Author's Note
Just a short slice of life in the world of Samantha Spade, private eye, for the
Hammered: Ode to Mickey Spillane
challenge. And a tip of the hat to Maonaigh's entry in the previous Spillane Challenge.
* * *
The office of Sam Malone, 10:00 p.m.
It was a rainy night in the city. Nobody in their right mind would be out in this kind of weather. That's what I thought anyway, until I heard the hand rapping at the pebbled glass window of my office door. It was a timid knock, the kind you'd expect from a scared little namby-pamby who's a little light in his loafers, or maybe a dame. But what kind of dame would be out in this squall, I didn't know.
I reached into the desk drawer and pulled out the Smith & Wesson to tuck into my palm just in case it was a ruse. You meet all kinds in this line of work.
"It's unlocked," I holler, "Come on in."
Sure enough it was a dame. And a real looker at that. A bottle blonde for certain, but she wasn't showing any dark roots and she had a dress that looked it was painted on a Vargas pinup. The gal had the figure for it, too. If she were walking down the street on a sunny day instead of standing in the doorway looking like the cousin of a drowned rat, she'd turn more than a few heads, easy.
"You're all wet."
"Mr. Malone?" she said, and paused. She looked me up and down, twice, before she continued.
"You're not Sam Malone," she said, flatly.
"You're right about that, doll." I stood up, casually slipping the .45 in my pocket as I did. I hardly figured I'd need the piece, but I didn't want it out in the open, making her nervous. She looked like she was about ready to drop as it was. "Sam's the name, alright, but it's short for Samantha."
"But it says on the door..."
"Just covering for a friend, that's all. Malone's tracking down some crooks up state."
"Oh." She shivered. Or maybe she choked back a sob, I don't know. The poor gal was soaked to the bone, so any tears that fell from those eyes of hers, they were lost in the raindrops still streaking her cheeks.
"I'll get you a towel." I turned to tug on the middle drawer of the filing cabinet behind me. The one labeled miscellaneous. Rummaging around inside I found Malone's spare shaving kit, stashed behind some old case files. I pulled out a hand towel, ready to pass it to my potential client, when I spied the bottle and two glasses. I smiled. Malone sure was boy scout, I'll give him that. Always prepared.
"Here you go," I said, stepping around to the front of the desk with the towel in my hand.
She dabbed at her face. "Thank you."
I turned my attention back to the filing cabinet drawer with the bottle I'd found. I put an eyeball on the two glasses and they looked pretty clean, so I snatched it all up and plunked the glasses down in the middle of the desk.
"You need a drink," I said. It wasn't a question.
"Thank you, Miss... um..."
"Spade," I said. "Sam Spade."
"Thank you Miss Spade, but I think maybe I should just get right down to business."
"Suit yourself, toots," I said, filling a glass two finger's full from Malone's secret stash of Canadian Club. "But you look about as healthy as a kitten left out in a storm on a sinking ship. Maybe a little something to warm you up?"
I pushed the glass in her direction and watched her struggle with her inhibitions. The desire for a little liquid courage seems to have won out and she reached out to wrap her slender fingers around the glass.
"Here," I said, hustling around to her side of the desk, dragging a side chair with me. "Take a load off. You look like you need it."
She said nothing. Just stood there, clutching the glass of whiskey, and staring down at the toes of those shiny black heels she was wearing.
"Let me get your coat," I said.
She juggled the glass from hand to hand as I helped her slip out of the wet sleeves. "Thank you, Miss Spade," she said.
She managed to get herself seated by the time I hung up her coat and sat hunched forward, staring into the whiskey glass she clutched in both hands.
"Sorry there's no ice," I said. "Smoke?"
She shook her head. "Miss Spade?"
"Yeah, doll?"
"Can I trust you?"
"As much as anybody around here," I said. "More than the cops, anyway. And I'm not going to go blabbing to them, if that's what you're worried about."
She looked like she was thinking it over pretty hard as she lifted the glass to her lips. I figured she'd have one sip of the strong stuff and pull a face, but she knocked it back in one gulp without so much as a grimace.
"Let me top you up," I said, reaching for the bottle.
"Thank you, Miss Spade."
"Please, call me Sam." I perched myself on the edge of the desk and added another two fingers worth to her glass. "I didn't get your name."
"I didn't mention it."
"So that's how you want to play it, huh?" I stood up and reached into my suit coat to pull a pack of Luckys from the inside pocket. "I got better things to do with my night than play twenty questions, so why don't you spill it or get lost."
I shook a Lucky from the pack and struck a match to its tip. Tilting my head back, I exhaled a cloud over her straggly, wet, blonde locks before turning my back to find an ashtray on this borrowed desk of mine.
"Miss Spade?"
I felt her hand on my shoulder and heard her sniffle. If she was going all out for the academy award that night, it seemed she was well on the way to a nomination. I laid my Lucky in the ashtray and turned around. "Look, it's late," I said. "Why don't you beat it on back home and come see me in the morning if you still think you got a problem."
No response.
I took her by the chin and lifted her face to look into those mascara smudged peepers of hers. Her lip quivered right before she pulled away.
"Looks like you've had a rough night," I said. "When's the last time you ate?"
"I don't need your pity, Miss Spade."
"I'm not offering any. I'm offering a plate of eggs or a sandwich, if you'd rather."
"It's been a while."
"Come on. I know a good all-night joint right around the corner."
I grabbed her coat from the hook and helped her get her arms in the sleeves. "It's a little damp still, but it's a short walk."
"Thank you, Miss Spade."
"Sam. Please, call me Sam." I picked up my hat next. "When we get some food in you, maybe then you can spill the beans on who or what's got your feathers all in a ruffle."
"It's not a secret, Sam. It's my pussy cat. Mister Sparkles. He's missing."
Halfway to the door I stopped, wondering what I'd gotten myself into while at the same time trying to figure odds on whether or not this dame was playing with a full deck. "Mister Sparkles, huh?"
"That's right, Sam. Mister Sparkles. He's very special. And he's missing."
