Dirk Saber P I Jane Russell

With all my finely tuned deductive skills, I didn't see it coming. Blindsided by your partner is the worst feeling a detective can have. At least the worst feeling this detective ever experienced. Good thing I'm hardboiled, thick skinned, and tough as nails... Where's my box of Puffs?

As I wrote the final paycheck to Samantha Watson, my mind revisited the last case we worked together. It was abnormally hot for May. Surveillance apparel reduced to shorts and tee shirts. Insurance fraud was the case of the day. The suspect, Douglas Meeks, collected a hefty settlement for supposedly falling off a ladder that he set up in a snow bank to remove ice from a roof. His injury so severe, he'd never walk again without a cane. We were hired by his disbelieving ex-employer to find out if this 26 year-old former bodybuilder was faking. After six months on the dole, Meeks hadn't lost an ounce of muscle or gained an ounce of fat. Sam and I were tasked with finding out how such a miracle was possible.

"I'm sick of waiting," said Sam, as we sat in my Odyssey, oven roasting. "We need to get proactive."

Patience was not one of her virtues.

"What do you have in mind?"

"He's just sitting there doing nothing. I'm going to motivate him."

Staring through binoculars at Meeks on the park bench, I said, "How do you propose to do that?"

"I'll jog up, give him a smile and a wink, and tell him I wish he could run with me."

"That won't work. No one is going to blow a fortune just to run."

She smiled with that 'wanna bet' arrogance I'd come to respect and resist.

"We'll see. Get ready to take pictures," she said, as she exited the vehicle and jogged across the street to the park. Stopping at the trailhead, she began stretching in front of Meeks.

Through the camera's telephoto lens, I watched her smile at him. They chatted a few minutes. Unfortunately lip reading is not one of my skill sets.

Meeks seemed interested, and she returned his attention with smiles, laughs, and, I assumed, enticing banter. Samantha pointed at his cane and probably made a comment about him being an invalid. He responded by removing his tee-shirt, and flexing his chiseled physique. Then he pointed at her and said something that made her laugh. She gripped the bottom of her tee-shirt, pulled it up to the bottom of her breasts, and stopped. Sticking out her tongue, Sam turned away, ran down the jogging trail with her ponytail waving like a golden tassel, and disappeared into the woods.

Meeks frowned, obviously disappointed, and uttered one identifiable silent expletive, 'Fuck'. He looked north, south, east, and west. Then he stood up without the help of his cane. He grabbed it, and ran after Sam like a defensive back rushing for a sack. As I flipped through my camera's digital memory, documenting his miracle recovery, I had to admit that Sam is a great motivator for physical exertion.

Because I am familiar with this park, I know the trail loops around like an 800 meter track. After five minutes elapsed without Sam reappearing, I got anxious. Anxious enough to want to test my own 800 meter speed. After I'd jogged 200 meters down the trail, the sound of faint groans stopped me in my tracks. A patch of weeds on the left appeared to have been recently parted, so I veered off the beaten path and followed the signs into a thick stand of trees. That's when I discovered this was really the beaten path. Because there was Meeks, beaten and bloody, and there was Samantha, sitting on him and tying his hands behind his back with his own shoelaces.

She looked up when she heard my stealthy, weed rustling, heavy panting approach.

"About time you showed up." Scratches on her neck and a ripped tee-shirt clued me in on the fact I missed seeing her ninja skills in action again. Damn it!

Immediately I pulled out my cellphone and, while dialing 911, said to Sam with heartfelt concern for her welfare, "I guess we can add assault charges along with insurance fraud. Tell me you broke his leg or crushed his balls. Give me some details."

When Sam laughed I knew she wasn't traumatized. "No, but I'll do it now if you want to watch."

"No! Get this crazy bitch the fuck away from me!" yelled Meeks.

"Pussy." Sam pushed his face into the dirt, before getting off his back.

She was pumped! If I played my cards right, adrenalin sex was in my future.

I grabbed his python-thick arm and pulled him to his feet. "You're lucky I'm in a hurry, or I'd turn her loose for round two."

Still a little weak-kneed, we had to steady him from both sides and guide him back to the park bench. The police arrived promptly. Statements were taken. I had the pleasure of listening to Sam show and tell her account step by step all the way back to the weeds. She said Meeks surprised her from behind, and dragged her into the woods. He made his mistake when he told her to be quiet and he wouldn't hurt her. Then pushed her down, thinking he'd have no problem with domination. Oops. His bad. Her mad. Me glad. Little known fact, kicks to the head are the number one cause of concussions for shitheads.

As the cops drove off with Meeks, I put my arm around Sam's shoulders, and said, "Great work partner. I'm glad you're okay, but I wish I made it in time to see you kick his ass... or head. Maybe next time."

She broke away, took my hand, and said, "God I'm horny."

I really liked her attitude.

Following her lead, we went back to the scene of the crime, but deeper into the woods. She let go of my hand, pulled off her torn shirt, and threw it on the ground. Next her sports bra and shorts were tossed. Standing in her birthday suit, hands on hips, she said, "What are you waiting for? Get naked!"

Now I'm not a prude, but I'm not into public sex and indecent exposure charges, so I hesitated. My hesitation made her growl and take matters into her own hands. She stepped close, grabbed the waistband of my shorts, yanked down every layer, and grabbed my dick in a no holds barred tug of war. Her free hand reached up, and pulled my head down until our lips smashed together.

"Mmm," she moaned, before her tongue invaded.

Convinced we were headed down the wrong path, I did what every adventurous male does - explore that path. Grabbing her ass with both hands, I lifted, turned, and sat on her discarded tee-shirt with Sam on my lap. The ensuing sweaty groping, kissing, and sucking, soon led to slow insertion, which made us pause a moment in silent reflection. Our foreheads touched. We grinned. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the woodsy womanly scent. A squirrel scolded us from far above, but I cared not what furred or feathered creatures thought. I succumbed to the primal urge to fuck this 21st century beauty in the wilds of a 100 acre, manmade, manicured wilderness. Within us all lives the primitive desire to fornicate like wild animals before returning to our climate controlled, large screen, and on-demand video streaming caves.

Sam leaned back on her arms and lifted her hips, exposing my erection to the tip, and then falling back to hide it. I held her hips on the next rise and pulled her down forcefully. The slap of wet flesh sounded totally natural and unassuming in our surroundings, not. Sam set a pace she liked, so I supported myself on one hand and teased her clit with the other. Her orgasm crested like her personality, explosive. To keep relatively quiet, she sat up, wrapped her arms around me, and mewed her release into my mouth. Her hips lost cadence, as spasm after spasm squeezed me into my own release.

Afterwards, we sat coupled, grinning in natural satisfaction. Soon, my shrinkage made Sam itch, so we separated.

I took off my shirt, and said, "Here, put this on. Yours looks a little incriminating," and it did. Not only was her tee-shirt torn, but now it sported a creamy stain where we sat.

"Thanks. You're such a gentleman." She slipped it on, and it fit her like a dress.

I pulled on my shorts.

She picked up her shorts, panties and bra, and carried them back to the van, commando. I liked her sense of style.

Driving home in the warm afterglow of sated bliss, feeling life couldn't get any better, Sam changed my mind.

"John, I have good news."

Good news? Uh oh. Sam's pregnant. "Lay it on me. Good news is always welcome."

"I've accepted an awesome job offer in L.A. I'll be working as an investigator for the Jacobs and Lowery law firm."

I glanced at her, put on my happy face disguise, and said, "Wow! That's great, Sam. Tell me about it."

I half listened as she described how she always wanted to move to Los Angeles. Be close to Hollywood. Maybe try to get a part in an action movie. A friend from college offered her a place to stay. I think she said his name was Joe Blowme, or Fred Fuckface. I'm not sure. I was only half listening.

Sam left two days later, telling me to stay in touch, and if I was ever in L.A. she'd show me the sights.

Meeks was arraigned on insurance fraud, but Sam dropped the assault charges. She was too busy in Tinsel Town. Hopefully her beat-down taught him a lesson.

My life returned to pre-Sam status - just me, playing with my Dick in the backyard. No more blond hair in the shower. No more putting the toilet seat down. Well, that's not true. I have always put the seat down to prevent Dick Tracy from thinking it was his big water bowl. No more fighting for covers. No more brawling sex. Only peace and tranquility.

Then the 4th of July rolled around, and the fireworks started.

My small town has a parade. Anyone with a tractor and a hay wagon can participate, just slap the Stars and Stripes on it in a show of patriotism. It's the one time every year I get to play G-man. One of the reasons I'm fascinated with detective stories from the early 20th century is the antique car I inherited from my father, who inherited it from his father. That car is a 1934 Ford Model 730 Deluxe Sedan, also known as a Ford Fordor Deluxe. It is the same model as the "Death Car", the car Bonnie and Clyde drove to their ambush. Coincidentally, my grandfather drove the same model on his honeymoon to Atlantic City. Their trip turned out much better than Bonnie and Clyde's. My grandparents enjoyed their honeymoon so much that Grampa bought a barn-fresh Fordor Deluxe in 1956 and restored it just so they could drive down Memory Lane. Now I cherish it in their memory.

Every 4th of July I put on my zoot suit and fedora. I attach bullet-hole stickers on my Fordor Deluxe, along with my magnetic, Saber P.I. sign - gotta take advantage of free advertising - stick a flag on my hood ornament, and join the parade. Then I imagine I'm FBI agent Melvin Purvis for two hours.

On the north side of town, all the parade floats, fire trucks, and marching bands line up in the Methodist's parking lot and pray for good weather. The town supervisor, in one of his more politically dangerous roles, decides who goes where in line. Sadly, this year I'm stuck behind a hay wagon with a sign that reads 'All-American Western Film Festival: The Outlaw". There's nothing for me to look at except a bunch of loose straw, and I wonder 'what's the point of that?'

Dick Tracy is sitting shotgun with his head out of the window, attracting Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, and 4 H'ers like mice to a cheese tasting. So I'm busy answering their questions. "Is he friendly?" "Can I pet him?" "What's his name?"

A whistle blew, signaling the parade is about to start and the kids scatter. When I turned back behind the wheel the view in front had vastly improved. The hay wagon was no longer empty. Ernestine Jane Geraldine Russel, my favorite pin-up girl from the 40's, better known as Jane Russell, was now lying in the wagon of straw. Okay, it wasn't really Jane Russell, but it was her clone or reincarnation. Reclined, bare shouldered and bare legged, with a six-shooter in her left hand, striking the iconic pose from the movie "Outlaw" that made her a sex symbol. If the dictionary had pictures, it would be the definition of sultry.

'I want her.' That's what Howard Hughes must've thought when he saw her picture hanging on the acting school wall. But nobody that looks like her would be interested in a guy like me. In consolation, for the next five miles, I'd get to daydream of rolling in the hay - or straw in this case - with my fantasy girl.

The parade began to move, and I fought the desire to tailgate. Dick's head hung out the window, nose in the air. I wondered what Janie smelled like. Janie, that's what I would call her in our private moments. I wondered if I hung my head out of the window could I smell her. Sick, I know.

Once the line of marchers moved out of the parking lot and onto the street, a couple of kids walked behind the hay wagon and handed out leaflets. A boy, who looked to be 'Janie's' son ran by my window.

"Hey kid! Can I have one of those?"

"Sure!" He ran alongside and held out a flier. "Cool car mister."

I pointed at the hay wagon, and discreetly asked, "Thanks. Is your mom an actress?"

"Mom?" Puzzled, the boy followed my finger point. "That's not my mom. That's Aunt Becky. Nah, she's not an actress. She's just helping dad with his advertising. "

"She's very pretty. She should be an actress." I took a long shot. "Is your uncle helping too?"

"Huh? Oh, nope. Don't have an uncle. Gotta go. Bye."

'No uncle' was a good start, but it didn't mean unattached. Further investigation was in order. The kid's flier offered some useful information. His dad's newly renovated theater in the city was offering a free soda with the purchase of a medium popcorn. Armed with the name of the theater, it would be easy to find out the owner's name and maybe his sister's last name as well. Was I becoming a stalker? Feeling guilty, I took my eyes off Aunt Becky and began to surveil the roadside crowd for suspicious characters carrying backpacks. Since the Boston marathon bombing, all outdoor events became possible soft targets. I'm naturally paranoid.

Once in a while my eyes would stray back to the wagon for erogenous rejuvenation. I caught flier-boy speaking with Aunt Becky and pointing at me. Shit! The kid probably told her I thought she was pretty.

Aunt Becky smiled at the boy, and then at me! No shit.

They spoke a while. She frowned, waved him away, and he ran back to my window out of breath.

'Shit,' again.

"Hey Mister! Aunt Becky wanted to know what the sign on your car said. I told her you were a private eye, and she wants to talk to you after the parade."

Aw shit! I'd have to act professional. "Okay. I look forward to it," I said, and gave her the thumbs-up through the windshield.

As I pondered my future with Janie, it occurred to me that the women who passed through my life have all entered and exited by way of my occupation. Did it sadden me to think that I had no romantic skills, no appeal to the opposite sex, except for my ability to solve their personal problems? A little. But a man has to rely on his strengths to make it in this world, or in my case, to make it with women in this world. Therefore, if I was ever going to have a long term relationship, I'd have to find a woman with lots of personal problems. Not a very appealing reality. Maybe I needed to watch less Bogart and more Dr. Phil.