Chapter One, Part 1
She was a knockout, I’ll give her that. But they always are. Since that business back in ’33 at the Empire State Building, every beautiful blonde in a hairy situation thinks the big ape’ll roll over and beg for scraps if she drops in and bats her eyelashes.
When I gently inform them that no, they won’t be buying my services at a discount, even if they do have the greatest gams in the world—well, they bat those eyelashes, push their perfect crimson lips into petulant rosebuds, and pay in full. I might have a reputation for being soft when it comes to the ladies, see, but I have a bigger one for solving problems. So they pay, they pout, and I pound the pavement. I pound it hard enough to leave cracks in the asphalt.
Tonight’s client rapped delicately on my office door. I barked a gruff, “Come,” and waited for the inevitable.
She slipped in, half her face lost in shadow, the other half sculpted by an artist who knew how to chisel beauty and wasn’t afraid of overdoing it. She blinked at the desk and the empty chair behind it. Her eyes trailed over the back of the chair, to the window offering a view of nothing much to see, and—
There it was: the scream. Happens every time.
Give this doll points for poise: she slapped a hand over her mouth before that scream reached someone call the coppers pitch. She gulped it down, recalling where she was, why she was here, whom she’d come calling after.
That would be me—peering in through that third-floor window into his own office. I tipped my size-80 hat and growled, “Evening, Miss. Please—come in.”
She inched forward, her heels scraping wakes of fear along the floor. I poked a finger through the window and pointed at two chairs opposite the desk. “Have a seat.” She eyed them with the faintest hint of distaste, then glanced up at me, terrified I’d take offense. I tried my best reassuring smile—no teeth. There was probably a quarter-inch skim of dust on each seat. But what could I do about that? They don’t make feather dusters to fit my hand. And I have a hell of a time keeping a cleaning lady.
Women don’t want much to do with me, see—until they need something from me. Then they knock on my door with a problem, a plea, and that pout. It’s not very good for the old self-esteem. Hell, it’s not even that good for the wallet. But it’s a living, about the best a big ape can do in this rat’s nest of speakeasies, flophouses, and back alleys yokels call the Big Apple.
The name’s Kong. I’m a private detective.
Check back next week for the continuing saga of King Kong: World’s Biggest Dick!