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She walked into my office as if she owned the place. Since I'd never met the landlord, it was entirely possible. She had red hair, a red dress, and for some reason was wearing one of those red hoods they used to wear while riding horses. I cannot remember what they were called, but it was red, too.
I was going to offer her a chair, but it seemed an inappropriate gift upon a first meeting. She had legs like a bassoon. They looked real nice, but when you blew into them they made a funny sound.
I put my bottle away in its drawer and gave her my best smile. From the look on her face, it wasn't the proper gift either.
"You Mac Thompson?" she asked, sitting down as if my chairs hadn't been de-loused just last month. I guessed she wasn't the ladlord. The landlord might have figured Mac Thompson would be the one and only person sitting behind Mac Thompson's desk.
"Yes," I said, deciding that insulting her intelligence might mean even less of a chance of sleeping with her. What can I say? I'm a hopeless romantic.
"The Private Detective?"
Now, there are only four words on the window of my office door. Two are my name, two are "Private Detective." There was a colon on there, too, but I'll let you guess its placement. The red-headed chick in the funny hood for riding was not going to win the Nobel Prize any time soon. I was getting a hard-on. Like I said, I'm a romantic.
"Yes," I said. She stared at me. "I want to sleep with you." She continued to stare.
Her head seemed of normal size. Her breasts were another matter. They looked like they could invade Russia in winter.
"Can I help you in some way?"
"I don't know," she replied. "That is, I'm not sure."
"Why don't you walk out of the office and when you figure it out, you can come back in? I promise to watch your legs and buttocks. Now, scootch. I'm drinking."
She actually walked back out. I was pleased on several levels. A skyscraper full of pleasing levels.
I figured out what all of her brain cells were doing when not asking complicated questions. She moved as if she contained an extra dozen muscles. That takes a lot of concentration, I'm sure.
She walked back in before I could finish enjoying her absense.
"I still don't know if you can help me," she said, smiling for the first time. She must appreciate being confused. "Some guy's following me around."
I gave her a stern look. That present was apparently acceptable, because she smiled again. A woman that likes a stern look. I was beginning to feel lucky. I have a closet full of stern looks collecting dust back home. "Ex-boyfriend?"
She was shocked. "How'd you know?"
"I'm psychic. Go ahead, read my mind."
I'm not averse to a woman being promiscuous, but this chick was too easy. She practically crossed her eyes concentrating in my direction. I was right about what she usually used her gray matter for. She started swaying back and forth and almost toppled when her concentration reached its peak.
"Was it good for you, too?" I asked, lighting a cigarette.
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(To be continued at another time)