I like my cases like I like my coffee: dark and bitter, with a little grit at the end. So when the dame stepped into my office, I thought she looked promising. Any dick worth his badge (or worth his pay, if he’s in my line of work) could tell she was out for blood. She had a look on her face that belonged on a wolf – her eyes were narrow, her teeth slightly bared, and there was gray hair on her cheeks. I asked how she wanted me to address her; I won’t take a case from someone who won’t give me a name. That kind of work belongs to button men and other, harder types.
She spoke in a rough tenor – maybe she’d had a few smokes too many, back when she could call herself beautiful. As it was, she looked about as pretty as an old country highway: thick and curved, but rugged around the edges, and filled with years of pits and grooves.
“Howe,” she managed, and then fell silent.
I don’t consider patience a virtue, but I needed the dough. “Yes,” I replied, “that’s what I asked. How should I address you, Miss?”
“No. That’s my name. Howe.” This was turning into something out of Abbott and Costello. I waited for her to go on, but she had clammed up tighter than, well, a clam.
I started thinking maybe there might be more to this than the simple work-him-over stint I was expecting; most rough-looking Dames are after nothing more than a bit of revenge, either on some other dame or on someone who’s been with some other dame. I’m not too picky about my cases this time of year.
When I saw she was having trouble collecting her wits, as happens with most dames, I decided to throw her a line.
“Well, Miss, what can I do for you?” That’s always a good way to start. Most dames will perk up when a body’s polite. This one was no exception.
“I’ve got a joint I want you to dig around in. Dirty work, but the money’s clean. ”
The case seemed clear enough, but I wasn’t about to walk into an alley with no light. “Now Miss, some dicks’ll work on less than that, but not me. I need to know the particulars: where is this joint, who owns it, how old is it, what’s it used for and all that. What’s the dirt on your ‘building?’”
Her eyes managed to narrow even further, and when she spoke again, her tone was changed. “Those questions are the reason why I want your services, Mr. Keen. I want you to find the answers.” She paused. “I’ll tell you, the building is located approximately 20 minutes from a small Turkish town called Gazipaşa. It is a potential monastery and has two rooms, one of which has already been excavated. Besides some confusingly ordered rafter holes and burned pottery, which suggest a large fire that collapsed the roof, the last P.I. didn’t find much, which is why I’ve come to you. I want you to look into the other room, whose only currently visible features are a ramshackle wall and some oddly shaped bedrock, and see if you can sort out precisely what you asked: its function, as well as its age and purpose.”
This case wasn’t shaping up the way I thought it would. Her tone was changing. She was telling me more than I’d asked for, and I didn’t like the sound of “the last P.I.;” when it’s between my head and my gut, I always go with my gut. I told her I wasn’t up for the case. She told me to go to hell. Next thing I knew, she had two goons slipping through my door – they had hands as big as hubcaps, but greasier. I tried to do some fast talking with my .45, but he couldn’t get a word in before the gorillas started playing percussion with my skull. The last thing I heard before lights out was the dame laughing, “my building has no dirt on it, Mr. Keen, only soil.”