real disappointed if you don't come back in here at least once. You probably remind him of his daughter, and you don't want to be the one to break the guy's heart, do you?"

Mary cracked a smile at that remark. The first one I'd seen since our conversation at the counter started. "Thanks, Sam," she said, resting her head on my shoulder.

"Don't mention it," I said, wrapping my arm around her waist to give a squeeze. "You got a pillow to rest that head on tonight?"

Mary looked up at me. She shook her head.

"Well," I said, "It ain't much, but I've got a sofa at the office. It's yours for the night if you want it. I just need to let the building super know so--"

"Sam?" she said, gazing up with those innocent peepers of hers. "Thanks."

"Come on," I said, offering my elbow.

* * *

The office of Sam Malone, 2:15 a. m.

"Okay," I said, pulling out a pen and paper from the desk. "I'm writing down my number. And the building super's in the Rolodex. If you need anything or if you feel uncomfortable--"

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Mary?" I said, flipping through the Rolodex to find the super's card.

"You're not staying?"

I peeled off my jacket and hung onto it by the shoulders as I walked back to her. "Sofa's not that big," I said, draping my jacket over Mary's arms.

"Sam?" She gave me the saddest puppy dog eyes, and I knew Margaret had been right about one thing, this gal deserved to be in pictures, alright. Just not the kind of pictures Margaret had in mind for her.

"It's okay, Mary," I said rubbing her shoulders.

"Stay with me?"

"It's not a very big sofa," I said.

"Please?"

"Sure, kid," I said, and laid my shoulder holster over the desk to sit down beside her.

It took some doing, but eventually we got comfortable. Semi-comfortable. Enough for Mary to nod off, anyway.

"Some of those pictures where I was naked, they were with other girls," Mary had said, just as she was drifting into dreamland. "We did things. Together. I liked doing those pictures."

After slipping out from behind Mary as carefully and as quietly as I could, I left my jacket laid over her and took up residence in my desk chair. I crossed my arms over my chest and thought about how I was going to track down Margaret Lewis to give her a piece of my mind. I made my mental checklist of grievances as I listened to Mary's soft breathing.

* * *

Corner Pay Phone, 7:30 a. m.

I dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed up the number Margaret Sullivan, or Margaret Lewis as I now knew her, had written across the bank envelope.

"Hello?" she mumbled.

"I wake you?" I asked.

"Miss Spade?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's me. I got good news and bad news."

"What's the good news?" she asked.

"I found your sister, Mary."

"Oh, Sam, that's wonderful. I'm so happy--"

"Save it, Miss Sullivan. Or should I say... Lewis."

"Sam--"

"It's Miss Spade, to you," I shot back. "And I know she's not your sister."

"So?" said Margaret Lewis. "That's the bad news? I don't think this changes anything between us. Just tell me where she is."

"Not so fast," I said. "I understand there's pictures."

For a moment, Margaret Lewis said nothing, and all I heard was the static on the line. But finally, she spoke.

"I think we can come to an arrangement."

"I hope so," I replied. "She's a beautiful girl. Young and unspoiled, too. I'd like to see more of her, if you take my meaning."

I could almost see Margaret smiling on the other end of the line as I reeled her in.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked.

"I'd be willing to part with my fee," I said. "I'd still need some to cover expenses. But Miss Lewis, if you'd be willing to sell me the whole collection..."

"We can discuss it," she said, after not much pause. "Come to The InterContinental. I'll tell the front desk to expect you."

"I know the place," I said.

"And Sam," added Margaret. "Bring a little extra cash, why don't you? I have some new ones you might be interested in."

"I wouldn't miss it," I said, and hung up.

* * *

InterContinental Hotel, 8:45 a. m.

When Margaret Lewis opened the door to her suite, she looked like maybe she just woke up. Not that she looked slept-in at all. Her hair and makeup was perfect as a Sunday morning. It was the outfit. Margaret Lewis showed up at the door wearing a lacy little thing that was probably supposed to be a robe when it was tied, but it wasn't tied.

"Miss Lewis," I said, looking her up and down, from the deep valley of her breasts, barely covered, to the skimpy triangle of something silky down below, also barely covered.

"Sam," she husked. "Come on in."

"I brought the money, just like you asked," I said.

"We can talk about money later, Sam," she said. "I have a proposition for you."

"Miss Lewis, I'm flattered, but--"

"Sam, call me Margaret." Margaret Lewis latched onto my tie and dragged me inside. "And you're not here so you can fuck me. Yet. I know that's what you're thinking."

"No offense, Miss Lewis, but I like 'em young and tight."

"Youth is one thing," said Margaret. "But experience is quite another."

"You said you had photos?"

"Yes, Sam." Margaret's flirty demeanor took a bit of a turn. "Business first, I suppose." She let go of my tie and cinched up her robe.

"This way, Sam."

I followed Margaret deeper into the suite until we arrived at a table and two chairs. Spread out all over the table were pictures of Mary Sullivan, ranging from girl next door, to army barracks pin-up worthy, to underground magazine spreads that would never grace a legitimate newsstand.

"Nice," I said.

"This young enough for you, Sam?"

"It's a nice start," I said. "Any more to see?"

"Slow down, Sam. Don't you want to hear my offer, first."

"I told you, Miss Lewis. I like 'em young."

"And I told you, Sam, us experienced gals do it better." Margaret Lewis was sitting on the edge of the table with her legs crossed. The pose reminded me a lot of when she first came to see me about the case. Except this time, there was quite a bit more of those gorgeous gams exposed and no stockings to hinder my view.

"You do have nice legs," I offered.

"And I'm still very tight," she shot back. "In the right places. Since you said you like a girl tight."

"Miss Lewis," I said.

"We'll get to the details, Sam. But first, I want to offer you a job."

"I'm not posing for your photos, Miss Lewis."

"Too bad," she tisked. "But that's not what I'm proposing."

"I'm listening," I said, wondering how it all fit together.

"You had no problem finding my sister, Mary."

"She's not your sister."

"Fine," said Margaret. "She's not my sister. She's a little runaway waif, or an orphan, or, you know what? I don't care. She looks good spread out on film."

"I'm not disagreeing with you. I already said I'd buy the lot. All the photos."

"I'd like you to find more, Sam."

"More pictures?"

"More girls," said Margaret.

I gestured to the pile of prints spread over the table. "There's enough photos here to keep me entertained," I said.

"These kind of girls trust you, Sam. That's obvious from how easily you brought my sister back to me."

"You can drop the act," I said. "I know she's not your sister."

"Fine. You recruit them, Sam. I'll photograph them. Together, we'll make a killing. You know the places these girls go when they're scared. Your charm puts them at ease."

"So your charm can go to work talking them out of their clothes?" I said. "Is that it?"

"Usually it's the booze," said Margaret. "Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot. And I know where to find the buyers. You're not the only one who likes to see a young girl naked, Sam."

Margaret left me standing there looking at Mary Sullivan in a whole new light. It wasn't a pleasant light, but I couldn't show my hand just yet.

"Speaking of booze," she said, from behind the suite's bar now, "how about a drink."

"It's a little early," I said.

Margaret shook her head. "Sam," she said. "You're wearing the same suit as when I saw you last night. It's not early when you haven't slept yet. It's late."

Margaret poured two whiskeys, neat, and slid one across to me. "So how about a nightcap before you take me to bed."

"I thought you said we weren't fucking."

"I've changed my mind," said Margaret.

After the whiskeys were drained, and Margaret poured another, she reached under the bar and pulled out a fat, double-ended dildo with a bend in the middle.

"Strapless?" I said.

"You're familiar," she replied.

"Familiar enough to tell you no."

"Oh, Sam," laughed Margaret. "You think this is so I can fuck you?"

I shrugged.

"This is for you to fuck me." Margaret ran her fingers over the lapel of her robe and knocked open the tie on her way down. "I'll still sell you the photos of your dream girl, Sam, but I want to show you what a little experience can bring to the table, first."

"The table, Miss Lewis? Don't you mean the bedroom?"

"No Sam. The table. You're going to bend me over the table, so you can look down on all those pictures of your dream girl while you're fucking me. Then you can tell me how much better I am."

"What if I decide I like her better," I said.

"You won't." Margaret Lewis slammed what was in her glass of whiskey and sashayed out from behind the bar with the strapless in both hands.

Margaret sloughed off her robe and let it fall at her feet. "You know how this works, Sam?"

"I've got one at home."

"Then I don't have to tell you to leave your shorts on to help hold it in place."

"Does that get you revved up?" I asked. "Knowing I'm dressed while you're naked? Holding power over you? Just like you do when you're photographing those girls?"

"A gal can't be in charge all the time, Sam. I have needs." Margaret slipped out of the tiniest excuse for panties I've ever seen and tossed them aside. There wasn't a single short and curly to be seen.

"Let me help you," she said, dropping to her knees to unzip my fly and get the strapless situated.

"Lube?" I asked.

Margaret just smirked as she swirled her tongue around he tip of the fat shaft now poking out of my trousers.

"Ohh," I exclaimed, as she buried the length of it in her throat. And when she came back up grinning, I shivered. The brief flash of that thing causing her neck to bulge as she swallowed it down, had me weak in my knees.

"Now you're ready, Sam," she said, standing up again to lead me over to the table.

"Fuck me, Sam," she said, peering into my eyes. "Let me show you how good an experienced gal can be. And when you're done, you can leave your little girl crush to the pages of my magazines, knowing she can never give you what an experienced woman can."

"Experienced, huh?"

"I can do it all, Sam."

"Even...?"

"The place those young floozies dread? Yeah, Sam, I can do that. I love it. And I'm so tight for you when you fuck me there. You want to fuck me there, Sam?"

"Margaret?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"I hope you're ready." Reaching out, I spun her in a half circle before spreading my fingers between her shoulder blades and pushing her down over the table.

I looked at the photos of Mary Sullivan spread out all around as I lined the tip of the shaft with Margaret's tightest of holes.

I thought about Margaret handing out drinks, one after another, until Mary finally lost her inhibitions and slipped the first button of her dress. I pushed in, watching Margaret's pucker spread to accommodate the girth I was giving her.

She fell forward onto her face. "Sam," she gasped.

"I thought experienced women liked this sort of thing," I said.

"Experienced women--"

I shoved the rest in hard and all at once, until Margaret stiffened, arching her back and panting.

"Oh, Sam," she moaned.

I thought about how violated Mary must have felt the next day, after realizing what she'd agreed to do in those photographs. I made it my mission to ensure Margaret Lewis felt the same way about her decision to bend over this table.

I pulled back, until the tip of the shaft was threatening to fall out, and thrust in again, stabbing the full length of that fat toy deep into Margaret's insides.

"Ohh, S-Sam." Her entire body was shaking now and her voice was quickly beginning to match. Experienced as she said she was, I had a hard time imagining this was her idea of fun. Not that her enjoyment of this was in any part of my plans.

With each of Margaret's shudders, photos of Mary were pushed off the side of the table, falling to the floor.

I pulled back and thrust in again, watching Margaret's buttocks jiggle as I mercilessly drove in to the hilt.

"Oh-hh-hh, S-Sam..."

I shook my head, though I'm sure she didn't see me. "I thought you were experienced," I said.

I think my words got to her. She straightened her posture anyway. If I had to guess, it was the best she could manage for defiance, seeing that she was face down on the table with me wrecking her ass.

"Grab my hair," she said. "Grab my hair when you give it to me. When you fuck me, Sam... fuck me good."

"Sure thing, toots," I said, as I pulled back to deliver the next thrust.

Margaret fell forward again. But with my fingers wrapped up in her hair, I held her head up, so I could see the first of the tears rolling down her face.

A few more photos of Mary fluttered to the ground.

I drove it home again, and Margaret grunted, falling forward. I yanked her back up by the hair.

Snot was running from her nose. Her eyes were damp and puffy.

"What happened to experience?" I asked. "I thought you experienced gals liked this sort of--"

"Shut up, Sam!" she wailed. "Shut up and fuck me. I'm better than any of those girls you like to look at. Admit it! I'm the best you've ever had."

I pulled back and gave Margaret another thrust. And another. And another. Her face was scrunched and red. The snot ran down to her chin. She began to sob. And as she did, the last of Mary's racy photographs fell from the table to land face down onto the floor.

I pulled out, let go of Margaret's hair, and left her gaping, spread across the table.

"I thought about your offer," I said. "I'm not interested."

"Sam!" she wailed.

"I'd rather have the photos." I slipped the strapless out of my trousers and held it in my hand. I wiped the business end of it across Margaret's cheek.

"I bet the girl in the photo can make me come," I added. "Better than you could do."

Margaret still lay over the table, heaving. "Sam," she mewled.

"Get on the floor and pick them up," I said. "I want all of them. All the photographs. All the negatives."

"Sam," whimpered Margaret.

"What?"

"There's more. There's more negatives."

"Bring them to my office. You've been there, you know where it is. I'll even pay you for them. But I'm not working for you."

"You think you're better than me, Sam!" she hollered. "I talk them out of their clothes for pictures, but you! You fuck them in your mind. You violate them with your thoughts. Tell me I'm wrong, Sam!"

"You're wrong," I said, grabbing the photographs she had collected on her knees, and stuffing them inside my jacket. "Goodbye, Miss Lewis."

* * *

Outside the InterContinental, 10:00 a. m.

"Hey! What's the big idea!" I hollered at the two goons who jumped me on the way out of Margaret Lewis's hotel.

I reached inside my suit coat, past the clutch of photographs stashed there, fingers brushing the piece I kept in a shoulder holster.

"I wouldn't do that, Spade." Goon number one was faster on the draw. Fortunately for me, he pulled a badge instead of a gun.

"What the hell," I said. "Who are you guys?"

"O'Malley wants to see you, Spade. You're comin' downtown with us."

"O'Malley? Tell him he shoulda sent Bobby Nelson. You know Nelson? Big boy. Mean right hook. I actually like him. He's never once pulled a piece on me."

"It's not a heater," said goon number two, "it's a badge. But if you'd rather..." He pulled back his jacket showing me the.38 on his hip.

"Yeah, yeah. I still say Nelson is nicer."

* * *

4th Police Precinct, 10:30 a. m.

"Lieutenant O'Malley," I said, as the goons muscled me through the door, "we gotta talk about the help you're hiring these days. Where's Nelson?"

"Shut up, Spade!" hollered O'Malley.

"Shut up?"

"Damn it, Spade. You messed with the wrong person this time."

"These guys?" I poked my thumb at the goon to my right. "These guys are lightweights."

O'Malley stood up and walked out from behind his desk. "The Assistant D. A." O'Malley said, right before he slapped me upside the head.

"This kind of aggression isn't helping your blood pressure, Lieutenant," I suggested. That just got me smacked on the other side.

"Besides, I never even met the D. A. or the Assistant D. A. or whoever it is that's got his knickers all in a bunch."

"You know a place called Club 21?" asked O'Malley.

"Maybe," I said. "I got a bad memory after you slappin' me around like that. Maybe I got amnesia. Maybe I should report you for police brutality."

"Sure, Spade, go ahead. Want me to ring up the Assistant D. A. for you?"

"You keep saying that. Assistant D. A. What gives?"

"The guy you cuffed in the mouth. On the dance floor of all places. At Club 21. Ringing any bells yet?"

"He was trying to cut in on me and my best girl," I said.

"Can it, Spade. And watch who you're taking swings at. Someday one of 'em's gonna turn around and bite you on the ass."

"You ever been to Club 21, O'Malley?"

"I know about it."

"Then you know what goes on there. And so does the Assistant D. A. apparently. And nobody does anything? Nobody lifts a damn finger."

"It's dancing, Spade. Just dancing."

"That's just the start. It's more than that."

"So what?" shot back O'Malley. "You think we got time to hassle every little gin joint in the city? As long as there's no bodies floating face up--"

"You ever talk to the girls who work there?"

"Why should I?"

"Maybe come out from behind your desk every once in a while and see how the other half lives."

"And what do you know about it, Spade?"

"Plenty," I said, reaching inside my coat.

The two goons next to me were still twitchy and one had his hand on his piece already.

"Relax," I said. "It's just pictures."

I shuffled through and found a racy shot that didn't quite have Mary's face in focus. In my mind there was no need to put her through any more hassle than she'd already experienced at the hands of Margaret Lewis. Blurry as it was though, it still got my point across.

"Where'd you get this?" asked O'Malley. "Is this girl even old enough--?"

"You're in luck," I said. "There's more like these. And I got the woman running the whole operation thinking I'm a perv who wants to buy them. So she ought to be slinking by my office sometime very soon, with a whole stack of evidence on her person."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," I said. "It is. So maybe do what it says on your badge for once and stop by to protect and serve the young ladies she's preying on."

"You were doing so well, right up to the end there," said O'Malley.

"Fine," I said, stuffing the photo back in my jacket and pulling out the deck of Luckys in exchange. "Don't do it for the motto on your badge. Pretend it's your own daughter in these photos, instead."

"Damn it, Spade."

"Unless you got some reason to keep me," I said, lighting up my Lucky, "I'll be in my office waiting for Miss Lewis to stop by. If you're quick, Maybe I'll let you run a wire. You can get the whole transaction on tape. But send Nelson to set up the recorder, and not these two."

I turned on my heel and left, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air over my head.

* * *

The office of Sam Malone, 11:15 a. m.

When I saw the shadow moving behind the pebbled glass of the door, I knew something was up. Or more precisely, someone. But I made the mistake of thinking it was just Mary still hanging around. So when I opened the door to find Margaret Lewis, I was as surprised as she was.

"You're early," I said. "Woulda figured with the incontinence and all--"

"Shut up, Sam," she said.

"Shut up? I've been hearing that a lot, lately."

"Yeah?" she turned, holding the gun at waist level, elbow bent, like a rank amateur. "Shut up, Sam."

"Why don't you put the piece away before you hurt yourself," I said.

Behind Margaret and me, Mary was reaching for the telephone. Now that Margaret's eyes were fixed on mine, I figured Mary was planning to call the cops. I shook my head. This would all be over before the coppers left the station.

"Hurt myself?" Margaret laughed. "Hurt myself? You already took care of that. I won't sit comfortably for a week."

"You said you loved it."

"Shut up, Sam."

"Again with the shut up," I said. "What do you want, anyway?"

"I brought the pictures, like you asked. And then who should I find when I walked in?"

"Your long lost sister?"

"Shut--"

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up, Sam," I said. "You're a regular worn out record with that one."

"Here's how it's going down, Sam," said Margaret waving the piece. "I'm keeping the photos. And I'm taking the girl. And she's going to be working for me. On her back. Making more photos just like these. Maybe some better ones."

"Margaret?" I said. "There's something you forgot to account for."

"What's that?" she asked.

"Me," I said, as I hauled off and slugged her.

She went down and the gun went off. But with her lousy aim and amateur technique, all Margaret managed to put a hole in was the pebbled glass window of the door behind me.

"Well," I said, as I kicked the still smoking.38 across the floor, "I'd been thinking about redoing it anyway."

I looked at Mary. She looked none the worse for wear. "Why don't you go ahead and call the cops now," I said. "Ask for O'Malley."

* * *

As Mary finished the call and hung up, I had a chance to look around the office. All the manila folders had been organized and neatly lined up in a wire holder sitting on one corner of the desk.

"What is that thing?" I asked.

"File organizer," she said.

"Didn't know I had one of those. And where'd you get the secretary's desk?" I asked, looking in the previously empty corner of the room.

"The building super brought it up. Said it was in storage and it was going to get tossed on trash day."

I looked down at Margaret Lewis. She was moaning, but not moving.

I turned my gaze back to Mary. "So while I was out, you got yourself a desk and organized the case files?"

"I don't know how you got any work done," said Mary.

"I need a drink," I said, and walked around to the filing cabinet where Malone kept his stash tucked in with a spare shaving kit.

"Mr. Malone was here, too," said Mary.

"That so?" I said.

I tugged open the filing cabinet. The spare shaving kit was gone. In its place was a five by seven glossy, featuring two hound dogs stretched out on the front of what looked like a lake house, probably upstate somewhere. The half-empty Canadian Club was gone too, replaced with a full one.

"Well, I'll be damned," I said, scooping up the bottle and two tumblers. I plunked it all down on my nicely organized desk. "You want a drink?" I asked, the old chair creaking as I sat down.

"Miss Spade," said Mary. "You know I'm not old enough."

"Yeah," I said, filling a single glass two fingers full. "How about a job, then? You old enough for that?"

Mary's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "You mean that, Miss Spade?"

"Your filing's better than mine. You know shorthand?"

"I can learn."

"And when O'Malley shows up, you get to fill him in on the details." I leaned back in my chair. "'Cause I'm beat."

"Sure thing, Miss Spade."

"And Mary?"

"Miss Spade?"

"Call me Sam, will ya?"

"Sure thing, Sam."

* * *

The office of Sam Malone, six weeks later

Mary had filled O'Malley and his boys in on the details of Margaret Lewis's operation. And for his part, the Assistant D. A. kept Mary's face out of the papers and, with plenty of other girls willing to testify, off the witness list as well.

I stood outside the door, with its newly repaired pebbled glass window that now read, Samantha Spade, Private Investigator.

I turned the knob. It wouldn't budge. I rattled it harder. Still nothing.

"Samantha Spade's office," crackled a familiar voice from a box beside the door. "How can I help you?"

"You can let me in, Mary," I said.

"Sorry, Miss Spade," I heard from the box, and then a buzz from the door. "Just push," she said.

"When did we get a door thingamajig?" I asked.

"The building super installed it this morning. Officer Nelson said it might be a good thing to have for when I'm here working alone."

I settled my eyes on Mary, sitting at her secretary's desk, hair all done up and nails freshly painted.

"Is that a new dress?" I asked.

Mary nodded.

"You've been busy."

"There's a new case file on your desk," she said. "A woman stopped in while you were out. I didn't promise her anything but a phone call, but the details are in the folder if you want to look it over."

"Very busy," I said.

Mary just smiled.

"It's coming up on lunchtime," I said. "Can't have you working this hard on an empty stomach. Not with the caseload we've got lined up. What do you say we head down to the diner and see what Ed's got for today's special."

"Thanks, Sam, I'd like that."

Mary Sullivan took my arm, and together, we strode out the door and down the street. The sun overhead warmed our shoulders as we walked.

The End