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?”
