Missing Dwarf Kicks in Stained Glass Windows

Night had draped itself over the city like a cheap black suit — wrinkled, too tight, and smelling faintly of regret and scratchy. The rain tapped against my office window in a rhythm only broken hearts could recognize, you could as Toni she 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.

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 enough to file a complaint and make noise about it.

I sat behind my desk, nursing a drink that tasted like it had been distilled in the basement of a condemned building somewhere in Tennessee. The kind of whiskey that made you question not just your life choices, your birth certificate, and whoever your real father was, but 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. 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.

I leaned back in my chair and loosened my tie. Trouble had a way of finding me like a one way GPS to hell. It slipped through cracks, oozed under doors, and occasionally climbed the fire escape in leopard-print heels looking to make bad decisions and worse choices.

But the force walking toward me now?
It didn’t sound like trouble.
It sounded like Trouble™ — the deluxe edition.

The knob twisted.
The door creaked.
And then she stepped inside.

A silhouette carved from equal parts smoke and sin. A woman with curves that could start riots and a stare that could end them. Her presence hit the room like a gospel choir singing the blues — loud, dramatic, and spiritually confusing and waiting for the holy ghost to appear.

She paused in the doorway, allowing the shadow to cling to her like a jealous ex-lover.

And that’s where this story begins…

As she stood there in my 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. She tried reading me like one of those cheap Harlequin romance novels they sell next to the lottery tickets. I was insulted. I’m not a romance novel. I’m more of a “true crime nobody asked for, the last 48.”

Nothing left to the imagination.
The pretty pink doorbell.
The pouting lips.
A whole botanical garden of temptation.

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 lonely anaconda looking for a cuddle partner. That’s when she finally spoke, her voice gravelly enough to sand down a pine table.

“My name,” she said, “is Pussé Galore.”

I blinked. Slowly.
“That so? The only Pussy Galore I know ended up in a Bond film and probably on a couple of no-fly lists.”

She corrected me, leaning in so close I could count the sins on her breath.
“It’s Pussé, not pussy. Accent on the é. Classy.”

Classy wasn’t the word that came to mind.

She told me she’d been adopted by a band of traveling circus gypsies — claimed they raised her on kettle corn, dangerous animals, and back-to-back James Bond marathons. Said that Goldfinger changed her life. I didn’t buy it. I’ve been around enough con artists to know when I’m hearing the director’s cut.

“Identification,” I said. “I might’ve been born at night, but not last night.”

She dug through her purse. To her it was 30 seconds. To me it was an eternity. To a man watching a woman rifle through her purse is like watching the first act of Hamlet. Finally she produced a card.

I looked it over. Midwest. Nebraska. Thirty-five. Looked normal enough — until I hit the picture.

What I saw next made Playboy look like a church bulletin.
It was an extreme close-up shot of her nether regions — the kind of composition that made me wonder if the photographer used a magnifying glass or divine inspiration.

Nothing left to the imagination.
The pretty pink doorbell.
The pouting lips.
A whole botanical garden of temptation.

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. Did the math. The math did not math nor did the picture, picture.

“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 crocodiles and both business were booming.

“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.

Nevada.
Escort trainee license.
Issued to “Happy Happy Joy Joy Escort Services.”, “Where fun times are just around the corner.”

An oversight on my part — but hell, I’m only human or well a man at least.

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 missing people.”

That much was true.
When it came to the lost, I was like a Scottish Terrier with an attitude problem with bi-focal lenses.

I motioned 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.”

She nursed the drink I slid across the desk, then spilled her whole tragic saga: every intimate detail about how she ended up at my doorstep, mascara dripping like ink from a bad pen.

I felt sorry for her. Sad enough to help. And I’m not known for charity. I’ve overcharged grieving widows for coffee, she was no exception.

Her husband was missing? A dwarf at that and estranged for five years?

A tornado of questions began spinning in my skull like a twister looking for a trailer park to ruin.

What kind of dwarf?
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?

Either way, this case was about pussy to get messy.

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