Sandra Scoppettone - This Dame for Hire

TABLE OF CONTENTSFor Steven L. PrenzlauerACKNOWLEDGMENTSMany thanks to Susan Caggiano, Beverly Maher, Marijane Meaker, and especially to Linda Crawford.Prologue New York City1943 At ten-fifteen in the P.M. I was walking along Bleecker Street near Thompson, going home after putting on the feedbag with my friend Jeanne Darnell. It was snowing big wet flakes. Snow never brought nasty cold with it, so I was warm enough in my blue cloth coat. I didnt own a fur anyway, not even muskrat.

Since thered been no tip-off on the weather, I wasnt wearing galoshes and my feet were getting the full winter-weather treatment. When it snowed in the city, it was always quiet, and I could almost con myself into thinking I heard the flakes land. Then in the next second, I tripped over something on the sidewalk and flew through the air, landed on my hands, then fell to my knees. My coat and skirt hiked themselves up around my keister, and I was glad there was no one else on the street at this most embarrassing of moments. My knees were chilled but the snow cushioned my fall, and I was sure the only thing hurt was my pride. Theres nothing like a fall to make you feel stupid.

Even alone on a Greenwich Village street. I pushed myself up and stayed kneeling for a moment, then, with the help of a stoop railing, rose to my feet. I almost went down again cause I had broken the heel on one of my pumps. Now what? I stood there in the wet while I got my wind back and took stock of the pickle I was in. I knew Id freeze my tootsies, but I had to take off my shoes if I was to make any headway. And what had I tripped over? A few feet behind me I saw what looked like a pile of rags.

Why would anyone put those there? I wondered. And almost at once my heart did a tumble and I knew that these werent rags at all, but something alarming, something sinister. In my stocking feet (the last of my hoarded hose) I inched my way closer to the heap on the sidewalk. My throat felt tight, and my eyes did an owl. The moment I was closer I saw what Id suspected. These werent rags.

This was a person. Was it someone else whod fallen and got knocked out? I bent down and right off took in that the white snow had a dark patch near the persons head. And I knew. Not because I was a detective, which I was, but because it was so clear. This was blood, and the side of the victims head was bashed in so that I couldnt see a profile, but the length of the hair and the clothing told me I was looking at a woman. ONE I didnt start out to be a private eye. ONE I didnt start out to be a private eye.

I thought I was gonna be a secretaryget my boss his java in the morning, take letters, and so on. Hell, I didnt get my degree in steno to put my life on the line. It was true I wanted an interesting job, but that Id end up a PI myself... it never entered my mind. Back in 1940 when I went for my interview, one look at Woody Mason and I thought for sure it was gonna be a bust. There he was, brogans up on the wobbly wooden table he called his desk, wearing dark cheaters in the middle of the day, his trilby pulled down so low on his head it was a week before I knew he had straw-blond hair.

A butt hung from his thin lips, smoke curled up past his rosy nose. I wondered if he was a boozehound. Im Faye Quick, I said. Good for you. Mr. Mason, I came for the job.

You wanna good secretary or not? That got his attention. Mason slid his legs off the desk, pushed down the sunglasses, and over the rims eyeballed my gams, while he stubbed out his Old Gold and lit a new one. So what did I expect from a gumshoe? My friends told me I was a crackpot trying for a job with a shamus. But I thought it could be interesting. I didnt want to be in some nine-to-fiver pushing papers that had to do with mergers, business agreements, or the like. I wanted to be where whatever I was typing or listening to had some meat to it.

Are ya? Mason asked. Am I what? Quick. To myself I thought, Hardy, har, har, but I didnt say it. I gave him a look instead. Sorry. Yeah. Yeah.

Sometimes I open my big yap too much. So Miss Quick, you wanna work for me? Thats the general idea, I said, and thought maybe he was a little slow or something. But Woody Mason was anything but slow, I was to find out. We went through some Q and As, then he hired me on the spot. I was slaphappy getting a job my first day looking. That was how it was then.

But in 421 the Japs hit Pearl Harbor, and by January of 422, Woody Mason was in the army and I was running A Detective Agency. The A didnt stand for anything. He named it that so it would be first in the phone book. By the time I took over I knew almost as much as Woody, but in the beginning it was a scary idea. Im not sure, boss. Ah, Quick, you can do it.

I got complete confidence in ya. Yeah, but I dont. Listen, when I come back from this clambake I wanna have a business to come home to. You gotta keep the home fires burning, like they say. Thats not what it means: a girl like me packin a heater and chasin the bad guys. Keepin the home fires burnin means sittin in the nest waitin for your man.

Aint I your man, Quick? Woody smiled, the dimples making their mark in his cheeks, and my heart slipped a notch. I wasnt in love with Woody, but he was a looker when he gave ya the smile. Mostly he reserved it for female clients. But on that day he brought it out for me. Youre my boss, Mason, not my man. Ah, hell.

Ya know what I mean. Even still. I cant be a PI. Why not? I wanted to tell him I didnt know how, but he knew that was a lie. So I said, Im afraid. Hell you are, Quick.

I never saw the likes of you when it comes to guts. I had been on a few stakeouts with him and never showed any fear even when we got into close shaves. If youre thinkin of some of those cases we did together, well, I had you with me, Mason. Ah, you coulda handled them alone. Howd ya know? I know ya, Quick. I knew it from the first day I laid my headlights on ya.

You were hungover and ya woulda hired King Kong. But I didnt. I hired you, and now I gotta get my rump overseas and knock off some Nips. Ya gotta take over. What if Im so lousy at this I lose the agency. Ya wont.

And so far I hadnt. Im not what youd call a raving beauty, but some even call me pretty, and I agree Ill pass. Take today. I was wearing a short-sleeved cream-colored dress that was covered with bright blue intersecting circles, cinched below my bosom and belted at the waist. My hair was black, the long sides ending in a fringe of manufactured curls, and every hair in my pompadour was in place. But I was getting sick of this style, and Id been thinking of changing.

Maybe Id get it cut short, shock the pants off my pals. Rolling and pinning were getting to be a pain in the derriere. My mouth was small but full; my nose had a little bump, but it was okay. So the point was that even though I looked like any twenty-six-year-old gal ankling round New York City in 43, there was one main difference between me and the rest of the broads. Show me another Jane who did my job and Id eat my hat. And I wouldnt relish that cause my brown felt chapeau had a bright red feather sticking up from the left side of the brim, and I knew the feather would tickle going down.

Once or twice I had some numbskull who thought a dame couldnt handle his so-called important case, but most people didnt care that I was a girl, and they knew any self-respecting male private dick was fighting to keep us safe. So I wasnt hurting for things to do when my secretary, Birdie, showed the Wests into my office. But I was surprised, even though it was no mystery why theyd come to me as I was the one whod discovered their daughters body and no one had been arrested so far. I lit a Camel and listened while they talked. The man and woman who sat on the other side of my desk were in their late forties to early fifties and looked fifteen years older. Having yer child murdered will do that to you.