Night had draped itself over the city like a cheap black suit — wrinkled, too tight, and smelling faintly of regret and last nights anchovy pizza. The rain tapped against my office window in a broken rhythm only dyslexic people could recognize, Toni Braxton was playing in the background on the radio. Neon signs across the street flickered in epileptic Morse code, spelling out things like “LIVE GIRLS” and “BIG-ASS RATS.” Depending on what kind of night you were having and the size of your wallet.
Inside my office, the air was thick — a blend of stale coffee, yesterday’s existential crisis, and the faint scent of Chinatown takeout that had gone bad just enough for my sniffer to file a complaint, and my thinking sack to approve causing my bread basket to want to heave.
As I sat behind my desk, nursing some whiskey that tasted like it had been distilled in some condemned basement in some back woods building in Tennessee, I began to question my life choices, who my real father was, where was birth certificate, and existence itself.
That’s when I heard it — the slow, deliberate click of high heels climbing the stairs outside my door. The sound echoed down the hallway like the prelude to trouble, it’s always trouble. In my line of work, nobody climbs stairs in heels past midnight unless they’re carrying secrets, a gun, or both not to mention, bad intentions.
Leaning back in my chair I loosened my tie. Trouble had a way of finding me like a one way GPS in Google Maps hell. Trouble sure had a way of slipping through cracks, oozing under doors, and occasionally it would climb the fire escape in leopard-print heels, make bad decisions, and even worse choices.
But the whatever it was that was walking toward me now, didn’t sound like trouble. No it sounded like Trouble™ — the deluxe edition. The clacking of the heels on the hard concrete floor echoing down the hallway got louder and louder as it got closer and closer to my door. Was my door the final destination or was I just the lucky one who happened to be the one in the forest to hear the tree fall? My anxiety level was rising, and my ticker was pounding so loud I could feel it in my head. I started to break it into a cold sweat. Then the noise of heel on concrete stopped, and I saw a shadow underneath my door and a silhouette through the frosted glass opening.
The knob to my office door twisted. The door creaked, and then she stepped inside.
Her silhouette carved from equal parts smoke and sin and flesh. A woman with curves that could start riots, wars and have popes and bishops doing unholy things. Her presence hit the room like a gospel choir singing the blues — loud, dramatic, bold, I stood there, mouth open gawking in disbelief and confusion as if experiencing a close encounter of the third kind.
She paused in the doorway, allowing the shadow to cling to her like a a lover intwined in the divine horizontal lambada dance we all know and love. I could not make out her facial features because she’s wearing a broad rimmed fedora which covered most of her face, but i could make out the bright red lipstick on her lips, which whispered quietly no beckoned me to say something.
And that’s where this story begins…
She stood in the doorway, sizing me up like I was the last can of beans in a fallout shelter. Her eyes scanned me slowly — the kind of slow usually reserved for TSA agents who’ve already decided you’re guilty of something that requires a body cavity search and a 12 inch dildo, sorry wrong story. She looked at me scrutinizing everything reading me like one of those cheap Harlequin romance novels they sell next to the lottery tickets and the National Inquirer. I felt cheap and insulted. I’m no ones romance novel. I’m more of “the last 48 true crime nobody asked for, yeah.”
But enough about me.
I cracked the nearest window to let out the cigar smoke she dragged in with her — smoke so thick it wrapped itself around my lungs like a anaconda looking for a cuddle partner. That’s when she finally spoke, I expected her voice gravelly enough to sand down a pine table based on all the cigar smoke, but instead it was warm and inviting like a bread fresh out the oven and all buttered up.
“My name,” she said, “is Pussé Galoré.” I blinked, astounded I was caught off guard “Who”
She reiterated “My name is Pussé Galoré.” Okay this had to be some sort of joke, laughingly I uttered ” Is that so? Well if I’n not mistaken Pussy Galore is a fictional character in the 1959 Ian Fleming James Bond novel Goldfinger and the 1964 movie with the same name.”
Said also stated that Goldfinger changed her life, but I guessing she meant Gold Digger by Kanye West. I wan’t buy anything she was selling,
She corrected me, leaning in so close I could smell sin on her breath.
“It’s Pussé, not pussy. Accent on the é. classy not classé.”
Classy wasn’t the word that came to mind, but okay I can catch her vibe amongst other things.
She told me she’d been adopted by a band of traveling circus gypsies — claimed they raised her around dangerous animals, pizza, kettle corn, and James Bond movie marathons. Said also stated that Goldfinger changed her life, but I guessing she meant Gold Digger by Kanye West. I wan’t buy anything she was selling, even though I do enjoy frolicking in the isles of a good thrift shoppe here and there. You see I’ve been around enough con artists to know when I’m hearing the director’s cut and not the theatrical release.
“Okay ma’am I would need some sort of Identification,” I said. “I might’ve been born at night, but not last night.” truth be told, I was actually born at 1:37 in the afternoon, at least that’s what my birth certificate claimed.
She dug through her purse like she was cultivating crops. I’m sure it was no longer than 30 seconds, but to me it was an eternity. As a man watching this woman rifle through her purse was equivalent of watching the first act of Hamlet. Finally eternity ended, she produced a card, which was placed gently in my hand where it lingered for a second too long. I caught a smile on her face out the corner of my peripheral vision, but I reminded myself to remain focused.
I looked her over, sorry I meant the card. Okay, from the Midwest specifically Nebraska, thirty-five, everything looked normal enough — until I hit the picture.
What I saw next made Hustler look like a church bulletin. I blushed, the photographer must have used a magnifying glass or divine inspiration, I was snatched back to high school and the study of the female anatomy, oh those were the days. The photograph left nothing to the imagination. The small doorbell near the entrance. The subtle pouting lips leading down a narrow cavern to the caves opening. A whole botanical garden of temptation, all wrapped in pink.
Honestly, it belonged in a museum. A museum of modern art for the blind, maybe — but a museum nonetheless. “So this is how they get down in Nebraska,” I muttered. I made a mental note about where to open my next office.
I looked at her. Looked at the picture. Reviewed the picture. Looked back at her, made some mental calculations. The math did not math or compute for that matter, nor did the picture, picture, what kind of official ID does not have a persons face on it? I was questioning my very existence.
“Something wrong with my ID?” she asked. “Yeah,” I snapped. “This isn’t a driver’s license. And this picture looks about as much like you as I look like George Clooney. What kinda sucker do you take me for? I’m a private investigator, not a tourist at a carnival freak show. Either tell me why you’re here or get out my office.”
She stepped back, eyes glistening in the dim light like she’d been saving those tears for a rainy day and the sky was full of dark menacing rain clouds.
“That is a picture of me,” she whispered. “Do you… want to see?”
The thought tiptoed through my mind like a burglar who knew the alarm system was broken.
“And who said it was a driver’s license?”
Her voice had hurt in it — but I stood my ground. Then I flipped the card over.
State of Nevada. Escort trainee license.
Issued by “Happy Happy Joy Joy Adult Services.”, “Where fun times are just around the corner.”
An oversight on my part — it read Nevada not Nebraska, being a male human, around a beautiful woman, a double curse or for me at least, I must stay focused.
She sighed, softer now. “A friend of a friend… who knew a guy… who used to walk dogs… for a guy who was a meth kingpin… whose wife’s brother-in-law recommended you, because you’re good at finding people, missing people.”
That much was true. When it came to the lost, I was like a Scottish Terrier with an attitude problem, bi-focal lenses and a sniffer that could detect BS a mile away.
I motioned her to the chair. “Sit down. Tell me your story. Everyone’s got one. Ask Rodrigo, my neighbor — he’s got stories for days. But this ain’t about Rodrigo. This is about Pus — Pussé. Ms. Galore.” I stammered.
She nursed the drink I slid across the desk, then spilled her life story a tragic Shakespearean saga, it included every intimate detail leading up to how she ended up at my doorstep, as her tears and mascara dripped like ink from a bad pen.
Her story touched me just enough to want to help, but I’m no pushover. I’m not known for for my holiday charity and she was no exception, I’ve overcharged grieving widows for free coffee, and this was business, and business had been slow.
Give this a like if you are thirsty for more pulp.
From what I had gathered her estranged dwarf husband was missing and it was going on five years. A whirlwind of questions began spinning around screaming loudly as tornado looking for a trailer park to ruin. What kind of dwarf was she talking about? A bright-eyed, whistling, skipping munchkin who bakes pies and befriends lost Kansas girls?
Or a long-bearded, axe-swinging, pub-brawling, ale-chugging, gold-hoarding brute straight outta Middle-earth? Inquiring minds want to know. Either way, this case was about pussy to get messy, hairy and I was almost at rock bottom so I took the case.
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