Who Put the Bomp in the Bomp Bomp Bomp?: A Rock and Roll Mystery Part 2
July 28th, 2007 by Rich @ 4:04 pmAnd then she walked into my office and the music stopped, and maybe forever. Black dress cut just high enough and barely low enough. Long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, high strong cheekbones, blood red lips that looked ready kiss or bite. I stared openly at her and she let me, paying about as much attention to me as I would to a housefly. Six feet of curves in all the right places, and places in all the right curves. Just standing still she looked beautiful and deadly, like a cobra poised to strike.
And she was in my office. Things were looking up.
“Are you Dirk Steele, Private Eye?”
Play it cool, Steele.
“Who’s asking, sweetheart?”
I never saw her hand move, never saw her arm stretch out as she slapped me across the face. All I felt was my head rock back on my neck like I got hit with a 2X4 swung by Mickey Mantle on a good day. My ears were ringing, my nose was bleeding, my eyes were watering, and I think I was falling in love. Her hair wasn’t even messed up.
“I’ll ask you again, are you Dirk Steele, Private Eye.”
Play it cool, Steele.
“That’s the name on the door, sweetheart.”
As I picked myself up off of the floor, from the position of her feet (red painted toenails, nice pedicure, toe ring on the index toe of her right foot,ankle bracelet on her left ankle) I guessed she’d caught me with a roundkick to the midsection followed by knee to the face as I headed for the floor. I wiggled a loose tooth, inventoried my ribs for breaks, fractures,or sprains. I decided that instead of love it must have ben indigestion; they feel a lot alike, actually.
“Last chance, cowboy,” she said. “Are you Dirk Steel, Private Eye?”
Play it smart Steele.
“Yes ma’am, what can I do for you?”
“Sit down and don’t get blood on my dress. I have a job for you.”
“What kind of job?” I asked.
“It’s my brother”, she said. He was murdered and I want you to find out who did it!”
“That’s a job for the cops, lady. They don’t appreciate when a guy like me starts snooping around one of their cases. It makes them all nervous like.”
“Not this time, Mr Steele. They don’t believe he was murdered. They say it was suicide. And I know Ben. He would never kill himself, not like that. He was a fighter and he had a dream and nobody with a dream can kill themselves”
Her blue eyes were flashing with indignation, and I felt that indigestion coming on again, or maybe it was a cracked rib. How could I tell this deadly angel that dreamers die fast and hard in this town, just as fast and hard as their dreams came crashing down around them. I should know; I crashed a lot of them in my day.
But how could I tell her that?