If I had a nickle for every Joe who came into my office looking for a kind word and a good time, I'd be driving a car as big as Wyoming and draping this body in pure snow leopard. The last one who came by, "Call me Lenny," was quite a looker, and he had the eyes to prove it. Green, a shade not found in nature. He knew I was hooked when I stumbled over my words and my wastepaper basket. Nobody does that to me without paying for it.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you out on your ear," I challenged.
"You shouldn't hand out your business cards if you don't want company, little lady."
He had me there. I suppose that his next line would be about the billboards. "Okay, you have five minutes. What brings you to the ugly side of town?"
"Recycling. I saved $300 worth of YooHoo bottles and somebody made off with 'em. All I found in their place was an old copy of Easy Rider magazine, two empty Ring Ding bags, and a note that said 'Mail us all your cash, Slime Dog.'"
I thought about his plight. Hmmm. I had heard about things like this happening, but never in my town. Never in my office. I looked him over. Cool. He looked like a sincere, if weaselish young man, but who knew what was hiding behind that suit. I may be able to collect that nickel yet. "So, you say you haven't seen the bottles since..."
"Thursday. That's the day that I go down to the Renta-Locker to check on them and add to the pile. Every other time I've been there, no problems, no surprises. This time..." he looked down at his shoes (expensive-real leather uppers) "all I found were the items mentioned. No bottles. No money." He looked up and his eyes could have been teary, but who's to say for sure? "I need that money. It's for my mom. She needs an operation..."
"What kind?"
"Well, she was a good mom, the kind who baked cookies."
"What kind of operation?"
"Plastic Surgery. Liposuction...and..." Here, he paused. "And a sex change."
I let out a low whistle. He really did need the money. Nobody would ever make up a story like that, even on a bet. I offered him a glass of Diet Double Chocolate Soda, but he turned it down flat. It was obvious that YooHoo was his drink, and no cheap substitute would take its place.
"Listen, I can see now that you're pretty sincere. Give me the Renta-Locker address and I'll check out the place. The cops won't be any help unless you know how to grease 'em, and I've been greasing cops for years now. Why, I've developed quite a reputation. Quite a reputation. They tell me I've got Wessonality, and I'm not talking fried chicken."
He nodded once, twice. Then he handed me twenty bucks. I looked in those eyes again. I was a refrigerator to his magnetism. We were drawn to each other and soon he was invading my space. His hand touched my hair, my face, my...
When the phone rang, interrupting this exploration, I spun so fast he fell back and hit his head on the corner of my desk. "Acme Private Investigations, Acme speaking." I looked at the heap on the floor. His blood was making interesting patterns on the linoleum. Thank God for easy wash no-wax.
"Uh huh. Uh huh. Mmmmm. Uh huh. Okay."
It was the locals calling to warn me, warn me about a psycho-blond named Lenny, a green-eyed con artist who was knocking off unsuspecting female PIs. It was the same song, different chorus. If I had a nickel for every Lenny who came into my office looking for a kind word and a victim...well, let's just say that I've been around the block once or twice, and it ain't gonna happen here. Watching the blood flow from his head and the life from his body, I knew my guidance counselor had been wrong. It was a good career choice. This is my life.
Jody M. Burchstead is a technical writer who spends her 45 minute commute thinking up opening paragraphs to short stories and novels (90% of which never make it out of the car.)
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