My name is Jack Maltan, I’m a private eye.
Heh, sounds pretty good huh? Actually I am a private eye, but you wouldn’t know it to look at me. I was only 20 when I got into it. So it works out that my father, a career cop, gets the boot from the force for knockin’ around some kid that waved a gun at him and ran off. Funny thing, anyone else would have done the same, or worse. Anyway so my dad goes nuts, without the force he’s nothing he lasted a while, then he offed himself about two years ago. Leaves me with a house and the private detective business he started before he died. Not such a bad deal I suppose I mean the guy was never around anyway. Mom? Who knows, she got lost some years ago between a bottle of sapphire gin and glass of tonic water. Rest assured I’ve been looking for every night for the last twenty years, some days too. I digress, you want to hear about the broad.
So it’s a slow Tuesday about twenty years ago I’m a kid, new to the business. They are all slow Tuesday’s lemme tell ya. I’m sitting at my desk getting ready to knock off for the day, hey, it was almost one. Suddenly the annoying little speaker box on my desk squawks at me. I hit the button: “What. I’m busy.” I say.
My secretary on the other end says: “You have a customer Jack.”
“What?” I ask. Then I sigh and hold the button down.
“What?” I ask again.
“You have a customer,” she says all slow like I’m friggin’ deaf.
“No shit, send him in,” I say.
I wasn’t even lookin’ up when the door opened. I liked to do that. Play the act. I was shuffling through some papers, garbage really. Then I heard a dame clear her throat. I looked up expecting to see a guy; pretty much all I get is jealous husbands. Lemme tell ya gents, if you’re hiring a private eye to spy on your wife, regardless of the outcome it’s probably over. You should save yourself a dime and call a divorce attorney instead. But back to the dame. I could’ve laughed out loud when I saw this chick, she was right out of a movie, and I would have except I couldn’t breathe. She was gorgeous. One of these gals, you know the type, she was probably pushing fifty but the good life was good to her boy, cause she looked not a day over thirty five. She was wearing one of these tight almost corset like tops that was struggling for sure to keep her massive chest contained. I mean this poor gal was stacked. Fat? No way pal, she had a tiny little waist, you know the type, something off the nose of a WWII bomber, like a pinup gal. Big tits, tiny waist, and hips all day. I mean she was a woman, in every sense of the word, not fat hips but defined, voluptuous plus a little. Beautiful face too, but stern like that catholic school librarian or headmistress, black hair all shiny and pulled back so tight it looked painful. She had a big bun tied up in the back with two of them little Japanese chopsticks through it. She was wearing dark red lipstick and had full pouty lips and a downward shaped mouth. Her skirt was red and flowing and reached all the way to her ankles. On her feet she had black patent leather pumps.
“I want you to find my husband Mr.,” She looked at my name plaque on my desk lifting it with a pale hand, her nails were red as blood and ten to one she didn’t do them herself, “Maltan.”
“That’s a hell of an accent you’ve got there lady, what is it? Russian?” I said, always the gentleman I am.
She looked a little put off, I was willing to bet the is one gal that isn’t used to uppity working types like myself. “It’s Slovakian, Mr. Maltan.” She said slowly.
“Right, look, how do you know your husband wants to be found?” I always play the tough guy act, in this business you have to weed out the phonies and crack pots, offend them a little, play crass, if they bolt it saves you having to run around for nothing.
“I don’t care if he does, I think he is running around with another woman.” She said. Boy that accent was driving me nuts, very sexy nothing, this broad exuded sex. To be in the same room with this gal was to want her.
“Your husband must be some piece of work to be running around on you Miss,” I left the question open.
“Mrs., I told you I am a married, and it’s Harrison.” She wasn’t digging my attitude I could tell.
“You don’t look like a Harrison.” I said. “Care for a drink?”
“My family name is Barina, Harrison is my Husband’s name. And no I do not drink.” She said.
“My fee is a hundred bucks a day plus expenses regardless of whether or not I find him,” I said looking for a contract on my cluttered desk, “you’ll have to answer some questions before I can get started,” then looking up at her, “some personal in nature.”
“Of course,” she said.
I offered her the chair in front of my desk and she took it, I sat down across from her with a pen and paper and began to fire off some questions.
“When was the last time you saw your husband?”
“Three days ago.”
“Where?”
“At our house he was leaving to go fishing for the day, he never came back.”
“Where did he like to fish?” Was getting interesting at this point.
“North Lake, about an hour from here.” She said. No sign of emotion yet, I thought.
“Check there already?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Ok, some vitals on your husband, how tall is he?”
“5’10” and about 210 pounds.” She said.
“Race, age?”
“Robert is American, Caucasian that is, and 33 years old.”
Whoa, hold the phone, I thought. Now that’s juicy. I looked up at her.
“And your age ma’am?”
“What does that have to do with your case Mr. Harrison?” She was definitely touched by that one.
“Hey, I told you I was gonna ask some questions,”
“Ok Ok,” she interrupted me, “I’m forty nine.” She said it softly.
Racy, I thought. “Been married a while have ya?”
“Six years” she said.
Now that’s what I’m talking about, this cat was 27 when he hooked up with her and she was 43. I shifted in my seat just thinking about her getting the goods from this guy. I finished my questions and watched intently at her mouth watering hips and ass she swayed out the door. My, my, I thought, I hope to dream of her tonight.
The sum total of it was: Svetlana Barina 49, had come to this country after meeting Robert Harrison 33, while they were both vacationing in Germany. As you could imagine ole Rob jumped on that, literally I suppose, and whisked her back to the USA and married her.
I poked around a little and found this Harrison guy had his hand in everybody’s cookie jar. After a few days I found him, he was crashed out in some girl’s pad on the south side. Looks like Rob found himself two vices, teenage hookers, and cocaine. I snapped some pictures, talked to some people, and wrapped the whole thing up. Normally I would have stretched an easy case like this out a few days to make a few more bucks, but frankly kids, I was dieing to get Svetlana back into my office even if it was to break some bad news.
It was Friday of the same week. I must have been smitten with this gal cause I was wearing clean clothes and a little aftershave. I was about to call her when she waltzed straight into my office.
“Was just about call you, I’m all finished with my case.” I said regaining myself after she startled me. Good lord, she was looking good today. She had her hair the same way but she was wearing a little black number. A dress with a neckline that came across the top of her bosom showing ample midriff. The neck swept out past her shoulders just barely clinging on to the outside of her arms. It was tight in the waist, she must have worn the hell out of a corset as a younger woman, because that waist was so tiny but those hips. Oh those hips. Her dress was about knee length affording me a little shot of creamy leg. She had on stockings and when she turned to shut the door behind her I could see a black line shooting straight up the back of her calves from her red patent leather heels disappearing under her clothes. It was tough to keep my eyes off the creamy tops of her breasts.
“Don’t bother Mr. Maltan, my husband showed up last night. I know everything.”