The Case Of The Disappearing Minx

THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING MINX

Brandi Sashayed in, Lighting Up the Joint Like a Roman Candle

By

Donald Mallord

Copyright January 2024, all rights reserved.

18,150 Words

Jack Slater is my third take on Mike Hammer in this 2025 entry for Literotica's Mike Hammer Event stories. I've enjoyed two other events and the writing projects more than any other Lit event. Quirky, I suppose. However, past contributions were fun as I experimented with the 1930s-era dialogue and the ambiance of Noir--gritty and often violent, or at least as closely as I could recall. I toned down the violence in this one: an old man's nod and wish for peace to all.

My writing improves as Kenjisato's "gotcha corrections" transform my rough drafts into polished pieces. His support is invaluable, reminding me that every story and every audience member deserves extra care. Huge thanks to Kenji for enhancing my writing!

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HINDSIGHT IS A LOUSY DRINKING BUDDY

Scene One

The funny thing about a minx like Brandi is that they don't just walk into your life; they saunter in, draped in trouble and reeking of expensive perfume. Looking back, I should've known better when I saw her in that devil-red dress, lighting up the joint like a Roman candle. But hindsight's a lousy drinking buddy--it always knows more than the guy holding the glass.

That gal had the crowd eating out of her hand; every pair of eyes peeled that velvet number off her like it was Christmas morning. I'd parked my bear-sized carcass at the bar, tucked in the shadows where the dim lights wouldn't give me away. Not that it mattered. I watched. A dame like her knew she was the center of attention. Hell, she probably thrived on being watched!

Brandi glided through the crowd that night, touching shoulders and offering her dazzling smiles. The velvety crimson smile made you feel like you were the only guy in the world--at least until the next poor sap who caught her eye. And those saps were everywhere.

"Hey, gorgeous!" one grinned. She winked back, smiled, and passed on.

"Hi, doll, how's your night going?" another crowed, trying to drink her in while his x-ray eyes wandered south of the border.

"Buy you a drink, Brandi?" the one-eyed bartender chimed in, patting the stool beside him like a throne.

"Maybe later, darling," she cooed, her voice as smooth as silk stockings. "I'm looking for my date. You know, a man who can keep me in minks."

She patted the one-eyed barkeep's arm, kissed his scruffy cheek, and left him smiling as if he'd just won the lottery. No matter the man, that doll played him like a fine violin. If he had money, she played him like a fine Stradivarius.

In the looks department, Brandi was a knockout, no doubt about it--a red-headed bombshell with curves that could steer a man straight into ruin. I'd seen her type before--frails who could send a Joe to the slammer with just a wink. This one? She had the whole act down to an art form, from the pouty scarlet lips to how her painted-on dress whispered against her alabaster skin.

"GUYS LIKE US CAN DREAM"

Scene Two--How it All Began

"The redhead," Jack Slater said, nodding toward her as he placed a Jackson on the bar. "Is she a regular?"

Eyeing the twenty for some tidbit of info, the bartender chuckled and pocketed the Jackson.

"Brandi? She's as regular as a church bell in this joint. And--her specialty is moral sinning, mister. Damn good at it, too, if you're looking. A temptress who could make a saint tip his halo."

The one-eyed man paused to polish the watermark on the bar while waxing philosophically on his remarks. "Not bad choices for her--but it typically involves choices that harm others while reflecting a deliberate disregard for right and wrong."

Sometimes, patrons in a crowded bar overlook a philosopher's foreshadowing. The harbinger's message truly went over Slater's head tonight as his eyes followed her dazzling Hedy Lamarr look as she swayed through the place.

The bartender wasn't mistaken. She was already zeroing in on her target for the night--a handsome man with a tan, a one-hundred-dollar suit, a Rolex, and a wife waiting somewhere back home. The ghostly outline of his wedding band gave him away. Impatiently checking his watch while tucked away in a dark booth, Robert Muller nursed a dry martini. Jack Slater knew that name all too well. It was the reason he was here tonight.

Brandi's devil-red, off-the-shoulder dress highlighted her stunning alabaster skin. The fabric sensually hugged a woman's body, expertly designed to flow to the floor and pool around those six-inch stilettos--with a whisper. It was thoughtfully crafted, undoubtedly meant to unzip in one swift motion. Jack Slater, private detective, pondered the likelihood that she wasn't wearing anything else underneath. He could sense it, as the absence of any panty line or hint of a brassiere was evident while it clung to her bosom and those swaying hips. Slater observed the details, ones a wandering eye picks up during surveillance.

"Too bad I can't afford her kind of sins," Slater muttered to the barkeep. Her expensive tastes gleamed in the jewelry draped around her swan-like neck, the dazzling pieces drawing his eye as they came to rest just above her ample curves.

The barkeep chuckled at his remark. "Mister, guys like us can dream."

Together, they watched her latch onto her date for the night. Feeling he had earned the folded Jackson with smug satisfaction, the one-eyed man sauntered down the bar to take another order. The private detective downed the last gulp of whiskey.

Envious, Jack watched her crimson smile and noticed the mark's eyes light up as she approached his table. She was incredibly good at getting his attention, leaning those nearly bare globes into his face.

She whispered, "Hello, gorgeous. I was wondering--if you're here, who's running Heaven?"

Crushing his third cigarette, Jack watched the mark take her by the arm.

Smiling like he owned the piece of eye candy, Muller's arm wrapped around Brandi's waist and hers around his; they headed for the exit, her backside sashaying as notice to anyone, glancing that she was taken for the night. Tonight, that gorgeous gold digger was cashing in on this one.

RED-HEADED TOMATO

Scene Three

Hot footing it on their tail, Jack's '36 Plymouth coughed awake, the starter grinding as he nudged the choke lever to coax the engine to life. He wiped the fogged-up windshield with a gloved hand, cursing the extra time it took. The car wheezed like an old man getting out of bed, but it finally caught on the third try. He pulled out the headlight knob, shifted into low gear, and discreetly fell in behind Muller's '38 Packard, with its gleaming V12 engine--more car than he'd ever have. But then again, Slater wasn't the one cashing in on oil money and secrets. He tailed Muller and that red-headed tomato onto the fog-laden blacktop, gritting his teeth, knowing it wouldn't be to Muller's home since his wife and kids were there.

Brenda, Mrs. Robert Muller, heir to the oil baron, would await his call later. Private detective work is always gritty, trying to get photos of the betraying spouse in a compromising situation. The money shots were often merely photos of the spouse entering a motel door. In this fog, getting a clear shot would be tricky. Route Six had three motels, but the Carlton Inn was the classiest. A dame like Brandi wouldn't settle for less.

Four minutes into the drive, the vacuum wipers' hypnotic swipe helped Slater focus on the job. The dick reflected on where this was headed and how it started, back when a mouse-like ball-and-chain crossed his office threshold and burst into tears.

NOT ALL DIAMONDS SPARKLE

Scene Four

"Mister Slater, I..." she began, choking up and finally going full Niagara on him while trying to fight back the tears. Jack gently caught her by the arms as she trembled and seemed on the verge of collapse.

"Let's start at the beginning, babe," Slater urged, guiding her into a chair and offering her a sherry as her sobs began to subside, "with who you are and why you think I can help."

"I'm Brenda Stanford; that's Mrs. Robert Muller now. I'm the sole heir to my father's oil empire," she explained, holding out the glass for another pour of sherry.

Whatever her problem, Jack knew it was tied to old aristocratic Stanford Oil money. It was uncertain whether she was here to protect her share of it. However, from experience working for wealthy dames, the private eye knew it would mean a fat payday for him.

Trembling, she gulped the sherry. Then, handing back the glass, she sat silently, shoulders slumped, staring at the floor. Slater sensed the gears turning as she sought the words to start--where Niagara had stopped.

"Mister Slater--"

"... Call me Jack."

He cut her off, trying to sound friendly, using the tried-and-true first-name basis trick to put clients at ease. It worked. Her head popped up, her eyes met him, and she squared her shoulders--prim and proper.

"Jack... I think my husband is... cheating on me. I'm... certain of it. He comes home late with obviously fabricated excuses. He's drinking. He behaves... strangely, like he's no longer attracted to me. He treats me like I'm... Sunday's discarded newspaper. I'm not a parrot's birdcage liner, Jack! It's not like he doesn't get what he wants at home..."

He sensed that wasn't true but let it go.

Her eyes darted away from that rugged detective's face at her last words. She felt his gaze boring into her soul. She was sharp enough to see her venom didn't move him. Slater knew the look so damned well. It always comes when a woman wants to believe she can hold her own in bed whenever another dame enters the picture.

"I take it he has a high-stress job. Maybe he's been pushed hard lately. Perhaps you're just imagining something that isn't there."

"Of course, that's possible," she huffed, as if he'd called her a liar and sided with her husband.

"But what is a woman supposed to think when she findsthis in his coat pocket after a night out?"

Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out a pair of lacy pink underwear that you twist and turn to figure out what it is supposed to cover--or not cover.

Initially, Jack raised an eyebrow at the small amount of lace. It was too small for men's clothing. He pursed his lips and grimaced at the thought of a lacy man passing through his mind. He couldn't dispute that one.

"I was thinking what you were," he sighed, with a sense of finality.

In silence, she nodded in agreement. There was only one conclusion.

"Missus Muller, I'll keep this as evidence for later," he said, as he took the lacy affair, put it in a brown manila envelope, and marked it with her name.

"Maybe I should get used to being called--Ms. Muller--since I'm pretty sure this is heading that way." Her voice was bitter--more lemon than lime.

"I found them," she added, wrinkling her nose, "after he mentioned he'd lost his wedding ring at the club. Men do that sometimes--lose their rings, don't they, Jack--but they're usually found close by." Her eyes locked on his, seeking affirmation.

Glancing down, Slater nodded in acknowledgment. However, his case was different. His ring had been taken away--not lost. This awkward conversation served as a déjà-vu reminder.

As hesitant words spilled out, she rubbed her sparkling diamond ring. It was as though it held some magic that might ease her discomfort. From Jack's vantage point, it had lost some of its shine.

"I checked his pockets for his ring, in case he overlooked it... and foundsoiled panties, " she announced, gritting her teeth and pointing to the manila envelope.

He noticed a flicker in her expression--a flash of something steely behind the tears. She glanced toward the window, her fingers tightening on her third glass of sherry as if calculating her next move. Her demeanor had shifted; something lurked beneath that distraught outburst and cries of despair.

"Robert's always been reckless," she muttered--almost to herself. "It's only a matter of time before it all catches up to him." Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial, before she looked up at the dispassionate former police detective, all sweetness and sorrow again.

"I just want the truth, Jack. Get me that in black and white... and I'll make it worth your while."

"THE HELL YOU WANT?"

Scene Five

The fog made it slow going. Jack had to stay close to Muller's tail to avoid losing him. Just as he suspected, Muller's Plymouth pulled into the Carlton Inn. Slater cruised by and quickly doubled back, pulling into the lot as Muller ducked into the office for a key. Jack parked the coupe in the shadows by the ice machine bin with his camera in hand. In the dark, he looked like he was out for ice, holding an ice bucket as far as anyone could tell.

Brandi and Robert were so focused on one another, oblivious to his snapping grainy shots of them headed arm-in-arm into lucky room seven. If he pushed the envelope a little, he might be able to capture an unnoticed compromising shot of them through the window.

Slinking to the window pane, he found the curtains drawn and cursed his luck, growling, "Brandi! You could have at least left a tiny slit to peer into your world of sin."

He intended to return to the shadows and wait for a while. Most trysts weren't extended stays. Sex doesn't take long, and with most men, small talk is short after they go limp and guilt sets in. Jack wanted to see if he could get a couple more shots for good measure of the pair of lovers leaving and log the time. Perhaps, for another twenty, he might get the desk clerk to cough up a copy of the signature on the register to cement the crime.

At least, for the time being, he had the doorway opening shot of Robert motioning Brandi inside with his hand on her ass--a classic money shot. There would be no doubt in a judge's mind about intent and the salaciousness that would be going on inside that Seventh-Heaven lair.

His cursed luck worsened at that point as room seven's door re-opened.

"Pervert..." she hissed, seeing the camera dangling from the detective's wrist.

Glancing back into the room, she shut the door and whirled on Jack. She took up that classic accusatory dame stance, both hands on her curvy hips with her legs splayed.

"Too bad she wasn't naked already," he thought with a grin.

"The hell you want?" she hurled her unladylike venomous words. She instantly knew the giant bear-like man wasn't a peeper. Peepers scurry away in the night--on the run.

"What, doll? You already got knocked up and took off?" he countered.

Noticing her shoulders pull back, he smirked, "So, your high roller is just too quick on the draw?"

Even in the dark, she sensed his condescension. He wasn't going to back down. Her face contorted with anger, but she quickly regained control.

The quick closing of the door was a dead giveaway. Jack immediately understood that Brandi was trying to keep Muller from hearing what was about to unfold.

"None of you beeswax!" she snapped. "Gumshoe? Right? You're a weasel, playing a wannabe cop, out for a quick buck?"

"Something like that, Brandi, something like that," he chuckled. "With what I got... your friend inside ain't gonna be happy."

"Listen, pal, you're the one that's not gonna be happy. A word to the wise gumshoe, whoever hired you--give them their money back... How'd you get my name?" she snapped as an afterthought, as her face screwed up like she'd sucked a lemon.

"Doll-face, getting your name was easy, and it's gonna be the least of your troubles. By the time I get done digging up dirt on Muller and you, your faces are gonna be all over the papers."

The dick was spreading some booshwash in reply, but hadn't really considered that possibility. Right now, it was a bluff to cover his ass at being shamefully caught in the act of spying.

She got real quiet, then huffed, "Listen, fella. This ain't what it looks like."

The vitriol in her voice had gone as sweet as a canary greeting her lover.

Snarly, Slater cut her off, stepping closer.

"What it looks like, sister, is you and Muller are doing the nasty on the down and low so his wife and kids don't find out."

Her eyebrows raised. She wasn't easy to bluff as he stepped into her space. She hissed, "They... didn't tell me he had kids!"

"They?" he barked.

"None of your business!" Brandi retorted.

"Listen, like I said, you better forget you ever saw us and make tracks, or you'll wind up wearing concrete shoes."

The dame didn't scare Jack Slater much. In his world, as a former police detective and as a private dick, he'd been threatened before. But the conviction in her words about cement shoes sent a tingle up his spine, raising a few hairs on the back of his neck.

He thought that over for a second,"I'd encountered some rough types in my past. I could hold my own, one-on-one, but when it was 'they,' a guy could get hurt pretty bad."

"They? They who?" he probed, knowing there was more to this than a dazzling gold digger looking for a hefty payday from a lecherous rich guy.

"Forget about them, gumshoe! If you don't get on board with me, you're likely to get us both killed. I ain't a good swimmer, shamus, and I suspect weighted with concrete, no one will ever see you again, either."

"Kid, it sounds like you got yourself in a fine pickle," Slater muttered, easing up on her.

His quirky mind thought, "'Getting my pickle on board her' had a nice ring," as he listened to her jive and shucking tune.

"Pickle? Hell, if I don't deliver on this, they're gonna... Look, the less you know about this, the better. No one can help me out of this. I gotta see it through. The only way to put the kibosh to this is to give them what they want. It's the only way I can get out... alive."

The quiver in her voice and the way she chewed her bottom lip as she spoke gave the impression that the dame was involved in something more sinister than a guy cheating on his wife or being a gold digger. She was scared out of her wits.

Jack Slater, a former police detective, had a soft spot for bent and broken dames. When he was first promoted, he'd lost one he tried to cajole into being a snitch. He screwed the case, got her wasted, and quit the force morose over it. The image of her in the gutter, lifeless and flung from a speeding car in front of the precinct station, haunted him still.

Brandi was an intuitive woman, catching a glimpse of a momentarily pained look on Slater's face as he mulled over her words. Her mind spun up,"This dick's got a soft spot, maybe something I could use."

Slater backed off.

"Listen, shamus..." she began, with greater discretion.

"Jack," he interjected, shifting to low gear to smooth the tension.

"... Jack," she countered, "looks like you and me got off on the wrong foot. I'm... not a gold digger. Sure, I like to mess around, but I ain't into destroying kids' lives. I didn't know he had kids. They..."

"They, who?" he softly interrupted her once more.

She bit her bottom lip again. His heart throbbed in response.

Brandi had a knack for melting a guy's defenses with that look. She had plenty of practice--often, her delivery was flawless and sparked great results.

"I only talk to them on the phone; I've never seen them. I came out to make the call while Robert is showering... he likes it clean. I'm supposed to call and get instructions for Muller to cough up some details about... some merger." Her voice was on edge, fast and hesitant, trying to get the words together and make sense of it.

"He brags about that kind of stuff after we... you know? He brags about stuff in his business. He's like a happy canary after he shoots his wad. They call me wanting inside info. They didn't tell me why. I gotta make the call now, Jack, and get back quick before he finds me gone."

Pleading, she glanced back at the closed Lucky Seven door.

"Then, duck back inside and get the ice bucket. If he asks, you can show him you were out for ice. I'm sure you can get him to order some champagne to accompany it."

Slater grinned at her flustered act. The flashback of the slain dame slipping out of mind. She had looked much like Brandi before the roll in the gutter messed her up.

"Thanks, shamus... Jack," she smiled, "Maybe you and I can discuss this... later?"

"Count on it, sugar. Like Shakespeare said, 'I'll lend you my ears.'"

Her eyes lit up. She cocked her head and smirked, "As cute a hulk as you are, I was hoping to get more than an ear." Her gaze dipped briefly, roaming his body, before snapping back to Slater's wandering gaze.

"Maybe we can get together, and those big, strong hands could show a girl what they're made for."

It sounded like a Hedy Lamarr line. With a sharp wink, allowing her hips to talk, she sashayed back to grab the bucket.

As Brandi's tantalizing hourglass figure disappeared, Jack shook his head, thinking,"That dame's fire and ice--the kind of woman who makes you fear the cold and crave the burn."

From the stairwell, Jack watched as she rushed to the phone booth. It was a quick call. Some head nods told him she was receiving instructions--there must have been several, as she nodded multiple times. He took a few snapshots of her in the phone booth. With an ice bucket in hand, she dashed back to room seven. As the door closed, Slater wanted to be Robert Mueller, peeling down that long devil-red dress's zipper and getting a piece of heaven.

He waited... and waited in the shadows--a pack of Marlboros crushed underfoot. Two hours later, the pair emerged from the seventh heaven room. Grinning, Mueller carried his coat and tie while Brandi clung to his arm, her charming, bodacious smile on display. The PI snapped photos to document the hoochie-coocher and her mark leaving the sin din.

"OH! IT'S YOU!"

Scene Six

As Muller guided her to the curb, Slater trailed them back to the bar, alert-eyed. She leaned casually against the doorframe of a candy-apple red 1932 DeSoto 3-Window Coupe, the chrome gleaming under the streetlights. A sly grin played on her lips as she blew him a flirtatious kiss. Muller waved absently before heading back toward the club, unaware she had already slipped behind the wheel, her engine growling to life.

Brandi playfully jabbed the accelerator. On the loose gravel of the lot, her rear tires spun briefly before the DeSoto caught traction, leaving a small cloud of dust in her wake. Stylish, daring, and just reckless enough to pique a guy like Slater's curiosity--she was his mark for the night.

"Muller's heading home," Jack calculated, given the hour. He would slink home to his wife, reeking of whiskey and perhaps with a twinge of regret.

"I need to follow this bimbo with the glib tongue. She's got more than meets the eye about this case than she's letting on."

In hot pursuit, Slater swung the Plymouth onto the blacktop, gripping the wheel tightly as the fog thickened around him. Her taillights bobbed and disappeared into the murk as Brandi wove through the empty streets, eventually pulling up to a flat on Ninth. Cautiously, he slid the Plymouth into a spot down the block just in time to see her climb the steps.

It was a hurried sprint; he took the stairs two at a time, catching the door as it began to close. Huffing, he jammed his foot in the gap. Startled, she turned with fear flashing in her eyes.

"Hey!" she barked. "Oh! It's you!" Brandi gasped as her mouth sprung open in surprise.

"You were expecting Muller or maybe the mystery voices knocking down your door?"

She was agitated at his mentioning 'the unknown guys' as she glanced around.

"Look, shamus..." she started to object to his intrusion as she looked again into the fog. That gave way when she didn't see anyone and opened the door. "Come inside."

"I didn't think you'd ask, sweetheart. You left me waiting in the cold for two hours," he said with a smirk, brushing the dew off his sleeves. "I assume Muller had plenty to talk about. But honestly, a guy could catch a cold waiting for a hot girl like you to reappear."

"You don't look no worse for the wear, shamus."

"Jack," he countered.

"Jack..." she acknowledged, closing and locking the door as he entered her flat.

"Jack... that comes with a last name?" she huffed as she lit a Muratti. Slater recognized the Phillip Morris brand--the ones with a unique set of cigarette cards given away with each pack for the Olympics.

"Slater. Jack Slater PI," he answered, shaking his empty Marlboro pack.

She quickly picked up on his wave of an empty pack of fags.

"Here, Jack Slater, PI, take mine." She took a puff and then offered him the one she had lit. She turned her head politely and exhaled the gray cloud of tobacco smoke across the room.

"Brandi... got a last name to go with that, or do you just let the liquor do the talking?" he smirked, inhaling deeply before blowing out a lazy pair of smoke rings.

"Wynne," she said, flicking open a Ronson Princess Lighter to ignite another Muratti. She took a slow drag, then exhaled with a sly smile. "Not much of a winner in taste, but the kind of name that entices men's minds."

She eased onto the couch, leaning back, she crossed her ankles. The deep slit of her dress rode up to her thighs. Jack took an armchair seat with an eye to the view.

"Brandi--Wynne," Jack repeated, smirking as the pieces clicked. "That some kind of joke your old man cooked up after a long night at the bar?"

"Daddy thought it was a riot," she shrugged, her lips curling as she watched the smoke rings drift and unravel. "Said it gave me a head start--everyone loves a Hennessy X. O. Cognac--Mama did."

She took another drag, her chin rose, exposing that long swan neck, and turned to work out a kink.

"My daddy was an odd duck, Jack. Generous to a fault. A traveling tie salesman, he always picked up strays along the roads and brought them home--much to Mama's regret, it seemed. He lived by the rules of 'F' like my granddaddy did--Find them, Feed them, Fuck them, then Free them. Though for Mama, he made an exception. A survivalist, she did anything to please. Fed them, mostly."

She exhaled a grey plume of smoke and watched it waft across the way.

That raised Jack's eyebrow. He leaned back in the armchair. The jarring images of that life had him at a momentary loss for words, but he finally managed, "And here I thought a stiff Cognac was a bad drink and a poor choice."

Her laugh was low and throaty as she watched empathy register on his brow to the semi-made-up tale. "Obviously, you were wrong, shamus. But it doesn't have to be that way... for a guy who knows how to use a talented tongue to do more than blow smoke rings."

She patted the space on the sofa beside her. Jack rose and took the opportunity to sit closer. Brandi smiled, resisting the temptation to say, "Good boy, stay."

Jack got the feeling he was like the canary being released from a cage and coaxed to sit beside a smiling feline pussy inviting him to be dinner.

He watched her take a drag and exhale a smoky gray plume from the Muratti. It was plain to see her gears were turning. Was Brandi an insatiable nympho, or did she think he was gullible enough to fall for her and get sidetracked on the case?

"We're wasting words; why don't I show you what a talented tongue can do?" Slater answered, plucking the fag from her lips; he grasped her hips in those bear-sized paws she had teased him about and roughly pulled her against him.

She stiffened, surprised by the swift move. But soon melted like butter as her blue eyes fluttered closed. She matched the ardor of his kiss. It was met with that throaty moan of a woman's surrender as her tongue met his. His mitts circled her waist, clamped her tightly, and swung her over his lap. She gasped, but didn't break the lip-lock between them. Jack sensed she wanted it.

She did, knowing men become so malleable when aroused. It's a woman's best tool for getting what she wants or needs. In Brandi's case--it was a need to swing a dick's mind to her side of the equation.

Slater felt the flex and undulation of her hips rock against his bulge. Her hand snaked around and down between, feeling him stir and coming alive. Jack's breathing came in huffs as he held her tightly. He wanted her. She wanted his hard cock. He felt her need with each slow, faint flex of her hips.

Her delicate hands reached behind her neck and unclasped the tiny hook above the zipper. "Give you a hint... Jack?" she whispered, putting her arms around his neck. She fixed her eyes on his dark orbs.

"Think I got the hint," he grinned, and reached around her neck for the zipper. The long, sensual, sultry moans of the zipper's metallic sigh followed. Slater peeled it down her back, stopping at the hollow above her divide.

She let go of Slater's waist, stood up, and stepped back with a wanton look in her glistening eyes. It was the tell of an experienced woman. Like a potter, she was molding him; he was the fast-spinning clay on her potter's wheel being molded by a devious siren.

"Is it just us, or is the fireplace getting hotter?" she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, her voice low and husky. It was shifting more toward lust than the need to sway for Brandi at this point.

That silky dress did what it was designed to do as she stood and shrugged her shoulders--cascade, fold beneath those soft, unfettered orbs to reveal her hourglass waist. With a shimmy, it quickly slipped past those sensually curved hips. It landed in a silken heap around those six-inch black stilettos. She stood still, a practiced stance, one hand on her hip, as his eyes drank in every aspect of that gorgeous dame, right down to the bare peach that stood prominently in the middle.

Brandi was--perfect, right down to the wide heart-shaped aperture between her thighs. A gap like that always made access easier. Brandi smiled, having hooked Jack Slater, PI. Brandi Wynne was one damn-fine delicious drink. Her daddy was right--she was way ahead of her league, not just in name.

"It must hurt to have that large bulge," she cooed, reaching for his belt. "I know it must feel so cramped in there. Let's set it free, shall we?"

She was black-belt master, undoing the charcoal CL Bullet belt in short order, while unzipping his fly. Skillfully, those sure fingers tugged his pants down, and faster than Superman changing clothes in a telephone booth, both were naked. Well, almost. That spectacular glitzy necklace remained.

"Bedroom?" Jack asked, huffing, pressing a deep kiss on her lips again. With both hands around her bubble butt, he pulled her naked body against him from head to toe and kissed her hard.

She felt those strong fingers grip firm flesh and roll her like kneading bread.

"Floor," she whimpered, breaking free, "I can't wait anymore."

That worked for Slater; a fireside fuck was always romantic. The chill of the night outside had dissipated as the heat of arousal turned them into a slick-coated sheen of perspiration. Jack toured her body with that long tongue she wanted, and it enflamed her. Her chest and cheeks turned rosy as her chest rose in gasps. The thrust of her hips quickened when his talented, prehensile tongue finally got there. Its rapid undulation demanded more.

Slater buried his face and gave her all he had... every neuron in her body fired in that passionate moment. "Eat my..." her voice cut short. Brandi's body stiffened and spasmed--gasping for air.

"Faagck!" her voice scrambled the word, as an orgasm overwhelmed her. Brandi came from the intensity of a good tonguing as the faux fire-log flames flickered, casting larger-than-life shadows. Then, she came apart--every muscle jerked, eyes rolled back in her head, and ecstasy took her away for a moment like an out-of-body experience.

"Lordy! That was good!" she huffed, coming to her senses and gasping for air as she lay splayed, melted like butter, on the carpet before the fireplace. Her dreamy smile was one that well-rode dames would get when satiated to exhaustion. It didn't last long, however.

Up on her knees soon after, her eager face planted between Jack Slater's legs; nothing in his experience had prepared him for the likes of her--she was a nympho of the first order.

"God," he cried, as she worked her experienced tongue while cradling and fondling his sac. Jack discovered she could give as well as she took.

Slater knew that mixing business with pleasure wasn't wise in his line of work. However, the blood rushing from his brain to his loins after the intoxicating taste of Brandi Wynne on a cold, foggy night clouded his thinking. Wandering in a sensual haze without direction, he abandoned logic and reason for the thrill of being driven over a carnal cliff. Caught up in the heat of the moment, he didn't care if he crossed the line. Besides, he had the rest of the night to ask questions--after he loosened her up.

"That's enough time..." he thought, as the last fleeting moment of sanity slipped away.

"Oh, God!" he gasped, his head reared back at her onslaught.

Slater's bellow was music to Brandi's ears as she drove him toward a powerful orgasm, edging him further with each flick and lick of her talented tongue. He was huffing like a locomotive, gasping as his toes curled in anticipation of the pending explosion.

POST-COITAL REPARTEE

Scene Seven

"Another glass?" he asked, pouring without awaiting an answer.

She smiled, and he smiled back. They were like two kids without adult supervision, alone and naked for the first time.

He watched as she swirled the bourbon in a rocking motion. Her red lips curled into a faint smile. She seemed pleased with her new, quite flexible toy.

Slater watched that crack in her armor, saw an opening, and cagily asked, "Back at the motel, you said some mystery guys got you wrapped around an axle over Muller's merger. What's the deal?"

Jack kept the tone light as if he wasn't already piecing together how deep her game might go.

"Jack..." she called out his name, her voice soft and almost pleading. She leaned back and pursed her lips, looking at him through half-lidded eyes and wondering how far to push.

"How much must I reveal," she pondered, swirling that bourbon, "to push him in my favor over the PI role someone had hired him for?"

"Shamus, I'd tell you everything if I thought you could help a girl. But it might just get us both killed. I ain't brave enough to fight my way out of this. The best I can do is comply and hope the hell they forget me when the dealing is done."

Her words hung like heavy cigarette smoke seeping into the PI's thoughts.

"Comply how, Brandi?"

Slater liked how her name tasted on his tongue as he spoke it. He watched her body language, which was a head tilt and shrug of uncertainty. Slater sensed she was pulling back; the euphoric daze was fading. He needed an answer before her defenses went up again.

"Muller's merger's not your usual honey-trap gig. So, what's your stake in this?"

Again, he waited for her response. Again, she hesitated, looking down at her hands as though weighing the cost of uttering the words. Finally, she whispered, breaching a small crack in her armor.

"They don't just want Muller's money, Jack. They want... leverage. Information. I'm the bait to reel it in. If I don't deliver... let's say the last girl who crossed them ended up floating face-down in the bay."

"That's the right touch," she figured. "Take the bait, Jack, and I'll set the hook."

The need for info spurred him to lean forward, his jaw tightening as he reached to take hold of that fragile chin in his paw. The dame was trying to play coy. She was stringing him on. He sensed it. Holding her chin firmly, he spun her face around to meet his eyes. Brandi's widened in alarm.

"Who are 'they,' Brandi? Names!"

"You think I wouldn't spill if I had names?" she snapped, her voice sharp then. "All I know is they've got connections in places you wouldn't believe. Big players. Politicians... maybe even the cops. They find out I talked to you..."

She let the thought go, having only the impromptu moment to create a story he would accept. That was enough; he understood as her shoulders drooped, her face fell, and her anger faded.

"One of my best performances," she thought.

She turned away, the back of her hand brushing against her cheek as if she were wiping away tears. For a moment, Jack thought she appeared vulnerable, even sincere. But something about her story didn't add up. She wasn't the type to be easily frightened, and the glint in her eye signaled to Jack Slater that she wasn't pursuing this angle without a backup plan.

Pulling back and propping himself up on an elbow, he lit another fag, letting the silence stretch.

"Brandi, it sounds like you're pretty deep in it. Fortunately, I've got a shovel."

She laughed bitterly, a sound that sent a chill up his spine. Plucking the cig from his lips, she inhaled deeply and held it momentarily in thought. Smoke billowed from her nose, and then she blew the rest in a huff between rose-red lips. She passed it back to Jack, resting her red-headed curls on his thigh. The warmth of her breath exhaled over his thick, slick willie. It stirred again. The PI in him couldn't help thinking Brandi might have slipped a little Spanish Fly into his second drink when he'd gone to water the flowers. He was rock hard again.

"You don't know how deep this hole goes, Jack. But if you think your shovel can dig us out, maybe I'll take my chances." Her eyes searched Jack's. That face turned hopeful as she evaluated his offer to help. But it wasn't until a minute later that a ray of innocent hope vanished, replaced by a devilishly wry grin as she decided to shift the conversation's tone.

Those blue, joyful eyes glanced up to gauge his expression. Brandi revealed a flash of pearly white teeth with a faint hint of red lipstick left on those puffy lips and opened. Damned if she didn't take in the whole banana with the finesse of a flaming sword swallower. She held him deeply in her throat, swallowing as she bobbed. He felt those shockwaves like she had plugged him into an electrical outlet. She started again with a gentle kiss and a swirl of her lizard-like tongue. Jack's jade eyes slammed shut, feeling as if he'd died and gone to heaven.

"That soulful, wounded-dame look," he thought, as she sucked him to the root.

When a stunning woman has total possession of your banana, it isn't easy to question yourself about her potential deception. What wasn't questionable was her primary tradecraft--intimacy.

Brandi could flutter those innocent eyes and pout those luscious lips to mesmerize any guy. It took her little effort to blow smoke up a guy's backside and convince him that every word she spun in her deceitful web was honest and genuine. The battle-hardened detective felt the allure of the she-devil lurking in the back of his mind. Yet, it didn't deter him from wanting to buy into it--especially given how she made him feel.

"No wonder Muller is captivated by this woman. The bartender was right--she can make a saint tip his halo." Jack Slater, PI, managed one last flicker of rational thought before tumbling over the edge into ecstasy. Everything after that was shrouded in a deep mist of exhaustion.

The PI felt that moment as his toes locked and his body racked with jolts of pleasure. Waiting until he revived and focused back on her face, she'd open her lips and swallowed his load--with a smile. The best sexual euphoria he'd ever experienced. He lay huffing like a marathon runner as her tongue gave one last languid lick.

"You can still resist the allure of the femme fatale," Jack told himself, as he lay gasping. "Focus, buddy, on getting her to reveal the information about that mysterious gang and what Muller is up to. It might seal the case for Muller's ball-and-chain and earn you a nice bonus."

"Don't screw this up!" floated behind his closed eyelids like a puff of gray smoke as she snuggled against his hairy chest.

At five in the morning, Jack wasn't sure who had sprung the trap on whom, having fallen asleep with her in his arms. It would take more than a Herculean effort to get back on track. A dream of living together in a charming cottage on a hilltop with a white picket fence, three curly, red-headed kids--not brown-haired like in past dreams--and a dog running around the yard jolted him awake. Jerking up onto an elbow from that nightmare, he glanced down to see Brandi, naked and spooned against him, sleeping like an innocent without a care in the world.

The pink glow from her flamingo night lamp cast shadows in the room, revealing things he hadn't noticed before--a graduate school diploma. Was it medical? A guitar in a stand rested by the bedside, and a violin case occupied the corner. Earlier, his mind had been focused between her legs on that shaved peach and the need to be inside her. The thought that there was more to Brandi Wynne than he had time to explore flitted through his mind.

Looking at his watch, he groaned softly and eased out of bed.

"Too late to call Muller's wife. The bastard would be snoring beside her," he muttered.

Reluctantly getting dressed, Jack slipped out the front door. There was no point in sticking around until Brandi woke up. Over the years, he had learned that having awkward conversations with strange women in bed the following day wasn't always like sweet wine--it was often a bitter whine.

Shrouded in fog, the PI choked his Plymouth and goosed the gas before mashing the starter. She coughed and caught on the first crank, then settled into a throaty purr as she warmed up.

After that battle royale in bed, Slater felt famished. He parked at the all-night diner on Park Avenue, indulging in bacon, eggs, and black coffee. With time to spare, he spent half an hour chatting with the pixie-like guy behind the counter, remembering to inquire about his sick mother. It was one of those situations where, as a former cop, he had pulled some strings to keep the weasel landlord from throwing her out on her keester--for back rent.

PATIENCE AND FORTITUDE

Scene Eight

At half past seven, Jack checked his Timex and headed down Fifth Avenue. The New York Public Library--Stephen A. Schwarzman Building--loomed ahead, its marble façade glowing under the streetlights. It wasn't just a library but a fortress of forgotten truths, a monument to secrets waiting to be uncovered.

As he approached, the library's two lions, Patience and Fortitude, stood on stone pedestals. They seemed to stare him down as he climbed the steps two at a time. Jack wasn't one for reverence, but this place always managed to slow him down, even if just for a second. The high-arched entryway was like a portal to another world that traded the city's noise for the whispers of history.

He stopped, glancing up. The vaulted ceiling above the mezzanine caught his eye. The painted fresco was too grand, too pristine like something yanked out of a Vatican postcard. But this night wasn't about art appreciation. His boots clicked against the polished marble as he strode inside, the air cooling instantly around him.

Jack had been here enough to know its quirks. The stacks were like a graveyard--quiet, eerie, and full of stories most people had forgotten. It was also the hunting ground of the sharpest researcher he knew, a paralegal who could turn a paper trail into a noose. If anyone could dig up dirt on a guy like Robert Muller, it was her. And if he knew her routine, she'd be holed up in the dusty news archives, elbows deep in clippings from when the city was still black and white.

A HALO OF DARK CURLS

Scene Nine

As Jack descended into the catacombs of celluloid, the air was thick with the scent of bleached ozone generated by machines waiting to be spun up to life. They held the visual and raw images of film and steered those who understood them well to secrets others had tried to hide. The place was almost empty except for a slender figure behind the reference desk. She had a halo of dark curls pinned just right and a pair of cat-eye glasses resting on her nose. Red lipstick provided the only splash of color, drawing his gaze to her face--immediately after assessing her curves.

Jack tipped his hat and leaned casually against the desk. "Morning, doll. Got a minute... for a guy who's looking for trouble?"

The woman didn't look up immediately, her fingers deftly thumbing through a microfilm catalog almost as if she hadn't heard him. He waited her out... She'd come around in her own good time. It took a minute...

"Trouble's what most men find when they come looking, mister," she finally said, having let him stew. Her voice was smooth, like jazz on a rainy night. "What kind are you after? The literary type--or something juicier?"

Jack smirked. "Juicier. I'm trying to get the lowdown on a local big shot--Robert Muller, big-shot lawyer. Part of the Standard Oil flagship. Let's say I've got reasons to think he's been dipping his wick in another tanker."

Her eyes flicked up, sharp and appraising. She studied the disheveled, unshavened--dick. She thought to make some witty remark but realized it would be beneath her. Gals like her had to build a defense wall to keep from being bulldozed by dicks like the one trying to schmooze her.

"Robert Muller? A fancy name for a man with a bad reputation. What's in it for you?"

"Let's just say a lady friend of mine has questions. And I'm the guy she hired to find answers. I hear this place has newspaper archives, city directories, and maybe even a little gossip tucked between the pages. You seem like the kind who'd know where to look."

"You got that right," she thought, eyeing a guy who fancied himself a smooth operator. With a soft click, she closed the catalog drawer and stood. Then, she adjusted her glasses.

"Flattery will get you somewhere, but don't think it'll make me do all the heavy lifting. Follow me, Mr....?"

"Jack." He extended his hand. "Jack Slater. And I didn't catch your name."

She ignored his hand and walked past him, motioning for him to follow.

"That's because I didn't give it. But since you asked so nicely, it's Ashley. Let's see if Mr. Muller has left any breadcrumbs in the papers."

He noted she wasn't wearing a ring.

YOU SHOULD HAVE LED WITH THAT

Scene Ten

The hum of the microfilm machine filled the small, dimly lit room. Ashley leaned over the machine, scrolling through film spools with practiced ease. Jack watched her, noting the way her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Robert Muller," she muttered, stopping to read an article. "Here we go--looks like he made a pretty penny off a government contract during the war. But there's a notation about a lawsuit--some workers claiming unsafe conditions. Settled out of court."

"Anything juicier than that?" Jack asked, leaning closer. Ashley shot him a sidelong glance, leaning away.

"Patience, Jack. A librarian's greatest skill is persistence. If you don't mind--sing my praises a little louder; it might help me work faster."

He chuckled. "All right, you're a genius--the smartest gal in the room. By the way, I do remember your birthday is next week, darling. How's that?"

"Remember because you had it tattooed on your dick? Should have done that before you fell off the wagon and started fucking around. We might still be married, asshole."

The room was silent. The knobs had stopped turning. The air seemed a bit warmer. For most, this would be a real awkward moment. However, this pair had practice sparring.

"I've been reformed. And... I still think we are a thing--just not as close."

"Flattering, but I can do better than compliments. Look here." She pointed at the screen. "1936. A mention of Muller on the society pages. Seems he threw a party at the Carlton Hotel. The reporter notes a mysterious brunette seen leaving with him. Does that sound like the kind of trouble you're after?"

Jack grinned. "Sorry, sweetheart. I think what I'm looking for has to do with mergers."

Ashley's eyes shot daggers. "Ass. You should have led with that. For an ex-detective, you're not too bright."

"That's why I married you, to watch out for me, but you made me an ex-hubby instead," Slater smirked.

"Reminds me, your last alimony checks bounced... And for the record, I didn't make you an ex--the judge did that."

"Babe, when I wrap up this case, I'll double the check... And that judge just happened to be the one you were law-clerking for and didn't tell me about."

She sighed in the dim light. "A dame plays her hand as the shadows demand..." She quoted an obscure erotic writer whose name eluded her, but recalled that his name sounded like Mallard.

Under her breath, in a weathered voice, she whispered, "In this game, it's survival of the slickest." That quote was an original by that guy she couldn't recall...

"Wait... it's Mallord!" she sighed, recollecting the author.

"Mallard? No, babe, we're looking for Robert Muller. Not a duck. Did you forget? Going old on me?"

"Screw you, Jack. It was just an errant... never mind."

For a bright girl who wasn't getting it regularly, her mind would often turn to books. Mallord's stuff was hot enough to jill by in the absence of a thick cock.

Ashley tapped a pencil against her cheek as she scanned another article, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Well, well, Mr. Slater, I think we've stumbled onto something spicier than a scandalous brunette."

Jack leaned over her shoulder, the faint scent of her perfume catching him off guard. "What've you got?"

She adjusted her glasses and pointed to the article on the screen. "Looks like Standard Oil is in talks for a merger with another outfit--Gold Holdings & Shipping, based out of Chicago. That sound innocent to you?"

Jack frowned. "Mergers happen all the time. What's the catch?"

"Here's where it gets dicey," she said, tapping the screen. "Gold Holdings & Shipping's been under investigation for securities violations--accused of pumping up their stock value with phony earnings reports. If Standard follows through, there's a chance GH&S might be playing fast and loose with the Securities Exchange Act of '34. You know, the one that frowns on insider trading and shady bookkeeping?"

Jack crossed his arms, his mind racing. "So, what's Muller's angle if Standard Oil is merging with a crooked operation? Think he's looking to launder his mess?"

Jack was playing it close to the vest. He left out the connection between Muller, his ball-and-chain, Brandi Wynne, and the mysterious phone villains, which then could be Gold Holdings & Shipping by the sounds of Ashley's connect-the-dots-scenario.

Ashley smirked. "Could be. Or he's taking a gamble, hoping to cash in before the whole house of cards collapses. Either way, if he's tied to a fraudulent company, that's the kind of dirt that could bury him."

Jack nodded, his jaw tightening. "And if someone knew about this merger ahead of time? They could leverage that to squeeze him--make him dance to their tune."

"Exactly," Ashley said, leaning back with a triumphant smile. "A little birdie could whisper to the SEC or the press, and Muller would have a federal investigation breathing down his neck. But that canary would need proof first."

Jack grinned. "Lucky for me, I've got the best librarian in town to help me find it. You'd make a damned fine lawyer, Ashley."

Ashley shot him a surprised look. 'Did he know?'

"Flattery will only get you so far, Jack. If you want more, pay me those delinquent alimony checks today... or no research tomorrow. And I want front-row seats to the fireworks when this thing blows up."

He chuckled. "Deal, doll. I'll squeeze my client for some cash up front for expenses and cut you a check."

"Cash--money, Jack." Brenda sternly let him know the terms, knowing how checks had worked out so far.

"The tellers at the bank look at your checks, snicker, and have started making book on whether I can cash them. Jack, every time I walk in, they grin like I'm a shyster trying to pass off three-dollar bills."

Jack held up his hands in mock surrender. "All right, all right. I'll make it happen."

His ex's expression softened. It was a momentary flicker of something unspoken behind those buttercup eyes; those pursed lips tightened, holding back a thought.

Jack caught her tell--always the same. It was rare for Ashley to let her guard down. Jack braced himself, knowing a shoe was about to drop. She didn't do soft shoe without a reason.

"By the way," he said, trying to fill in some deepening silence, "I still dream of us. You know, playing house on a hill with a white picket fence, a couple of kids, and a mutt. Not exactly the American Dream, but it's the closest I ever came--a reoccurring dream."

Ashley touched his arm, her voice quieter as those buttercup eyes peered into his. She held her breath for a moment. Jack sensed the shoe was about to drop.

"By the way, Jack," she began, her words hesitant but mirroring his tone. "I took the state law bar exam in February. I got the results yesterday."

Jack caught the glint in her eyes--the quiet triumph, the culmination of years of struggle, and something else. He didn't need her to say it. He already knew what was coming.

"Passed, huh?" he managed, his voice gruff.

"Probably caused by mold from the ancient tomes," he thought, as the knowledge hit him like a gut punch.

She nodded. A curly red lock bounced over a hazel eye. A hint of regret softened her confidence. Then, softly, she said, "Second highest. I'll be moving upstate. It's what I've been working toward--you know that. It will take a couple of years, but then... I'll be set for life."

A deafening silence fell between them. Jack's gaze dropped to the scuffed floor as he searched for something--anything--to say. Words failed him.

Ashley's lips formed a faint, bittersweet smile. She had stood in his shoes before, realizing the two weren't a good match. Having traveled that dead-end road herself, she recognized the mismatch and turned back. She had long since moved past those feelings of regret.

"Take care of yourself, Jack."

Her hand lingered for a moment on his arm. For a brief instant, she considered a goodbye peck, just for old time's sake, but then turned and walked out the door--a wiser choice.

Jack stood there, staring at the empty doorway she had left behind. He wanted to call out, to stop her, and reach for something he had lost years ago but still held on to in the quiet corners of his mind.

But he didn't. Life wasn't made of fairy dust and Peter Pan magic. It was tough; sometimes, you had to swallow the painful truth because that was all you had.

If he had been braver--if he had merely grabbed and kissed her, perhaps things would have turned out differently. But Jack Slater, PI, wasn't that brave anymore. Not when it came to matters of the heart.

Straightening his tie and squaring his shoulders, Jack Slater, private eye, headed out. Patience and Fortitude, the ancient library's regal caretakers, observed his strident gait. It couldn't mask his solemn expression, a lost dream of a red-headed girl with two kids and a dog in the yard. There was work to do, and at least work didn't leave you staring at empty doorways--or sitting on bar stools.

SHE WHO HAS THE GOLD MAKES THE RULES

Scene Eleven

Bolting out the main door, Slater hoofed it across the street to the bank of phone booths by the bus line. Closing the door behind him, a faint smell of stale cigars and sweat swirled up. Outside, the bus hissed to a stop, its brakes screeching like an alley cat. Thumbing through his worn pocket notepad, he found Brenda Muller's number. Grabbing the receiver, he fumbled in his pocket, pinched a nickel, and dropped it in the slot. He heard the familiar buzz before the operator came on the line.

"Operator... how may I direct your call?"

"Operator, connect me to VAnderbilt 2369, Jack Muller Esquire."

"One moment, please." It rang three shorts, and a thick German voice picked up.

"Guten Morgen, Muller residence..." she answered.

"This is Jack Slater calling for Mrs. Muller."

"Da, she mentions a call from Herr Slater. I'll get her on the line right away. She's in the greenhouse tending to the roses."

Slater waited, shifting his weight and tapping his toes in the cramped booth. The line crackled faintly before Brenda's voice barreled through like a freight train.

"What happened? I waited for your call until midnight. Don't tell me you passed out in a gutter somewhere."

Slater smirked. "Not exactly. Your hubby spent a long time in bed with a bimbo who looked as curvy as Hedy Lamarr." He didn't add his notes after midnight--with his interview with 'Hedy Lamarr.'

"That bastard... I knew it! Did you get me black and whites, or should I take your word for it?" Her breath came fast, the fury unmistakable.

"Enough to cook his goose--and then some," Jack replied nonchalantly.

"Lady, I have the goods on him that not even a Philadelphia lawyer could get him out of."

The line went quiet for a moment. Had he lost the connection?

"Hello? We're good, you and me? Mrs. Muller, I deliver the glossies, and you pay me the eight hundred we agreed on? Hello?"

"Yeah, about that... Listen, shamus. Did you say... '... and then some?'

"Mrs. Muller, you're not trying to weasel out on my payment, are you?" Jack asked, beginning to get irked over her waffling on their business deal.

"More like changing the deal, detective. You know the first rule of business, right? She who has the gold makes the rules."

"You said... 'then some.' Spit it out, Slater. What else did you dig up? If it's good dirt, I'll double, no, triple, your contract. Hell, I pay you five grand! Get him on something worse than divorce, and I'll think about fucking you as a bonus."

Jack winced at the image. Cagey-like, he parried, "What can you tell me about GH&S?"

The line went quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her tone was guarded. "Gold Holdings & Shipping? That's... not something to discuss over the phone. A purely hypothetical discussion, you understand? Why is he mixed up with them?"

"I've got a lead," Jack fudged. "Seems there's more than sex with a floozie between the sheets--maybe some thugs lugging cement overshoes, too."

"Cement...? Do you mean gangsters? So, he's two-timing me with a bimbo and in bed with the mob?" Her voice rose, trembling with fury. Slater could picture her mousy face turning beet red, her dainty hands clutching the receiver like she wanted to strangle someone.

"Easy, lady. I didn't say he was. Just that he might be mixed up in something dirty, and if he's involved, it'll take time--and money--to prove it. Say... two grand to start."

"Two grand?" Brenda's voice dripped with sarcasm. "That's a bargain. Why not ten while you're at it? Hell, why don't I sell the greenhouse and hire the entire Pinkerton Agency?" Her voice rose to a crescendo.

Slater chuckled. "Two will do. I need to cover a professional researcher and some upfront expenses."

It was the least he could do to catch up on Ashley's past-due alimony and have a little to do a fine tune-up on the Plymouth. It was a bit rough on the idle and start-up.

"Fine," she snapped. "Hire two researchers if you must! I want that bastard's world to crumble. Do you hear me, Jack? Meet Walter, my banker, at Centennial Bank--Fifth and Jefferson. One hour."

"I get your drift. Meet Walter. Fifth and Jefferson. Got it, Mrs. Muller."

"Don't be late, Slater. And stop calling me Mrs. Muller. It'sMs. Brenda Stanford from now on. Might as well get used to it since I'll be shedding that bastard's name."

Slater's grin widened. "Stanford, huh? What, no middle finger to go with the name change?"

"Funny. Don't fuck with me, Jack."

"How long for the photos?" she demanded, steering the conversation back on track.

"I'll rush them today and send them by courier tonight. And do us a favor, Brenda; poke around in his business papers at home and see if you find anything linking him to GH&S for me. Maybe you'll find some gold."

"Okay, dick. And Jack?" Her voice softened slightly."Don't screw this up."

He hung up and leaned against the booth, thinking about the strange game of cat and mouse they were playing. The shrew's last words echoed over the traffic swirling outside the phone booth. 'Don't screw this up.' Where had he heardthat before?

A guy could spin stories about a little cottage perched high on a hill, with a yard filled with the laughter of curly-haired kids and a dog chasing its tail. Maybe Ashley would see the cash, flash her crooked smile, and forget about bar exams. Maybe go for white picket fences instead. Yeah, a guy could dream. A man of value might've captured it all.

Yet, for Jack Slater, all that seemed to remain at the end of the day was a crumpled stack of eight-by-tens showing a sap with his hand on the backside of a gold digger slipping into room seven, along with the nagging feeling that he might be unfortunate enough to be fitted for cement overshoes.

He shook off the anxious feeling, knowing there was work to do--a bank run next, afterward, perhaps impressing Ashley with a wad of cabbage big enough to choke a racehorse--and maybe, just maybe, changing her mind.

WHAT'S IN IT FOR ME?

Scene Twelve

Despite Ashley's aggressive tone with Jack regarding the non-payment of her alimony, he had piqued her interest. Muller wasn't a minor player in the financial world. He was well-connected, and gaining insight into his inner circle would give her an advantage when she arrived in Albany. She had given Jack an ultimatum--a quid pro quo arrangement, with past-due payment in cash for research assistance. However, she had already started deep in the archives and neck-deep in microfilm reels. She had a head start and a glimpse into the world of shadowy business mergers.

Cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by paper tags, Ashley scribbled shorthand notes for review. Engrossed in her research, she missed the shadow appearing at the door. Jack watched her from his vantage point, smiling.

She was in that familiar pose, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and that number two pencil tap-tap-tapping against her cheek playfully, producing a hollow drumming sound as her lips opened and closed to change the pitch. It was a joyful place, reminiscent of days spent blissfully together. Back then, she used to lie on the floor, sprawled out flat and leaning on her elbows in front of the couch, studying law. Like a giant sponge--she soaked it all up. He'd lie above her, playfully rubbing her butt and...

A light tap on the doorframe brought her out of the spell. Her head snapped up, catching his smile.

Her defenses went up. "I didn't expect to see you again. Did you forget something?" Her tone was brusque.

"You always keep your promises, Ashley. We have a deal. You said that if I got the past-due payments today, you'd help me find dirt on Muller. That's still good, right?" he asked, sliding down onto the floor beside her.

"It's called quid pro quo, Jack. You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. That's not literal, either! That's just the legal concept of something for something." She blushed.

Jack nodded while retrieving a fat bank envelope from his trench coat and laying it on the floor.

Ashley read the ink-stamped label, 'First Centennial Bank.' "Really? You got all the payments?"

She was astonished that he had come through. "It ain't chicken feed, Jack. Are you sure you can..."

"Open it, and make sure my client's manager got it right." He smiled, already having counted it twice. There was no way that much money walked out of a bank without being double-checked. Four hundred bucks in past-due alimony ain't 'chicken feed.'

She gasped when she saw the denominations, "God! Hundred-dollar bills. How much?"

"Two thou... more later," he answered.

"You sure this isn't gangster money? That wad is more than... a year's librarian wages! I can't take that."

"The lady said to hire a second assistant; I suppose I could find one. But, if you don't want it all, take what you need. I could pay a few bills with the leftovers," he chuckled.

Ashley was still in shock, holding the wad of bills. I could use some clothes..." she added, as an afterthought about becoming a lawyer.

Jack snapped his fingers a couple of times to bring her out of the trance. "Hey, you're welcome. Now, about that quid pro quo... looks like you already got the jump on me."

Ashley leaned back, rocked her shoulders to ease the prolonged tension of being hunkered over, and filled in some missing pieces for him.

"All right, Jack. Here's what we know. According to some court records, GH&S is up to its neck in fraudulent stock manipulation. Muller's direct involvement is shaky. He's always on the outside looking in. But on the bookkeeping end, he's knee-deep enough to leave prints all over Standard Oil's books. If we can show the books leave a trail to GH&S, everything would be golden."

Lighting a Marlboro and leaning forward, Jack's gravelly voice responded, "Yeah, but it's not enough to bring him down. I need something solid, like his signature on a deal with GH&S, or him talking shop with the wrong crowd. Something the Feds can't ignore."

Speaking briskly, he paused to puff dual smoke rings into the air.

His ex frowned at his interpretation of what she had discovered. Thinking while tapping a pencil against a legal pad, she blurted, "Then bait him. Get him to meet you under the guise of offering a bribe or insider information. I can craft a fake acquisition proposal from GH&S to Muller--something flashy enough to spark his interest. Get his signature on the contract and submit it to the SEC, and Brenda eliminates--one bird--with two stones."

She laughed at her humor in twisting the phrase. Gallows or lawyer humor, Jack figured, as he smiled along with her.

"Not bad, Counselor," he smirked. "You always were the brains of this operation. But Muller's no fool. If he smells a trap, he'll bolt."

Popping up off the floor, Ashley spun around and jammed fresh sheets into the work-horse of a Remington typewriter and began composing a document sure to pique Muller's interests and evidence his involvement in an SEC fraud matter.

Casting a smile and a wink toward Jack, she enthused, "Ah, but that's where Brandi comes in. She's his weak spot. If we can orchestrate a scenario where she's supposedly delivering this 'proposal,' he'll feel safer. You need to be there to catch him in the act."

"Risky," he replied, taking a drag and exhaling slowly, "but it might just work. If it does, I'll owe you more than just back-alimony checks."

Ashley's face softened at his remark. It was a reality check.

"You owe me more than money already, Jack. Don't screw this up. I'm not drafting fraudulent documents to watch you get yourself killed."

"So... you use this Brandi woman to deliver the fake proposal. Muller won't think twice about meeting her. She's his distraction, his Achilles' heel."

"Brandi Wynne's a slippery babe, Ashley. She wanted to come across as an innocent, you know, an ingénue, but she's just a glamour puss akin to a gold digger. You know, a knock-out drama queen. How do we make sure she doesn't bolt or double-cross us?"

"Well, listen to the walking dictionary! You'd be smitten with her if I didn't know you better. Why don't you bring her around some time so we can all get acquainted?"

The smirk lingered in the library's stale air, filled with the smell of aging tomes.

"Wait! Her name is... Wynne? Like Brandy Wine? What the hell kind of parents did she have?" It was a head-turner for Ashley to discover the crazy dame's full name.

"Doll, I ain't got time for that story." His face puckered at the story behind his remark.

Jack's mind replayed the scene like a microfilm spool from last night's escapade in front of the fireplace. It spun round and round with images of Brandi engraved in his memory. He'd screwed her, and here, hours later, he found himself in the library stacks, longing for a lost love. The woman he had deceived, cheated on, and nearly drowned himself in alcohol over... noticed that. Damn.

"Sounds like you had some time on your hands..." she smirked, "but that's your job to get her to deliver, Jack. Keep her on a tight leash. Offer her a cut of the payday we're pretending Muller will make from this deal. The gold digger won't resist thinking there's money in it for her."

"All right. And while Brandi's playing courier, I'll be there to document the exchange and catch Muller red-handed."

The exes exchanged glances as the mastermind plan came together. Ashley slid the paper bail release back and began proofreading. The plan was to ensnare Robert Muller as a shady gang member trying to fleece Standard Oil. The trap would honor Brenda's modified deal to charge Muller with a federal security crime. All that was missing was a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game featuring a despised face, which Brenda Muller, née Stanford, had come to loathe.

The contract agreement between Standard Oil and Gold Holdings & Shipping was a lucrative six-figure deal, yielding a net gain of half a million for the broker as a service fee--a staggering sum with Robert Muller Esq.'s signature as the broker for Standard. The prominent line awaited a signature to finalize the agreement. One flourish of the pen would spring the trap. Brenda Stanford would secure her divorce and enjoy her spoils, too.

Jack pictured the look of satisfaction on her shrewish face when her unfaithful husband went to prison for Federal Securities violations related to inflating the assets of the merging companies. Knowing the philanderer was cheating on his ball-and-chain with two kids waiting in the wings didn't upset Slater in the least.

Jack ducked into the phone booth across the street from the library and rang the Muller residence again. When Brenda came on the line, Jack went straight at her like a bull in a china shop before she could bark a word.

"Doll, I got a master plan to bring your cheating husband to his knees and up on felony fraud charges. It's a beautiful plan; I have a few details to work out. I'll update you when the deal is done. Get my check ready."

NOW, TELL ME--WHAT'S THE PLAY?

Scene Thirteen

A simple divorce case had gone sideways, spiraling from catching a guy with his pants down to plunging headfirst into a cesspool of criminal intrigue. It wasn't just about cheating spouses anymore--it was shadowy deals and goons with Tommy guns, the kind of stakes that didn't just leave a man sleeping with the fishes, but tied him to an anchor for good measure. Jack felt like a pawn on a rigged chessboard, every move inching him closer to checkmate--or maybe a frog in a pot, the water heating so slowly he barely noticed until it was too late.

Loathing the thought of strapping Betsy under his arm again, he ran a hand over the cold steel of his trusty forty-five. She wasn't a match for a mobster's arsenal, but she'd been his old flame long before Ashley had ever walked into his life. He gave her a fresh oiling, loaded her up, and holstered her like the old days on the force. A man had to be ready for whatever came knocking, especially with dames like Brandi--and Brenda--pulling his strings.

Brenda had put it succinctly--"Rub his nose in deep shit, Jack, and I'll more than make it worth your while."

The Plymouth purred as it took him to the Clover, a former speakeasy still reeked of bad decisions and whiskey-soaked floors. Jack grabbed a table in the farthest corner, his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. His nerves were taut, stretched like piano wire, ready to snap.

The wait didn't take long.

The front door swung open, and she strode--sunshine on two legs with mischief painted across her smile. Her red curls bounced with each step--the hourglass figure, embraced by a snug black dress, glittered under the dim lights. A slit ran high to her thigh on one side, showcasing legs that could stop traffic, and the stiletto heels clicked a sultry rhythm against the hardwood floor. She strutted like a femme fatale on a fashion runway, and every head in the joint turned to follow her; even a lone, low wolf whistle emerged from a shadowy corner, adding attention to a divine dessert as it made its way across the floor.

Brandi Wynne. She looked like she owned the place, and hell, maybe she did.

"Missed me already, dick?" she purred, as she slid into the chair Jack had pulled out for her.

"You read me like a dime-store novel, babe," Jack quipped, sitting back down.

Brandi withdrew a Muratti cigarette from her clutch with the ease of someone who had never been hurried a day in her life and waited...

"Yeah, well, it ain't hard to guess what's on a guy's mind when packing heat under his coat. So, did you take my warning and give back the money, or are you still a fool on a fool's mission?"

Jack leaned forward, striking his lighter for her cig. "Depends, sweetheart. You done blowing smoke, or are you ready to blow this town?"

Slowly, she blew out a gray plume, watching his face like a cat eyeing a bird. Her lips twitched at the corner, but her eyes stayed sharp. "Depends on the deal you're peddling. And it better be sweeter than the last time we danced, sugar."

A waiter materialized at their table, breaking the tension.

"To drink?"

Jack glanced at Brandi, smiled cagily, then ordered. "A Sidecar for the lady--Cognac, Cointreau, and lemon juice. Coffee, black, for me."

The sidecar drink fits the dame's description of a gentleman's swallow. According to legend, it was named after a World War I captain who arrived in a motorcycle sidecar at the American Ritz Bar in Paris for daily drinking. Not wanting to appear a drunkard, he asked the bartender for something... refined. Thus, the Sidecar, a mixture of brandy, was invented for and named after the colorful manner of his daily arrival. Brandi Wynne was undoubtedly a man's sidecar--a rich man's attachment.

Brandi's laugh was low, almost a purr. "Cute wordplay. Sidecars happen to be my favorite. Double the brandy... please."

"A guy tries to please," Jack said, leaning back. "Sometimes, he gets it right."

"Sometimes," she said, swirling the smoke from her Muratti. "Last night, for instance. Falling asleep in your big, burly arms made me feel safe, Jack. It almost made me believe in happy endings. You know, a big house on a hill, safe."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I had a dream like that last night--about red-headed kids and a dog in a yard surrounded by a white picket fence on a hill. But... I got a feeling a different artist painted your dream version."

"But enough of the love talk," Brandi snapped, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "You said you had a deal I couldn't pass up. Lay it on me, but make it good. The boys pulling my strings don't like hiccups, and if I don't have cash--real money to get out of this city--I'm gonna end up fish bait. I ain't dying for nobody."

The gutsy words suggested a flicker of fear beneath her bravado. Jack had seen that look before--people willing to do anything to save their lives. He knew better than to call it out.

He felt the intensity, her sparring for advantage, yet tried to remain calm. "Brandi, you do this job right; you'll have enough cash to sip fresh-squeezed orange juice in Florida for the rest of your life. Cross me, Wynne, or screw this up, and those cement shoes you're scared of might be the least of your worry."

Brandi leaned back, her ruby lips curling into a sly smile. It didn't take a genius to see that the PI was too soft-hearted to be cruel. No man in bed who cared as much as he did about bringing a woman to pleasure first could be such a cold-hearted fool.

Her voice turned velvety once more. "I like a man who knows how to sell a dream, Jack. Now, tell me--what's the play?"

"Simple for a gal with your smarts. I need a quiet, intimate place to get Muller to let down his guard and get him to sign a contract. You get his John Hancock on this document, and I'll be there to snatch it up. Bingo... you make five grand for your troubles courtesy of his soon-to-be ex."

"Brenda!" she snickered, "I figured she hired you, Jack. Robert says she's a mousy shrew, but you knew that already, didn't you?" Brandi's flashed a mischievous smile.

Jack shrugged in answer. It was enough confirmation for Brandi. She took another puff and sat back in thinking mode.

"Quiet and relaxed, you say?" Her brow furrowed, and her lips briefly pursed before she broke into a smile.

"Thursday nights at Nat Sherman's Townhouse on Forty-second Street, Robert loves Cubans--and their cigars. He boasts about having smoked them in Havana. Downstairs, there's a members-only lounge--cozy, quiet, and discreet. There's a Cuban banana he likes; she carries a gold-plated cigar cutter and puts on a show as she prepares those long Cubans."

"Ever been there?" she asked, glancing at Jack sipping coffee.

"Walked the beat back in the day. Yeah, a nice thick Cuban would put him at ease..."

"Figured you for an ex-cop." She exhaled, demanding, "Now, what's this contract I gotta pitch?"

THE FLOWER IN HER HAIR WAS ALL FLAIR

Scene Fourteen

Nat's Townhouse on Forty-second Street had flair. It was noted for its pleasing Cuban atmosphere... and exquisite Cuban women. But the real action sat below street level, hidden behind a discreet brass plaque that whispered exclusivity--it read, 'Members Only.'

Inside the lower level were shadows and smoke, where deals were whispered, affirmed with nods, and not announced publicly. Mahogany-paneled walls glistened under dim wall sconces, and the scent of leather and Cuban tobacco mingled with the faint hum of a jazz trio tucked into the corner.

Jack stepped inside, his shoulders grazing the narrow doorway, and surveyed the room. Men lounged in high-backed chairs, decked out in flashy suits, their eyes wary like wolves assessing one another. The clink of glasses punctuated the murmurs, but the real spectacle wasn't the clientele.

It was a Cuban slinking like a cat through the haze--slender, poised, and provocatively dangerous. Her dress clung like it had been painted on, with a slit that danced with every step. The flower in her hair was all flair, a bold red against jet-black curls. She carried a silver tray with a selection of cigars that could dent anyone's wallet. The gold-plated cutter in her hand caught the low light, flashing like a warning.

She paused at a table near the humidor, presenting her offerings with a practiced smile, suggesting she had more to sell than cigars. She waited until the gentleman's gaze met hers, capturing him with her soft Spanish accent. "For the gentleman, a Montecristo or perhaps a Romeo y Julieta?" she purred, her voice smooth and sweet.

The mark leaned back, his face illuminated by the soft sconce light. It caught Jack's eye. It was Muller, looking every bit the smug bastard Jack had anticipated. He gestured lazily, barely acknowledging the girl as she picked a cigar and snipped the end with a flick of her wrist. She brought it to her lips, rolling it slightly to add a touch of moisture, then leaned close to Muller, her bare thigh pressed against his shoulder. She lit the Montecristo with a long, elegant match. Jack couldn't hear what she said, but Muller smirked, and the girl melted into the haze, leaving nothing but a hint of perfume behind.

Jack slid onto a stool at the bar, his back to the wall. The bartender, a wiry guy with a permanent five o'clock shadow, gave him a nod.

"Black coffee," Jack muttered, lighting a Marlboro and letting the match burn too long before flicking it away. His eyes remained locked on Muller, who puffed on the Cuban like he owned the world. Although he wore a trench coat and appeared out of place, nestling in the shadows, no one bothered to speak to the bear-sized man about his inappropriate attire.

This wasn't just a lounge; it was a stage, and everyone was playing their part. Jack was about to enter the spotlight, fully aware that the script wouldn't end well. But that was the job, right? Chasing leads, dodging bullets, and hoping he didn't end up face down in the Hudson with a cigar stub still clamped between his teeth.

WHAT'S THE CATCH?

Scene Fifteen

The Jazz band launched into a new tune by Lena Horne, 'I Take to You.' The sensual lyrics floated over the crowd.'I take to you like the duck takes to water, Just like ink takes to a blotter, Like a foot takes to a shoe!'

Brandi Wynne arrived right on cue, the click of her heels piercing the low hum of conversation. Heads turned as she sauntered through the room, her black dress shimmering like a midnight sky. She held a slim, red leather folder under one arm, and her ruby-red lips curved into a smile that could charm the devil himself.

Muller couldn't help but spot her--everyone did. He stood as she approached, his cigar smoldering while he greeted her with practiced charm.

"Brandi Wynne. I didn't expect to see someone with your... talents here. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

She offered her hand. Muller took it, brushing his lips against her knuckles like a gentleman.

"Robert," she purred, settling into the chair across from him. "You're a tough man to pin down. Lucky for me, I'm persistent."

Muller chuckled, his gaze lingering a moment too long. "Persistence is an admirable trait in a woman. Can I get you something to drink?"

"A Sidecar," she replied smoothly, setting the folder on the table. "With a double pour of Cognac, if you don't mind."

Muller gestured to a nearby waiter, who scurried off to fetch the order. He leaned back, his cigar between his fingers, studying her like a chess master sizing up his opponent.

"So, what brings you here, Miss Wynne? I doubt it's just the ambiance."

Brandi purred, "I savor the thrill of the hunt in a den of sin like this, don't you? A Cuban wrapped in a dress is always a delightful bonus. It's not just a man's charm that captures my interest. The cute one with the red flower is open to both." She took the Cuban from his hand, inhaled, and exhaled a cloud of smoke that mingled with his.

"But, you've always been quick, Robert. I'm here because some acquaintances and I have a business opportunity I believe you'll find... irresistible."

Muller raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do tell."

Brandi opened the folder and slid a crisp contract across the table.

"A little birdie told me you've been looking for ways to diversify your portfolio. This deal--let's say it's not public knowledge yet, but it's about to make a lot of smart men very, very rich. They need a little help from someone on the inside. Someone who likes easy money as much as they do."

Muller picked up the contract, his eyes scanning the text. His expression shifted from curiosity to interest as he read the lucrative details.

"And what's your role in this, Miss Wynne?"

She leaned forward, her voice low and conspiratorial. "Let's call me a facilitator. I bring opportunities to men like you, who know how to turn a good deal into a great one. All I need is your debonaire signature on that dotted line, and we both walk away--big winners."

Muller took another puff of his cigar, considering her words. "And why should I trust you?"

Brandi's smile didn't waver. "Besides entertaining you at the Inn on Highway Six? I keep those things discreet, showing I can be trusted. And well, because I'm offering you something real, Robert. Something tangible. You're a man who knows when to take a risk--and when not to. If this deal doesn't deliver, you'll still be sitting pretty. But if it does..." She let the words hang in the air, the promise of wealth doing the heavy lifting.

The waiter returned with her Sidecar, and she took a sip, her eyes never leaving Muller's.

"Tell me," Muller said, tapping ash from his cigar. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just need a man on the inside to guide things along, someone good with figures," Brandi said, leaning back with a casual grace that belied her nerves. "Just an opportunity for a smart man to get ahead. But it won't be on the table for long. These things have a way of disappearing once the big boys get wind of better deals and move on."

Muller's fingers drummed on the table as he considered his options. Finally, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his stylish Waterman fountain pen. He recognized a good deal when he saw one, and this was a whale. With a flourish, he signed his name, his smirk growing wider.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Wynne."

Brandi's smile broadened, even as her heart raced. "The pleasure is all mine, Robert. Here's to a successful partnership."

As Muller leaned back, savoring his cigar, Brandi cast a discreet glance toward the entrance, searching for Jack in the darkness. The bait had been taken, but the actual game was beginning.

She raised her glass high, signaling to Jack that the deal was finalized and that it was time for the cavalry to charge.

Jack leaned against the bar in the lounge's shadowed entryway, nursing a cup of black coffee. From this vantage point, he could keep a close eye on Brandi and Muller without drawing attention to himself. The dim light played tricks with the smoke curling through the air.

His eyes stayed locked on the pair at the corner table. Muller was leaning back, puffing on his cigar with the confidence of a man who thought he was untouchable. Brandi played her role like a pro, and her every move was calculated to draw him in. The contract sat on the table between them, a ticking time bomb wrapped in fine legalese.

Jack's fingers brushed the grip of Betsy, his forty-five snug beneath his coat. He didn't expect to use her, but it was always better to be prepared. This wasn't his first dance with snakes like Muller, and he knew better than to assume everything would go smoothly.

As Muller reached inside his jacket, Jack's jaw tightened. He took a slow sip of coffee, masking his unease, and unsnapped the strap over Betsy. The deal wasn't sealed until Muller's name was on that dotted line, and there was still plenty of room for things to go sideways.

Muller withdrew a pen from his jacket. It scratched against the paper as his signature curled into place. Jack allowed himself a faint smile. Brandi raised her Sidecar drink in a toast, confirming it was a done deal. Step one was complete. Then came the hard part.

Jack pushed away from the bar, deliberately setting his coffee cup down. He made his way toward the table, his eyes fixed on Muller. As he approached, Brandi looked up. Her gaze landed on the binder, a head nod conveying a brief message--'It's done.'

Muller looked up as Jack reached the table, his smirk fading into a suspicious frown as the bear hovered uncomfortably over the table.

"And who the hell are you?"

Jack slid into the chair opposite Muller, leaning back like he owned the place. "Just a guy who doesn't like seeing friends of mine get swindled."

Muller's eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening around his cigar. "I don't know what you're talking about, pal, but you're in the wrong place if you're looking for trouble."

Jack pulled the contract toward him, tapping it with one finger. "Oh, I think I'm exactly where I need to be. This little document here? It's a one-way ticket to a cell with your name on it."

Muller's face darkened, his bravado slipping. "You've got no idea who you're messing with."

Jack's smile was cold, his voice steady. "I know exactly who I'm messing with. And I know the feds will be thrilled to get their hands on this." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low growl.

Brandi lit another cigarette, her expression edgy as she watched the exchange. She could picture the bear of a man reacting to a raging trapped weasel. The bear had a gun under that coat; maybe the weasel carried a piece, too.

"Shit," she thought, "this might not go so well. Where's my best exit?"

Jack's heart pounded, but he didn't let it show. This was the gamble, the moment where everything could fall apart--or come together ideally.

Muller sneered, his confidence returning in a flash. "You think you can threaten me? I've got friends in high places, buddy. You don't scare me."

Jack didn't flinch; instead, he grabbed the contract that bore Muller's signature.

"Your friends in high places won't save you when the feds see this," Jack said. "And trust me, they will see it."

Muller's face drained of color as he watched the document slip out of reach. Brandi exhaled a slow plume of smoke, a sly smile curling at her lips.

"It seems you've been cornered, Robert," she purred, experiencing a rush of euphoria at the turn of events. Visions of Benjamins stuffed into her violin case brought a bright smile to her face.

Muller's jaw tightened, his mind racing. Jack could see the gears turning, the desperate calculations of a man trying to wriggle free of a noose.

"Fine," Muller spat, his voice laced with venom. "Maybe we can--you and I--cut a deal. I'll double the deal for whoever is paying you to put the squeeze on me. What's your price?"

ROBERT, THE BASTARD, KNEW.

Scene Sixteen

Jack's last words to Brenda were to investigate Muller's desk at home, looking for anything that would connect him to Brandi Wynne's phone calls and the merger that was brewing, which could somehow serve as a means to swindle Standard out of tankers full of cash. It was more than Jack had bargained for... more than Brenda Muller--almost Brenda Stanford again--was aware of or could even conceive. To her horror, it was about to become an elephant-sized dung pile ready to hit a New York fan.

Brenda Muller had never thought of herself as the panicking type--or so she preferred to believe. But as she rifled through the drawers of Robert's study, her pulse thudded in her ears like a warning drum. The glow of the late afternoon sun streamed through the blinds, making it hard for her to sift through the papers on Robert's desk. It frustrated her to put in the extra effort.

She didn't need to be here. She had already set things in motion, hadn't she? Robert was about to get his comeuppance. Jack was doing her dirty work, ensuring Robert would finally pay for years of deceit and betrayal. But something about the smug way Robert had looked at her that morning--like a spider with a fly already caught in its web--set her teeth on edge. Could there be something he knew, something he'd uncovered to hurt her as well? He was a clever bastard, being a lawyer, after all.

Brenda yanked open the bottom drawer, her heart sinking when she saw a thick manila folder labeled, 'Gold Holdings and Shipping--Confidential.' She pulled it out, her fingers trembling slightly as she flipped it open.

Inside were spreadsheets, correspondence, and--her blood ran cold--a detailed timeline of the merger she'd orchestrated. It was all there--inflated net-worth valuations, falsified balance sheets, and even memos with her initials at the bottom detailing how the assets would be siphoned off into offshore accounts. How the hell did he find those?

Then came the final nail in her coffin--a photograph of her standing outside her father's company, engaging in conversation with a mobster she played both sides with, a man who would later be indicted for securities fraud.

She sank into Robert's leather chair, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Robert, that bastard, knew. He knew everything. This wasn't just about gathering dirt on him for the divorce; this was a counterattack. A chess game she hadn't even realized she was playing--and he was already three moves ahead.

"Damn, you. Damn you... to hell! Robert!" she screamed into the empty room. It didn't help ease her anxiety.

Her mind raced. If Robert had this, she knew damn well he wouldn't go down alone. He could pin it all on her, claiming she'd manipulated him and lied to him. The thought of prison loomed in her mind, a cold, dark abyss she couldn't let herself fall into.

Suddenly, the study door creaked open. Brenda shot to her feet, clutching the folder to her chest.

"Mrs. Muller," her maid said hesitantly, sensing her anxiety, "Herr Slater just called for you. He said he was meeting your husband tonight. At Nat Sherman's on Forty-second Street. Are you planning to meet them? Shall I prepare some party clothes?"

Brenda froze. Jack, dammit. His plan, if it succeeded, would send her to prison or, worse, get them killed if Robert squealed to the mob. She had played fast and loose... screwed the golden goose thinking she could play Robert against the mob and send them both up the river. Fucking Robert's meddling with a well-crafted plan.

"Jack Slater PI, you ass, you don't know what you're about to screw up!"Brenda hissed under her breath.

If Robert had this much evidence against her, there was no telling what other cards he held--or what he might reveal if Jack pushed him too far. Her carefully crafted plan to frame Robert and walk away with a golden parachute crumbled before her eyes. She had to stop this before it spiraled out of control.

"Thank you, Matilda," she said, turning toward the puzzled maid; it was an unusually clipped remark. "I'll go like this. Have the car brought around quickly. That'll be all."

Matilda left, and Brenda shoved the incriminating documents back into the drawer. She had no choice. Now, she had to warn Jack--not just for his sake but also for her survival.

ROUGH NIGHT, HANDSOME?

Scene Seventeen/

The cigar lounge was a theater of quiet luxury, with velvet armchairs, the hum of light jazz, and the constant haze of blue-gray smoke curling toward dim lights. Its guests enjoyed Cubans and liquor by the glass.

That ambiance shattered when Brenda Muller burst through the members-only door, her heels clicking furiously against the tiled floor. Heads turned, but she didn't care. Her perfectly coiffed hair was slightly askew, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes wild. She quickly spotted a giant bear at a table--Jack Slater. Across from him was her angry-looking husband and... a stunning redhead she instantly recognized as Brandi Wynne. The black-and-white photos Jack had sent didn't do her justice--so damned fuckable.

Jack's brow furrowed the moment he saw Brenda. He stood, breaking the tension between the trio at the table and replacing it with chaos. He met her midway through the lounge, took her by the arm, and pulled her to the side.

"Brenda!" he hissed, his voice low and sharp. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Frantically, she grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. "Jack, you have to stop this! Now! You don't understand--Robert knows everything. He has proof. If you push him tonight, he'll bury us both."

Jack's eyes narrowed. His voice was edgy, "Proof of what?"

Her gaze darted past him, landing on Muller, who was still puffing his cigar. He laughed at something he had just said to Brandi Wynne. Brenda recognized that smug bastard's triumphant, arrogant smile. He had just beaten someone again. Whatever his words had been, the redhead's face paled, mirroring her own as Wynne's mouth dropped open, and she pushed back in her chair.

Brenda's color turned ashen as her nostrils flared in fear. Her mouth had that catfish look. Caught, her lips opened and closed, searching for words. None came to rescue her from a web of lies and deceit she had sown.

Jack's hands tightened on her arms as realization hit. "You want me to let him walk to save your neck, right?"

Those big paws shook her. It brought Brenda's gaze back to meet his. Before she could respond, Robert Muller, Esq., cigar in hand, swaggered toward them. That swagger set Jack's teeth on edge. The contract dangled from his other hand like a prize he was ready to claim.

"Well, well," Muller said, smirking. His narrow, beady eyes shifted between the pair, sizing up the situation. The barrister smirked as he figured it out.

"If it isn't my dear wife. Let me guess, Slater--your client, and she rushed here to stop you before it was too late? Hilarious. Sweetheart, the horse is out of the barn--long gone from the stables.

"I've got to admit, Slater, for a few moments, I figured you for a mobster as big as you are. But it clicked when my wife walked in, and you flew to her like a pet canary. Not a mobster, just a low-life private dick."

He took a long pull on his Cuban, savoring the moment. "Tell me, Slater, did she let you in on the grand plan?" His words sounded like lemon zest being grated for a bar drink.

"No? How rude of her."

"Then let me fill you in, detective. Brenda here cooked the books, not just to frame me. Oh no! She wanted to rip off dear old Daddy's company--settling for a divorce wouldn't stroke her ego enough. She was stupid enough to invite the mob into it as a cover-up scheme. And I've got the documents to prove it, along with a photo of the mob boss and her sealing the deal. Yeah, dick, she's up to her pretty petty neck with the mob in this one."

Jack's head snapped toward Brenda, whose wide eyes betrayed her guilt. She looked down, unable to meet his gaze.

"So that's it," Jack said, his voice cold as the icy waters running in the bay.

"You wanted the whole enchilada: the divorce, your philandering husband in jail, and... your father involved so you'd get the company. And what about the mob connection... think they aren't going to be fitting you for concrete shoes when they find out you screwed them, too?"

"Bravo, Slater," Muller said, clapping slowly.

"Now you're catching on, Jack. She played you like a fiddle, just like she's been playing me. But tonight? Tonight, she overplayed her hand. It's all in the open here, gone in thick Cuban smoke. The irony, am I right?"

Grinning, he tossed the contract to Jack with a flourish. It brought out a chuckle from a couple standing nearby watching the entertainment, watching the handsome, slick barrister putting the screws to a grizzly bear in a crowded room.

"Here's your big deal--it's worth less than the ink it's printed on. My collection of documents beats this fine piece of enticement. Nice work, though. It looks like it had a woman's touch. She's a smart one, I'll give her that. Maybe the dame should've pursued a career in law instead of fraud."

A ripple of applause from the amused guests echoed through the lounge. Was it for the jazz band or the drama scene in the middle of the room?

Muller turned back toward the table. He had a few more choice words for the redhead. Words to put the fear of the mob into her soul, but his smirk faded as he realized Brandi's chair was empty. The redhead had slipped away during his tirade, vanishing like a wisp of smoke.

"Well, what do you know," Muller said with a dry chuckle. "A disappearing minx."

"My guess? She's already on the run. Watch your back, Slater. The mob doesn't take kindly to double-crossers."

Muller set his cigar in an ashtray, nodded to the bartender, and turned to leave. "I'll see you at home, Brenda--if you're smart enough to show up. Right now, it's the safest place for you to be. I'll work out something... Your father doesn't have to know about this... little indiscretion." He strolled out like a banty rooster without looking back.

Brenda cast one final, miserable glance at Jack before following Muller like a sad Chihuahua with its tail between its legs. Jack didn't stop the shrew; he just stood there with his fists clenched. The angry detective turned to stare at the spot where Brandi Wynne's shadow had been. A perfect plan went up in smoke: outsmarted by a millionairess shrew, her conniving philandering husband, and a minx after her riches. Both dames outwitted Slater the same night, his dreams of a big payday having gone up in smoke.

A gentle touch on his sleeve made him flinch. His hand instinctively moved toward his holstered forty-five, but he stopped short, looking down. The enticing Cuban waitress with the red flower in her hair and a silver tray smiled up at him.

"Rough night, handsome?" she purred, rolling her 'R' in that silky, Spanish way.

Jack managed a dry chuckle. "You could say that."

"Would the gentleman prefer a Montecristo or maybe a Romeo y Julieta? On the house, considering how your day just ended. I finish my rounds at midnight. Caballero could use some company?"

Her voice was a sweet promise as she clipped the tip of the cigar with a golden cutter and handed it to him. Raising her hand to her lips in a drinking motion, the Cuban beauty signaled to the bartender to bring the uneasy detective something stronger than black coffee.

The bartender, possessing a dark sense of humor, poured a Sidecar.

Meanwhile, Jack lit the Montecristo, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. He stared at the drink, chuckling softly--not at the drink itself, but at how skillfully two women had played him. It would vanish in three swallows, like Brandi Wynne, riding on the wind or trying to swim in the bay with cement shoes before long. Jack washed that thought away with a gulp instead, wagering she'd be in Florida sipping fresh orange juice, looking for another sidecar to latch onto. She was, after all, resourceful.

He mused, staring into the empty glass, "Ashley, babe, you just got a compliment from a slick shyster on your well-crafted snare. The two of you may be crossing paths again in Albany."

With a snicker, he added, raising the empty sidecar glass and nodding to the barkeep,"Let's see who gets the better of the other there."

________________

The funny thing about a minx like Brandi is that they don't just walk into your life; they saunter in, draped in trouble, and are just as quick to disappear into the shadows. Looking back, Slater should've known better when he saw her in that devil-red dress, lighting up the joint like a Roman candle. But, as Slater found out, again, hindsight's a lousy drinking buddy--it always knows more than the guy holding the glass.

The amusing aspect of hindsight is that it doesn't prevent you from repeating the same mistakes.

But tonight?

Tonight, Jack Slater, private investigator, would settle for a stiff drink and a shadowy corner, his eyes flicking to his Timex as midnight creeps closer. When the dream of a lady on a hill, curly-haired kids, and a tail-chasing mutt slips through your fingers, you make do with what's left--a smoking Cuban, smooth and smoldering, with a red flower in her hair.

THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING MINX

Thanks for reading this noir tale about Jack Slater and the dames who light up--and complicate--his life in the 1930s. I'd love to hear your thoughts on whether you enjoyed the story (or not). If you have a moment, please give it a star rating and leave a comment. Your important feedback keeps the story alive and sharpens the next case.