Chapter 1

I was sitting at my desk, wishing that the AC worked and that the wheezing fan that was feebly wafting air in my direction wasn't as old as I felt. It was hot, and it's always hotter when you don't have anything to do.

I'm Bob, I'm a private eye. I'm a good one, too, but that doesn't mean lots of people know it. The few who notice manage to pay the bills, but I'm not living the high life, if you know what I mean. And, of course, I have this soft spot for good people in a bad fix. I usually didn't get any money from those jobs. I felt good ... but good feelings don't pay the rent, if you know what I mean.

The faded brown paper on the walls of my ratty office seemed to press in on me, like in that play, The Haunting of Hill House. It was kind of creepy, and I'd just decided to take a little walk and see if there was some breeze out in the twilight, when I saw a dark silhouette appear in the pebbled glass pane of the door.

I watched the latch turn and rested my hand on the .45 holstered on my right hip.

I've pissed off a lot of people in the past.

But it wasn't some husband I'd caught with his fingers in the wrong honey pot. Nor was it a businessman I'd caught fleecing his customers, and put out of business. Nor was it any number of people I'd arranged to get the goods on for a lawsuit of some kind.

It was a dame.

She was a strange one. I could tell that immediately. Her hairdo was the first obvious clue. Young, maybe in her mid twenties, she was a mixture of conflicting signals. Her hair was two shades of red. The majority of it was maybe an eighth of an inch long and almost black, but there were long bangs and what my sister used to call dog ears that were a deep red tint. The bangs were swept to one side and fell casually down across her right cheek. Her features were elfin. Her nose looked like it had been transplanted from an older woman, onto the face of a teenager in a world where acne just didn't exist. The skin on her cheeks looked as soft and pale as a baby's butt, and it was obvious she didn't spend a lot of time in the sun.

Her body was all woman, though. She didn't have so much up top, but it was all relative, since what she did have looked delicious in the thin tank top she was wearing. She wasn't wearing a bra, and it was obvious, even in the heat. A tattoo made up of blues and greens in some intricate design—not the sissy kind of small tattoo a college girl gets, thinking she's being adventurous—covered most of one shoulder.

Jeans, below the tank top, encased hips a guy could grab onto if he was in the middle of a wild, passionate ride. Below the jeans I could see the tops of something that looked suspiciously like military style jump boots. It didn't look like they'd stomped anybody recently, but she gave the impression of being able to take care of herself. I just knew this woman owned a leather jacket. She looked like a biker babe, or maybe a bull dyke ... except that she didn't.

Lots of adjectives sprang to mind. Odd ... strange ... even bizarre ... but overlaying them all was the noun those words were helping to describe. That noun was "stone fox," as crazy as that sounds, based on what I've described.

It was strange, and she was interesting before she ever said a word.

She came in and just stood there, looking at me. Those bangs had fallen forward to cover one eye, and the other one looked a little wary, which made me want to laugh. I wasn't tempted in any way, shape or form to fuck with this little beauty. She had an air about her that said she should be wearing one of those t-shirts that says, "Here comes trouble."

"What can I do for you?" I asked, my voice neutral. For some reason I thought that coming on too strongly, or speaking too loudly, would make her leave.

"I'm not sure," she said.

Man ... what a voice. High ... youthful ... the kind of voice you want to have somebody read you something really long in. Maybe something like War and Peace.

"That could make things difficult," I tossed off. "Why don't you have a seat and we'll see if we can figure it out."

She looked around and her eye came back to me. She looked ... curious.

I'm not all that much to look at. Not like back in the good old days, when I was a stud. While in my mind I still FEEL young, the stud kind of wore off of the outside over the years. I have a little gut these days. All that working out I did in the past kept my muscles firm, but didn't do much to prevent some weight falling out of the sky and landing on me. I grew a beard to cover up the double chin, and kept it when people said it made me look dangerous.

"I have a problem," she said softly.

"I'm in the problem solving business," I said.

"You're not what I expected," she said, still not sitting down.

"You either need a problem solver, or you don't," I said. "Doesn't much matter what one looks like ... you know?"

Only the decrepit fan made any noise for a few seconds, and then she finally sat down.

"Tell me about your problem," I suggested.

"Somebody has something of mine and won't give it to me," she said.

"And you want me to go get it?"

"Do you do that kind of thing?"

"Depends," I said. I reached in the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out a bottle of Scotch.

"I don't drink," she said.

Now THAT was an eye opener. She looked like she could drink just about any man under the table and then take on the women in the room.

"I don't believe I offered you a drink," I said, smiling.

"It would be rude for you to drink without offering me something too."

"You already said you don't drink."

"My father had ... problems ... with alcohol," she said.

That was something I would learn about her in the next days and weeks. She had this way of asserting her own moral code on others. It wasn't blatant, and she wasn't judgmental about it. But even when you first met her you just wanted to make her happy. It was almost spooky, later on, but I had my first experience of it within five minutes of meeting her.

I put the bottle back in the bottom drawer and closed it. I looked up and saw something like satisfaction in her eye, though I don't think she was aware of it.

"What is this something someone has?" I asked.

She blushed then. It was quick and it was obvious. Her fair skin glowed like it was going to catch fire, but it didn't last long.

"It's a pair of roller skates," she said softly.

"Roller skates." I'm sure my voice sounded flat.

"Yes. They're special to me."

"You mean like clamped on?" I was remembering what roller skates were like when I was growing up in the fifties. They'd clamp on to a regular pair of shoes, and you tightened them with a roller skate key.

"No." She looked confused for a second. "They're white leather, with red wheels."

"Oh, OK," I said. "Like you'd rent at a roller rink."

"Uh huh, except I've never seen skates at the rink that had red wheels."

I thought about that for a short minute.

"So let me get this straight," I said. "You want me to get your roller skates back. Who has them?"

She blushed again. She was exceedingly cute when she blushed.

"My mother."

"Your mother." My voice was flat. I was beginning to think I was being made the butt of a practical joke.

"She's kind of a horrible woman," said my visitor.

"I can just imagine," I said, letting some sarcasm leach into my voice. "I mean what kind of woman holds her little girl's roller skates hostage? Maybe you should call her more often. I hear mothers like that, and get testy when their kids neglect them."

Her face got tight and that flawless skin got a bit pinker.

"If you won't help me, just say so!" she snapped. She had a temper, this one did.

"Five hundred a day, plus expenses," I said. I have to admit I said it somewhat smugly. That ought to get rid of my little practical joker.

She stared at me and that pretty little jaw dropped. She had good teeth. I wondered what that dainty tongue of hers would feel like dueling with mine. I'm a pervert. I admit it. She looked strange, but she was also cute in a pants-tightening kind of way.

"FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A DAY?!" she squealed. "YOU'RE INSANE!"

"I'm not insane," I said calmly. "That's my price. I mean who knows how dangerous this could be. I have to go up against a truly monstrous woman here. That much is obvious. Your mother is most certainly a diabolical miscreant to withhold something so important as ... your freaking roller skates!"

Her jaw pulled back up, only to jut forward, and storm clouds gathered on her face. She didn't blush this time, but her cheeks suddenly looked like a little girl who had gotten into her mother's rouge.

"Norm said you'd help me," she snorted. "He said you were a good guy." She looked at me like I was some kind of bug. The effect of looking down her nose at me was marred by the fact that the nose was bent a little bit. "Obviously he was deluded."

"Norm?"

"Norman Bidwell," she said, finally starting to turn.

"How the hell do you know Norman Bidwell?" I asked. Norm was a professional photographer who had hired me to recover five thousand dollars worth of wedding photographs paid for with a check that bounced all the way to Milwaukee. The groom thought he was special because he was a lower level mobster type. He had no idea that I'd done some work for some of the heavyweights in his "company" and that I could arrange it for them to be embarrassed if the story got out to certain parties. Somewhat ironically, the mob has a very strict code of ethics. You can steal somebody blind, but you never welsh on a deal. I hope he had a nice honeymoon, cause when he got back he owed his bosses five grand ... with interest. I figured Norm would rather have the money than a bunch of pictures.

I know what you're thinking. What kind of self respecting gumshoe deals with the mob? The kind who has bills to pay, that's what kind. Get over it. They're out there and they have money. I don't do their dirty work. Even mobsters have legitimate needs sometimes, and pursue them in legitimate ways. Call it networking. Besides, knowing the right people can get you a lot farther than standing on your principles or yelling about how holy thou art.

Anyway, Norm did mostly portrait work, and this little slice of happiness wasn't really the sort who looked like she'd be comfortable in front of a camera.

She paused on her way to the door. "I did his website, and when I told him about the problem with my mother, he said he knew somebody who was good at that sort of thing. I'm sorry you wasted my time."

Man, that girl could pout. She could give lessons.

"Website," I said. I was no longer convinced this was one of Vinny's crazy schemes to give me a hard time.

"I'm a web designer," she said tightly. She blinked. "Do YOU have a website?" I could see the wheels and gears turning in her head.

"Me?" I laughed. "What the hell would I do with a website?"

"Generate business?" she asked sweetly. Too sweetly. "Oh ... I forgot ... you're not interested in business. You'd rather laugh at people with problems and commit highway robbery against them."

"Don't get your panties in a wad," I said. "I thought you were jerking my chain, that's all."