The Dame
My name is Market. Niche Market, and I’m the Tough Detective. My latest troubles started on a Wednesday, about noon. It had to be noon, because I’d only had three whiskeys so far and the double vision hadn’t set in yet.
She walked through the doorway in a stunning yellow dress that hung around her sack-shaped body like a sack. Fully of more sacks. Her toes were painted yellow, to go with the dress, and she’d splashed some of the paint on her cankles. I couldn’t take my eyes off those yellow blotches. Her shoes were actually sandals, some sort of strappy white leatherine. Probably from the local Bargain Bin, costing all of three bucks. They highlighted those yellow-dappled cankles like twin spotlights, white and shiny and highlighting every perfect detail, from mole to splotch and everything in between.
“I’m up here, big guy” she rasped in her sultry five-packs-a-day voice.
My concentration broken, I let my gaze slowly drift up to her face, drinking in every inch and pound of her. She was five foot two at most. Still, it was a lot of drinking. Good thing I’d had decades of practice. . . someone of lesser fortitude would’ve lost his lunch by the last gulp.
“Holy shi . . . er, hello.” I said, my eyes trying to focus on her face. It took a few moments before I realized that there was no focus to be had. She was beautiful in a Salvador Dali meets Picasso, melted blue cubist slaughterhouse floor kind of way. I didn’t know whether to cry, scream, vomit, dial 911 or just gaze into those milky, misshapen eyes and see where they’d take me. The combination of erection and rising bile was new to me, but I knew enough to know by the end of this case, I’d be begging for more.
“Acid burns?” I asked casually, reaching for a cigarette.
“It’s nothing — I was born this way.” she grunted. “And what didn’t come naturally, I added myself. I won “Ugliest Baby USA” five years running. Would’ve been six if the Berman twins from Texas hadn’t double-uglied me.” This was said with more than a hint of pride.
“Hey! You’re Ronnie. Rhonnette Johnston . . .”
“Not bad, detective. Now maybe you can tell me why I’m here.”
“Looking for the ladies room?” I joke.
“No. Try again.” She was all business. All ugly, but all business. Ugly was her business.
“You need someone whacked.”
“What is this?- the Castratos? Nobody says ‘whacked’ any more. And no, I don’t need nobody whacked. I need someone found. And then beaten to near death. Then crippled. And then maybe whacked.”
“You’ve come to the right place, Ronnie. Who am I looking for?”
“A Mr. Power. William Power. You probably don’t know him . . . ” her voice trailed off, or maybe I just quit listening. Things were going black. It was time for that fourth whiskey. Maybe even drinks five through eighteen.
