It had been a slow week when she walked into the office, a real slow week. I was kicked back in my chair, Air Jordans up on the desk, wondering if LA was ever gonna get another goddamn football team. Then I saw her limo pull up. Before my lazy-ass secretary even pointed her in my direction, I knew this was the big score, the case of the year. See I'm Slim Shady, private eye.
The woman opened my door and closed it behind her. Man, she was smooth. Turning down the blinds on the door, she looked up all hot and sexy from behind a floppy hat. Tweed and miniskirts never looked so good. Hmm-hmm, tits to die for and legs that wouldn't quit. But that hat was gawd awful.
I struggled to think of where I'd seen her before. She looked like the long lost child of Humphrey Bogart and Jessica Rabbit. Maybe she was on the cover of Vogue last week. It was gonna come to me, I never forget a pretty rack.
"Can I help you, ma'am?" That's my sweetest voice. I always try to make a good first impression, it was my mother's upbringing.
"I don' know, fella. You Slim Shady?" She had this fake London accent thing going, but I saw right through it.
"I'm the real Shady. Mind if I don't stand up?"
She smirked a bit and that's when I recognized her. "I wouldn't expect you to. Are you a dick?"
"Do you need one?"
"I've had several, I just wanted a good one."
She had me at 'dick.' I'd seen her on MTV, but she never usually wore this much. She smelled sweet too. Man, I had to land this case.
"Well, I'm the best. Those others are just imitators, yada fuckin' yada. So, you wanna a drink?"
"Does the Pope hate Sinead O'Conner?" I pointed at the corner where my cheap whiskey sat. She looked at me like I was a fuckin' idiot, but she went over and poured herself one anyway. That gave me a chance to look at that ass. My god, yoga was doin' it for this broad.
She downed her first glass and leaned back against the cabinet fingering her second. "I want you to find something for me."
"Piece of cake. How much is it worth to ya?" I figured if she'd had several other PI's looking for it, this might be the taco bell grande paycheck.
She shrugged and stuck her finger into the drink to stir it. "Aww, are you all about the benjamins, luv?"
"You ain't into material, girl?" I was crackin' myself up. "Nice limo for a shanti broad."
She looked at me like I was Tattoo from Fantasy fuckin' Island dunkin' a ball on fuckin' Shaq. I was feelin' no love. "How much will you run me?"
"Oh, I can be had for $500 a day plus expenses."
"Good, I thought I was going to have to fuck you."
I gulped. Damn. I didn't know that was a payment option. "Of course, I could be rented as well..."
She smiled. "Will you do it?"
"Fuck you?"
"Find something for me."
"Depends on what you've lost." I couldn't believe I was make a play for fuckin' weirdass Rodman's sloppy seconds, and even more unbelievable was that she didn't seem to be giving it up that easy.
"A tape."
"Scotch or duct?"
She stared at me to see if I was serious. Unfortunately, I was. "A video, you moron. I need it back."
I flashed my best innocent look at her. "That sounds easy. Where'd you lose it?"
"My husband threw it out. The goddamn paparazzi got it and sold it to someone. I want it back."
I read somewhere that she'd married some geeky British director. Probably trying to revive her movie career. What little she had. The best thing she ever did on screen was "Reservoir Dogs" and she wasn't even in it. I bet she even sent little Quim Tarantino roses for finally explaining that virgin song.
"What's on it?" I had to shift my Jordans to see her expression. I was being reeled in.
"What do you think?"
Now I got a great imagination, but I didn't have much patience for imagination games at this point. "You fuckin' Clinton in a kiddy pool on the West Lawn. See, I'd sell it and say it was stole outa your safe or something."
She smiled again. "I never fucked Bill, and Hillary wouldn't let me tape her for political reasons. You gonna do it or not?"
"Any idea who bought it?" I was trying to figure out in my head how I'd up my price. I'm always thinkin'.
"Tabloids were all offered a piece, but it was sold to an exclusive buyer. Here in Los Angeles. I didn't get the name from the photographer who sold it before he turns up dead with his balls in his mouth."
Bingo. That raised the ante. "Five hundred thousand I find it. Two fifty even if I don't."
She scrunched her nose. "Nothing if you don't find it. I'll fuck you if you do. Then I'll tell you what you're worth."
With that, I was on the case.
**********************************************
"Open the fuck up, Dre. We got shit to do." I banged on the door for the third time. The ZZ Top-looking whino slumped down the hall gave me the 'shush' finger. These shit-hole cabanas were becoming a fuckin' zoo.
Door opens and there's Dre's man, Snoopy Dog-Dog. I can't even see his eyes for the smoke whizzin' around his head like Pig-Pen.
"You owe me 50 bucks," I told him as I walked past looking for the good doctor.
"I know, I done told you I'd get you the bread when I get it. Gaddamn. C'mon, loosen up un izzle the shizzle dizzle?"
I turned back around and looked in his squinty eyes. "What da fuck did you just say? Is that English?"
He started giggling and wandered off to find some Cheetos. Snoopy hadn't been the same since he was busted for tax evasion. For three years the man had cash rollin' in by the buckets from some online site selling masturbation hand lotion called "Dog Pound." Guess he figured Internet money don't make no taxes.
I found Dre in front of the big screen where I left him last week. His real name was Andre but he shot a guy for callin' him that once. Hit him in the nut too. Dre had been a doctor in Compton until he got kicked out for being too generous with the drugs. What kind of fucked up country is it where a doctor can't even make a brother feel better, he was always sayin'. He even wrote up a medical paper once on Chronic Lazy Syndrome, but some white dude changed the name to fatigue and took all the fuckin' credit. He had connections though and a hella way with the ladies. Like Rosie.
"Hey Dre, you don't hear me knock anymore? Hey Rosie." Rosie was three teeth deep on Dre's cock but managed to wink at me with her eyebrows. Dre had one hand steadying her head so she wouldn't lift up too much and the other on the remote.
"What, you think I'd be disrespectful to Rosie like that? Get up and get the door to let your ass in?" Dre had a way with logic. He was smart, no doubt. "Look at this ho, don't she look like she'd fuck you raw?"
I thought he meant Rosie and I nodded in agreement, but he was pointing at the big screen. I turned to see the old sex talk lady stroking a tie-dyed dildo and talking about lubrication choices. "You mean Grandma Erectile Dysfunction? You're drunk."
"Shit, yeah. She'd probably do things to you make you holler mama. Wrinkled old hands and shit. That's extra motion for the lotion."
"Yeah, well, let Snoopy fuck her then. We got stuff to do." I kicked his leg to indicate how serious I was.
Dre looked up. "What are you all uptight about, Mr. Jerry Fuckin' Falwell? Shit, what happened to your hair?"
Sven had fucked up my hair no doubt. I looked like Jim Carrey from Dumb and Dumber. But a real puke blonde. If he hadn't been a fag I woulda punched him in his mouth. It was a damn sucky haircut for seventy-five dollars, but I did get a scalp massage for free. I shrugged and told him I didn't want to talk about it.
"Damn cuz, you're gonna be in therapy you keep going to Sunset for a do, man. Let me hook you up with a sister I know, give you a blowjob and a trim just ten bucks."
"C'mon, Dre. We've gotta job, a big one. Pronto, man, pronto. Excuse me, Rosie, but can you go a little Speedy Gonzalez on him? I'll be in the car." I almost knocked over ZZ's paper bag on the way down the hall, I was so mad. Maybe it was the haircut after all.
**************************************************
"OK, turn in here." Dre pointed to the Italian place on the corner. "So did she say she was gonna fuck you or did she just give you that Brittany Spears look? Like she's gonna tease you till you blow spam and call it a lay. Go round back."
"She said I had to find the tape and I was in like Anne Boleyn. You gonna talk to the Ape?"
"Yeah, he's gonna know who bought that tape. Plus, he owes me one. I got him laid last month, remember?"
The Ape was from Queens or some shit, real mob job. All the Italians called him Bo-Bo, but Ape fit him better. He weighed at least 450. Legend had it two years ago he killed a hooker in a sixty nine. Just suffocated her. I heard later she's just paralyzed a little, but none of the usual broads will do him now. Still, Dre knows people that can hook a fella up.
We found him two-fistin' calzones by the bust of John Paul. Chitchat not being his forte, he told us to go fuck ourselves. But Dre reminded him of Lulu, his long lost love, and he sang like a bird. Even ordered us a Chianti, which tasted like shit. Before long we were headed for the hills.
"What you think of his story?" I was sure that nobody named Bo-Bo could be taken seriously, it's a matter of principle.