The door to my office burst open and in walked a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.<\/p>\n
Let me say for the record that the bishop in question, well, he\/she\/they needs\/need to get a grip on him\/herself\/themselves, maybe get some counselling. I have a number he\/she\/they can call.<\/p>\n
In the past I might have declared the blonde to be a dame: that would be inaccurate and offensive not just to her\/him\/them, but to me as a feminist. She was a confident fem-presenting woman, and it\u2019s not for me to say what a woman is, pal.<\/p>\n
\u201cPronouns?\u201d I drawled.<\/p>\n
She was thinking. I could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother for her. But that\u2019s ok. I\u2019m not going to start slinging the \u201cs\u201d word around. I\u2019m a smartass with a smart mouth, but I\u2019m not book smart.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve a real nerve! I\u2019m not that kinda gal!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll go with she\/her,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
She frowned, \u201cWhatever.\u201d<\/p>\n
I mentioned she was a blonde. So what? Barney the mailman is a blond, and Flanagan the on-the-take Irish desk sergeant at the precinct house is a redhead. Me? I\u2019m brunette.<\/p>\n
And what if she was the kind of blonde who\u2019s a gorgeous show piece who will outlast three kingpin racketeers and then marry a couple of millionaires at a million a head and end up with a pale rose villa at Cap Antibes, an Alfa-Romeo town car complete with pilot and co-pilot, and a stable of shopworn aristocrats, all of whom she will treat with the affectionate absent-mindedness of an elderly duke saying goodnight to his butler? I\u2019d do the same, given half a chance, except I\u2019d pay the butler above minimum wage and tell them we were on first-name terms.<\/p>\n
The desk fan whirred lazily, bringing a waft of a new scent my way. She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight. That meant trouble. Which was fine: I like the Taj Mahal, and I like trouble. But not in a sexual way. Unless prior consent is given and there\u2019s no power imbalance.<\/p>\n
\u201cMarlowe,\u201d I muttered, introducing myself. This is the part I struggle with, as I don\u2019t usually talk about myself in the third person. \u201cHis\/him, he\/his, he\/he\u2026\u201d I tailed off. \u201cYou get my drift.\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019m not so sure she did, but she rallied, and gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket. This was in no way her fault, but speaks volumes to the toxic upbringing I\u2019d had, that some primitive part of my brain mistook a friendly gesture for an invitation to imagine copulation. I tried hard to think about the worst baseball game I ever saw.<\/p>\n
\u201cMr Marlowe, I have a job for you… why are you sweating and blinking? Are you all right?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cKeep talking,\u201d I squeaked. \u201cIf that\u2019s all right with you.\u201d<\/p>\n
She scowled, but did as told. I mean, requested.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy ex-husband is having me followed. I was hoping you might be able to pay him a visit and\u2026 well, you have a reputation as a man of direct action and fast fists, Mister Marlowe.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThese days are in the past, Lady, I mean Sister, no wait, Doll, no\u2026 \u201c I glanced down at my desk top, to the crib sheet taped there. \u201cMadam or Ms. Anyways, I can pay him a visit and explain that his behavior is intrusive and threatening. I know a thing or two about sexual assault, and the consequences, let me tell you, and I\u2019ll give him some facts to consider carefully.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s disappointing, Mister Marlowe,\u201d she said, fixing me with a stare. \u201cI wish I could persuade you.\u201d She had eyes like strange sins. Which could have been caused by eye strain from a tough job for which she was paid 20 per cent less than her male colleagues.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou might consider a cucumber eye mask\u2026\u201d I started, but before I could go on, her hands dropped and the overcoat she was wearing came open.<\/p>\n
My brain slipped into neutral then stalled, but luckily my mouth kept going on auto.<\/p>\n
\u201cI fully support the right of a woman to wear or in this case not wear undergarments. And I can see the benefits of air flow, especially on a day like this, when the soft wet heat is like a pall around us. Me, I\u2019m an old-fashioned guy and I like a thick layer of linen down there\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
She interrupted with a scowl. \u201cYou\u2019re a hard man to persuade.\u201d<\/p>\n
I rifled through the book, which was out of her line of sight: she probably thought I was about to pop up with a bottle of malt, or would surrender and melt under the blowtorch of her charm.<\/p>\n
I was up to something less fun, in the shape of my much-thumbed copy of \u201c#MeToo Moments: Harder to See Coming than a Round From a Snub-nosed .38.\u201d<\/p>\n
There, in the margin, was a note from my counsellor, a worn-looking chump who went by the name of Sam Spade. \u201cIf uncertain, pretend not to understand.\u201d<\/p>\n
Now I was on familiar ground. I smiled to myself and started talking as I slid the book back in the drawer.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s right, I am a hard man. If I wasn’t hard, I wouldn’t be alive. If I couldn’t ever be gentle, I wouldn’t deserve to be alive.\u201d<\/p>\n
I glanced up, expecting to see her buckling her coat before she caught a cold.<\/p>\n
The office was empty.<\/p>\n
\u201cBetty?\u201d I called through to my secretary.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s gone, boss. Third one this week. Business sure has been quiet lately.\u201d<\/p>\n
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