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The pin-tacked door sign written in scrawled puce Crayola on 20# bond read:
NILSSSON: PRIVATE EYE AT YOUR SERVICE
"Hard-boiled gumshoe for hire. Payment in sheep accepted."
A voluminous belch erupted from my throat as I leaned back in my squeaky desk chair chomping on a rancid stogie while picking the lint out of my blue steel 38.
A knock at the door gave me a start.
"Come in, already," I growled.
The door leisurely swung open with a rusty creak.
And there she stood. All dressed up like a dog's dinner: My future wife.
Thunder boomed in a cloudless sky. Lightning crackled and flashed. A lonely wolf howled in the distance. I heard a rooster crowing. Then a sparrow landed on the window sill and hopped a little happy dance and tweeted a knowing tweet.
WOW.
Her hourglass figure sure had the sand sifted in all the right places--no mistake about it. She could have made Stevie Wonder do a double take. I was like a five year old boy on his first visit to Toy 'R' Us and didn't know where to look first in all my excitement. My senses reeled.
Yeah, she had the goods all right and I wanted to be the loading dock. Pass the bill of lading, por favor.
She possessed the kind of curves that could make a holy roller smash a plastic dashboard Jesus into a zillion pieces. I briefly wondered how many guys who knew her were out pricing fur coats right that very minute.
I gawked like a lovesick schoolboy, drool puddling at my feet in a way that had to be showing up on Doppler radar somewhere.
"Private Eye Nilssson?" she breathed, more a husky sigh than a question.
My heart hammered as my pulse quickened. Veins were popping and throbbing in a few mentionable and a couple unmentionable places and I had to loosen a notch on my belt.
"Ah, yeah," I stammered.
"I need your services," she explained in tones so sultry that it made me yearn for one of those cabana girls to show up ASAP with a big palm frond fan just like the concierge dispatches to poolside at those fancy hotels that cater to the idle rich. Sure, I knew that I was being played like a violin at a gypsy carnival but I was lapping it up like a thirsty tomcat over a saucer of fresh milk.
Beads of sweat were doing push ups on my forehead. I tried to catch my breath. I jammed my stogie in the mercilessly chipped Motel 6 ashtray on the desk, igniting a crumpled Snickers wrapper which flamed briefly. Or it could have been a Baby Ruth wrapper--I can't tell the difference very well since I took that bazooka shell to the eyelids in the dank hills of Korea on my second tour.
Either way, My salivary glands were rounding third...
And the rest, as they say, is history.
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