Mickey Spillane contest - Rex Harrison PI
Rex Harrison PI saves the Gold Digger
The few unbroken lights cast asylum shadows in the corridor of the musty-smelling hallway. Severely worn and threadbare, the carpet barely padded the footsteps of the spit-shined shoes as the man walked unhurriedly down the hallway. The aged and torn wallpaper projected fingerlike into the space, and walking down it, one unconsciously tended to stay in the middle of the hallway. His unbuttoned aging trench coat flowed with each step opening, displaying his out-of-style grey suit. The knotted but pulled-down tie on his open-collared white shirt and his rakishly angled fedora rounded out his attire. Arriving at his destination, a door, half opaque glass not allowing one to see what was inside, he deftly inserted the key. The neat lettering on the door read Rex Harrison Private Investigator.
The door swung open with a slight squeak to reveal the room's contents. A desk faced the door, two chairs in front of it and backed by a bay of grimy windows. The inbox on one side was decidedly devoid of papers, and on the other side was a rotary phone with a cylindrical pen holder, one lonely pen, and a pad. A banker's lamp dominated the center of the desk, but beyond that, it was devoid of decoration or ornamentation. A free-standing coat rack was to the rear right of the desk in front of the windows, and a set of low bookshelves, strewn haphazardly with papers, was directly behind the desk. The back of the swivel chair stood behind the desk sideways, left as the last inhabitant had left it by simply turning and rising. The same dingy and worn carpeting covered the floor as in the hallway.
To the right was a smaller desk that was neatly arranged and seemed out of place, having pictures and all the accouterments female juxtaposed to the decidedly male sterility of the desk he placed his briefcase on. The profound musty smell of the corridor was replaced with a weak floral scent, oddly feminine but not powerful enough to overcome the decidedly unkempt odor of the musty hall. Again there was a free-standing coat rack beside the desk to the rear with bookshelves neatly organized. A small filing cabinet of two drawers sat beside the desk.
Rex removed his trench coat and hung it on the coat rack, placing his fedora on top. Then he doffed his jacket, revealing the shoulder holster holding the 1911 45 caliber pistol he carried throughout the war. It had gotten him through many scrapes, and Rex would go nowhere without it. Sitting, he opened the lower left drawer of his desk and pulled out his bottle of Jack Daniels. The government banned whiskey production from 1942-1946 because of the war. That didn't affect him because he was too busy fighting and trying to stay alive. They had resumed production, and he needed his morning eye-opener.
He poured two fingers into a glass he couldn't remember the last time he had washed. Helen, his secretary, would occasionally sneak it out to clean, and he silently thanked her as he took a large pull from the glass. His watch told him she would soon arrive and, because the business had been slow, had determined to look busy. As blunt and dower as he was, he enjoyed her feminine presence and wanted to keep her around. The war had taken a lot out of him, especially empathy, and he knew the violence and horror that his so-called fellow humans could perpetrate. He also knew that no one was exempt and drained the glass attempting to dispel the memories of what he had done.
He replaced the bottle and glass, the scent of the whiskey lingering in his nose. The warmth it gives had begun to envelop him when the door opened, and Helen entered. She was a lovely dame, about five-foot-three. Her blond hair shone in Pin-Up Victory Rolls that accentuated her long neck wrapped in a pearl necklace. There wasn't much need for makeup. A touch of blush emphasized her high cheekbones, nearly mandatory red lipstick, and the most beautiful and inviting smile he could imagine was all she needed. Her breasts were not big but not small either. They seemed exactly right for her body, which was slim with curves that could tempt a vicar. Her button-front dress was low cut enough to give a hint of cleavage, hugged her body, and ended modestly just below her knees.
"Good morning, Rex," she said, in that sing-song voice he loved so much, but his masculinity kept him from ever saying.
"Morning," he replied, trying not to sound too overjoyed.
She also hung her coat on the coat rack by her desk and turned to Rex, "Coffee?" she asked pleasantly.
"Sure," he nodded.
Down the hall was a small communal breakroom with a coffee maker, and she dutifully took two cups from her desk, which she had meticulously washed the day before, leaving to fetch the coffee. He never cleaned his coffee cup. Disgusted, she had taken on the task.
Rex sighed, a bit worried about the business. Last month had been sterling, but this month was slow. Helen soon returned, and the rich scent of the coffee blend mixed with the sweet floral scent of her perfume overpowered the musty smell of the hallway. She placed his cup on his desk and smiled shyly, breaking eye contact. Returning to her desk, while blowing on her cup, she took her seat.
Rex was confused by her. Helen was progressive, a modern dame. She was smart, a college graduate, and she worked. Although Rosie the Riveter was a big thing during the war, the reality was that most women were more concerned with finding a husband than a job. At the same time, she was a bit old-fashioned. She wore her skirt and dress length below the knee, didn't smoke, and did those things like get coffee and wash his whiskey glass without being asked.
The rich smell of the black coffee perked him up as he blew to cool it and then took a careful sip. He had gotten used to drinking black coffee during the war. Finding milk and sugar while in the field was somewhat of a task. Hell, any sip could be your last, so you took things where and how you could find them. He set the steaming brew down and picked up his phone. Quickly dialing on the rotary phone, he heard it ring once, twice, and then pick up.
"Hello, Cohen's Diamond Exchange. How may I help you?" came the female's pleasant greeting tinged with a slight Brooklyn accent.
"Hi, Sol Cohen, please," he replied.
"May I ask who is calling," she asked.
"Rex Harrison," he said.
"Oh, hi, Rex," she replied.
She must have placed her hand or tried to put her hand over the phone to prevent him from hearing, as most do.
She was only partially successful because he heard her say in the most atrocious Brooklyn accent, "Hey Vinnay, go git Sol, Rexsis on da line." Then she removed her hand and said, in the most pleasant tones with just the tiniest of accents, "He will be right with you, Rex."
Her name was Rebecca was from Brooklyn and was Sol's sister. He had to chuckle every time he heard this transformation as her carefully cultivated voice, almost devoid of accent that helped her bypass the antisemitism of Wellesley, slipped back into her native tongue.
"Hi Rex, what can I do for you?" came the familiar voice of his friend Sol.
Sol and Rex had fought together through most of the war, fighting Nazis in North Africa, Sicily, and the Italian campaign. Luckily for Sol and Rex, they had not run across any concentration camps. When they showed pictures and a newsreel to the troops about it, he witnessed the only time he ever saw Sol cry. Sol's family was one of the diamond merchants in New York, and he could have easily exempted himself from the military, and apparently, his family had tried to get him to. He had volunteered. Both Rex and Sol were officers moving up quickly because of losses.
"Hey, you have any requirements?" Rex asked.
This was the code they used which meant, do you have any short-term openings? This could be something as simple as a bodyguard for a shipment or investigating fraud. Sol didn't need him for any of it, but when you counted the number of times each had saved the other's life, you did what you could.
"Sorry, Rex, I got nothing today. Maybe, tomorrow?" he replied.
"Thanks," Rex replied, not surprised or resenting the answer.
Rex stole a glance at Helen, who was looking at him, a sad expression on her face. Seeing him look, she quickly dropped her eyes. Rex knew that Helen knew what he was doing. Frankly, he was amazed she stayed with him. As a college grad, she could have gotten a job anywhere for much more than Rex could pay her. He figured it was just because he had given her her first job. She was old-fashioned and loyal.
At about 11:00, after making a couple more calls, Rex came as close to praying as he had since the war. Suddenly, the doorknob turned, and a broad strolled confidently into the office, closing the door behind her. Rex kept his head down, scribbling on the pad to look busy while Helen went to work.
"May I help you?" she said in a very professional tone.
The woman rudely never looked at Helen and stared at Rex.
"I need to speak to Rex Harrison," she said coldly.
Her demeanor and tone offended Helen, and she replied just as coldly, "May I inquire as to what this is about?"
"No, little girl, that is between Mr. Harrison and me. Kindly tell him I want to speak to him," she said dismissively, not hiding her obvious irritation.
Her tone was so cold you could almost see her breath like on a cold New York winter day. Helen glared at the woman and rose quickly, going a couple of steps to Rex's desk. This, of course, was silly but part of the game. She put her left hand on the desk, leaned over, and whispered in Rex's ear. He whispered back, and Helen took her time returning to her desk, seating herself before speaking to the woman.
