The astute reader will see some apparent inconsistencies between the implied era of the story and other cultural references. C'est la vie!
*****
My name is Dick. I am a dick and I got one. A trifecta, if you will. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Dick Taggart, Private Investigator. At least that's what the sign on the door says. Mostly, I track down cheating wives and husbands and some insurance fraud. I have made the news for some high profile cases I helped the police with, but that's an uneasy alliance on account of the questionable terms on which I left the force.
Life's been good. I get around, live on my own terms as much as a guy can, and enjoy some pleasures.
That covers my name and occupation. My possession? That's the subject of this story, if you know what I mean. Well, it kinda starts with that but my heart takes a big glorious tumble in the meantime.
*~*~*~
Sometimes, the sun can hit you like a ton of bricks. But not like this dame. She was more like a structure made out of bricks, if you know what I mean.
I'd seen her around town; a couple of speakeasies, a dance hall. Sweetest face you ever laid eyes on and legs you'd never take your eyes off. Always tending to that scumbag too. How'd a babe like that end up as a mob moll, anyway? No matter. Somehow, the dame got my number. And she dialed it hard.
It was a slow, hot day in the office. Rita was filing papers and sorting my overdue bills and I was chasing after bums who weren't paying me. Rita was a sheba who just happened to be my secretary. She's a great doll, putting up with a lot of my shenanigans over the last few years and always lookin' out for me. Pretty good with a pistol too, but she never got her hands on mine. I always had a thing for her, but I ain't no sheikh and she seemed to have no end of daddies knocking at her door. Plus, we had to work together.
When Rita brought the dame into the office I saw her roll her eyes and wink at me. Rita knew my soft spots and this doll made them all firm up.
"Michelle Matlin, Dick Taggart," Rita introduced us and left.
Michelle extended her gloved hand and even through the fabric I could sense the suppleness of her skin.
"Mr. Taggart, thank you for seeing me."
"A pleasure...Mrs.? Matlin."
"It is 'Miss', thank you. But call me Michelle, please."
She cut a fine form in the pencil skirt, silk blouse and perfectly seamed stockings and my soft spots were being worked over like a mark after payday.
She sat herself down, surprisingly unsure of herself in this setting. She had a sad look in her eyes that'd put Bambi to shame, but she didn't take them off me.
"Mr. Taggart, I know we've seen each other around town. I know what you probably think, but you'd be wrong."
"Mostly, anyway."
She just kept dialin' that number.
"Call me Dick, Michelle."
Did she just blush a bit?
"Knuckles and I aren't involved romantically," she continued. "He's married and I am his platonic escort. I guess I look good on his arm." She lifted her shapely right leg over the left.
"He looks after me, gives me a place, but I still work. I just need to accompany him sometimes. Well, frequently."
A flick of her hair away from her face.
I wasn't sure I wanted in on this action, but the month had been slower than the afternoon newsboy, so I let her continue.
"I don't get involved in his business but I see and hear some things. I am getting concerned about a new venture. I think it is very bad and I don't want to see it continue. A lot of good people are going to get hurt."
Her full, round hazel eyes pierced into mine, with a glimmer of pleading.
I'm accustomed to having to do all the work with the skirts I chase. Why did it seem like I was the one being worked now?
*~*~*~
Michelle Matlin grew up in an average family and lived an average life. She'd had a number of suitors but they failed to keep her interest. She had met Knuckles when she was working part-time as a waitress while in college. Her mistake was asking him for help when she ran into some money problems. This left her beholden to him, at least in his eyes, and that was how she got into the lifestyle she was now immersed in.
Now, it would be a mistake to think she was unhappy about the whole situation. Knuckles' generosity gave her a great deal of freedom. But, despite her flamboyant lifestyle, Michelle was lonely. Women despised her for being a slut. Men feared the repercussions of crossing Knuckles by approaching his woman.
She had seen Dick at a couple of clubs, even exchanged words casually. He seemed at ease, despite the apparent threat of Knuckles. Even the waitresses at the club were appreciative that he was a solid, standup guy when she made discrete inquiries.
"I don't know what it is with Rita and
why SHE hasn't latched onto him."
Michelle began to think. "Maybe, I can work both my problems with one solution."
*~*~*~
"How do I fit in the picture, toots?" I asked.
She giggled at the vague endearment. "Well, I am wondering if you'd be willing to do some checking and get some evidence if I'm right."
She reached out and touched my hand. "I really need your help and by everything I can see, you're a good and solid man. The kind that knows how to look after a lady."
She blushed again at just how much she'd given away.
I didn't miss the cue at all and neither did my namesake, evident from the twitch in my trousers. But I kept my cool, barely.
"You're asking a lot, toots. I've tussled with some tough guys and come out on top, but going after Knuckles is another ball game," I replied.
"Please Dick. I really don't want to keep up this life and I am getting a bit scared."
She now stood and came close to me. Was that my heart or hers beating on my chest?
