Film Noir

  She slithered into my office like a snake on ice.

"I need you to find a man."  Her voice was warm and deep as a canyon fire.

  "You don't look like you'd need any help in that department, sweetheart", I replied.

  "You don't understand.  That S.O.B. broke my heart."  She looked about as heartbroken as a prom queen in the homecoming parade.

  "That S.O.B. got a name?"
 
  "It's Percy, Percy Philbin."

  She didn't look like the type to be playing footsie with any Percy, either.  I left that unsaid.

  "This Percy Philbin - tell me about him; age, size, coloring, any distinguishing features."

  "He's in his sixties, gray hair, kinda pale, average height, slender.  No distinguishing features except he dresses real good."

  "And he broke your heart.  That the only reason you want to find him?"

  "Of course.  That's the only reason", she lied.  I knew she was lying.  She looked directly at me, projecting sincerity like a silent movie star.

  "OK. When and where did you last see him?"

  "Night before last, at my apartment, er, his apartment.  He pays for it, but I live there."

  "Anything funny happen?  You argue?"

  "No.  We played cards, then he left about midnight."

  Cards, so that's what they're calling it these days.

  "Have you tried to contact him?", I asked.

  "Sure.  I called his house, but his man Leonard said he wasn't in.  That he had gone to Mexico.  I asked where I could call him, but Leonard pretended not to know.  Then this morning I pick up the paper and there he is, in the society column.  'Millionaire publisher and his bride off to Acapulco honeymoon.' That bastard."

  "If you know he's in Acapulco, why ask me to find him?"

  "But he's not in Acapulco.  I know, I called the Ambassador - that's where he always stays - and he's not there!"

  "Maybe he told the desk to tell callers he wasn't there", I suggested.

  "But I didn't talk to the desk.  I talked to Manuel, the bartender.  He and I became, well, close friends last time I was there with Perc."  She said his name like purse.

  Ah, yes.  Tequila Margarita with barman on the side.

  I knew I couldn't trust her as far as I could throw the Golden Gate bridge, but she was getting to me.  Maybe it was those big brown eyes or that husky voice.  Maybe it was those long legs, cased in silk stockings with a seam that went straight up the back.

  Sucker.  P. T. Barnum had it right, there's one born every minute.