Sunday, April 25, 2010

The Femme Fatale

My life is just like a Mickey Spillane novel, cheap and nasty, but without any of the accompanying sex and violence. Mostly.

I think what is missing is that certain woman-of-mystery. You know, the one that is supposed to slink into the office, lounge around seductively on the furniture, then proceed to send me off into harm's way to get myself frequently injured.

All for some vague promise of future reward.

But thanks to anti-smoking laws, she can't even light up a cigarette in that alluring and suggestive way before placing it in between those moist, full, red lips. Not while she's lounging around the office, anyway.

Of course, the reality is that these alluring sirens just don't exist. Or if they do, they are draped seductively over some other PI's furniture.

I think these are sad days, Dear Reader, when damsels in distress just don't take the time out to prepare themselves properly before engaging us PIs on whatever foolhardy task. Sure, I get the occasional enquiry from a housewife worried about what her errant husband is getting up to but, for some reason, she's just not wearing that shade of red lipstick or long slinky dress that hugs her body in all the right places when we meet to discuss the case.

I feel vaguely cheated.

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