Whittling and Whistling on My Day Off

A re-post of a non-political musing.

It’s a hot and humid night and I’m sitting behind my desk, bored, reading the words on the door.  The door is open to let in air, and the lights are off to conserve cash.  A deck of Luckies is on the desk next to my feet and a lit fag is hanging from my lips.

I’m leaning back with my hands clasped behind my head thinking about closing up when the light from the bare bulb in the hallway gets real dim.  She’s a tall drink of water and the bulb’s light glowing through her hair makes her look like an angel with a halo.  She’s standing there staring at me, her head cocked to one side, her hip up against the jamb; she doesn’t look like she belongs in this part of town.

D. Sallee--Private Detective, the words say.  Yeah, that’s a big jump from last year when I was doing a nickel up the river, my name was a number and I certainly wasn’t no Private Dick.  I was sent up for busting that old man’s kneecaps because he wouldn’t pay the vig on the money he owed Blackie.  But that’s all behind me; I’m legit now.  I’m even allowed to pack heat.

I’m curious about what the looker wants, so I say: “What can I do for you babe?”  “I want to hire you” she says,  “I’m in trouble and need help”.  “C’mon in, sit down and take a load off” I tell her. After she sits down I pass her the deck of Luckies and ask her name.  “Joey Schwarz” she says with an accent that screams Bed-Stuy and tenements even though she’s dressed to the nines.  Then it hits me, like a ton of bricks: Schwarz is kraut for Black.  She’s Blackie’s moll.  Blackie sent her to see if I’m gonna turn fink for him lettin’ me take the rap.  Wouldn’t put it past him.  Wouldn’t put it past the rat bastard. Va fungoul Blackie, I say to my self, va fungoul!

She taps a fag from the deck, sticks it between her lips and leans toward me.  It takes a sec, but I get it, I strike a match and hold it out.  She takes a deep drag and holds it a while before blowing the smoke across my desk.  Classy broad, I think, real classy broad.  Her knees are peeking out from under the hem of her skirt; she crosses her legs, gives me a crooked smile, and starts telling her story.

I’m half listening, half giving her the once over and half thinking---Why does Blackie want to worry about me?  I ain’t a made man but I ain’t a fink either.  Blackie knows that.

She’s wearing high heels, the kind they call Stilettos.  Her skirt is some shiny material, dark green, and her blouse is white and tight.  She’s wearing a jacket that matches her skirt, her hair is dark auburn, and mascara is running down her cheeks, like she’s been crying.  She’s definitely no kraut from the looks of her.  She reeks of old Palermo and I’m glad we are on the third floor and I’m facing the door.  My gat’s in my pocket just in case I need it.

Then, something she says grabs my attention.  “Repeat that” I say tapping the ashes from my fag onto the floor.  “C’mon Dave” she whines “I just need a ride home, it’s late, I’m tired, and my car’s broke down.”  “Okay, okay” I say “it‘s past eleven, I’ve been here since seven and I’m tired too”.  I flip the sign from Open to Closed, turn the key, and walk my sister to the car.