kc_obrien | DailyPrompt - "St. Valentine's Day"

Valentine’s Day. In the City of Angels, in a job like mine, you've got to keep yourself freed up the day of and the day after. Oh sure, being a PI on the day would occasionally have you in the field all day, tracking down cheating fellas and wayward dames whose excuses weren't good enough for their significant others, and a couple who genuinely did have work and ill-timed family events; ill timed for the paranoid boyfriend's pocketbook, at least.

Today, though, was different. I found my docket empty, blissfully so, consumed only with finishing up some paperwork and the daunting task of a long date with my good friend Johnny Walker, a rocks glass and a splash of water. What, a girl can't drink scotch?

I was just about to call it a day when I heard a set of stilettos ringing off the fake marble the super had installed outside my office. I slid my glass so it was hidden just behind my computer screen. Okay, so sue me for romanticizing my daily toil a little bit. You'd think I'd just shot the pope for the way you're looking at me. It's my monologue, damnit, and it can sound however the hell I want it to. Now where was I?

The skirt. (Shut up, let me have my fun)

I saw her silhouette through the frosted glass door, it opened and a halo of cigarette smoke entered, the vanguard of her entering into my personal space. I was about to say something about it, and wonder how the hell she got past the doorman with a cigarette in hand (Karl was an almost militaristic anti-smoker) when the dame followed the smoke. She was a bombshell, in the truest sense of the word, with curves that looked like they'd been stamped out at a Mattel plant. She was wearing a white pencil skirt that hugged her hips in all the right ways, with a matching coat and hat, and the goods under there were constricted perfectly by a silky black blouse. I looked from her to the cigarette and back; I guess Karl wasn't gay after all. And I sure as hell wasn't going to have her put it out (if you were wondering which side of THAT line I was standing on).

"I hope I'm in the right place." Her voice was soft and sultry; a little unsure and maybe a little afraid. She took a compulsive drag of the cigarette to calm her nerves.

"Are you looking for Joe Carter the Private Eye?" I rose from my desk so that I could look her in the eye and found that even standing it was tough; the gams on this dame...

"Where is he?" Her voice was hopeful, her eyes wide and a little needy.

"You're looking at her." I shot her a bright little smile and hoped I didn't leer at her too much.

"You're Joe?" She asked dubiously, puff puff.

"It's short for Josephine."

"But... don't most people shorten Josephine to Jo, with two letters?" Puff. Puff puff. Blow.

"Not when you're a female private investigator looking to get jobs in a town where everyone imagines Jack Nicholson sitting behind this desk in a cream suit." Myself included. But I figured I made a pretty enough picture and had a smart enough mouth to keep 'em here once they walked in the door.

"Touché." She took a long drag and exhaled through her nose. I'm not usually into smokers either, but on her, it looked cute.

"Have a seat, Miss..." I gestured to the comfortable chair in front of my desk.

"Misses," she corrected, breaking my heart for the first time, "Montoya, Mrs Jeffrey Montoya." She swallowed, looked as though she was about to break down, then took another couple puffs of her cigarette. "Kelly." She sat down, and I extricated the ashtray I kept for 'special occasions' and set it on the desk in front of her.

"Well, Kelly, what can I help you with?" I leaned forward and tried not to be too eager to help her. Last thing I needed her to do was run out thinking that some dyke PI was more interested in coming onto her than getting down to business. (Ask me another time if she would have been right)

"It's my husband," she sniffled, then took a long drag, "he's gone missing... and... I think he's dead." A sob racked her body. "Won't you help me?" She pleaded, snuffing out the cigarette.

"Of course I will, Mrs. Montoya." Happy Valentine’s Day to Me.

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