Preconceptions

(I had so much fun writing genre last night ["whitesploitation", as it were] that I thought I'd give it another try again tonight, but stepped back a couple of decades to another popular genre.)




I wish I could say that this time it's different- that it starts with a whisper at midnight or a smoking gun or hell, even something dropped in my drink- but the truth of the matter is that it starts just like it always does:

With a dame.

It's after-hours, which for me is any time I decide I'd rather have my feet up than my nose to the stone- one off the perks of being freelance, get me? So it's after-hours and my ankles are crossed on my desk and a flask is weighing heavy in my hand and the "closed" sign is definitely in the door, but does she care?

Do they ever?

So she walks right in, heels clicking on the tile and I'm thinking to myself, "Gotta' get that damn lock fixed," and then I see what's attached to those heels and all I can think is, "Damn."

"I want to talk to the PI," she says, in a tone that tells me she's all business. "Tell him I'm here."

Well now I like a gal who knows what she wants, but I like it better when she uses what's between her ears. "What's it say on the door?" I drawl, taking a slow sip. It's still after-hours, after all.

"Robert A Harriman, Private Investigator."

"That's me."

"But- you're a woman!"

"Thanks for noticing, sister. And it's Roberta Harriman. 'Course, you missed the 'closed' sign, too, so maybe you ought to give in and put your cheaters back on."