by Tee Morris
In between my numerous “Waldorf” appearances, I started looking around for two things every detective needs to begin a career in the city: office space and suits. Before too long, I found a perfect corner office overlooking the library, where it had all begun for me. When I added up the cash to see what I could start, I was more than impressed by what a novelty act could make in less than six months’ time. It also helped that I wasn’t already paying for a flop, thanks to the library’s boiler room.
After putting cash down for the office space, furnishings, and even a secretary, I still had a nice bundle left over. While being four-foot-one meant wearing custom-made suits, at least I didn’t have to worry about paying for a lot of material. I kept it simple, with pinstripes being my only luxury. According to the library’s newspapers and from what I saw on my nights on the town, brown and navy blue seemed to be the fashion.
Hey, just because I’m a dwarf doesn’t mean I can’t take steps to look good.
So, I bit the bullet and hocked a few tools of the soldier’s trade, along with the deerskin boots and leather armor. It wasn’t like I was parting with any treasured heirlooms. This was who I was back in Acryonis. Wearing the suits and paying the landlord for the first month’s rent was my big goodbye to the past. So began the career of Billibub Baddings, private eye.
I still had, mounted proudly on the walls of my office, my “survival gear.” There was a charmed battle-axe and war hammer crisscrossed over a two-handed broadsword that, if you stood it on its tip, nearly matched me in height. I also had a reliable mace and a ball-and-chain that countered the display on the opposite wall. I’m not the sentimental type, but I did want to hang on a couple of things, just to remind me of the good times. And let’s face it—these were reminders that still mattered. In a pinch, I could dust off the axe and hammer and do damage, if need be. I hadn’t found a use for these weapons in this world. Yet. For now, I defended myself just fine with my modest collection of boom daggers.
“Boom daggers.” Yeah, I remember calling “guns” that in my first few weeks in town. Looking back on it now, I can’t help but laugh, but now and again I still like to remind myself of my origins to keep me right with this world.
Now, you might think throwing daggers and axes in battles involves nothing more than muttering a quick prayer to the Fates, closing your eyes, and throwing a blade in the general direction of a bloodlust-filled scream. I don’t think so. You got to know how to throw, how hard to throw, and how to aim. Without aiming properly, throwing your weapon is just plain stupid. It leaves you unarmed, for one thing.
I was really good when it came to accuracy. (Won a couple of axe-throws in my Gryfennos days.) Turns out that my natural ability also extended to boom daggers. Not too long after I bought my first gun, I set aside cash to pay some country bumpkin for a few pointers on how to shoot. By the end of the day, I was teaching old Farmer Brown how to draw a better bead on moving targets.
In one desk drawer was a spare Roscoe, and in another drawer, a hogleg with a .38 that only came out to play if I expected too much trouble for Beatrice. Beatrice was my first gun, a .45 automatic in its shoulder holster, draped on the coat rack. The weapons of this time were pretty impressive, and if you knew how to use them, they could be lethal. Even if you didn’t, you could still do enough damage to make a guy think twice about looking at your wench in an ungentlemanly way.
Ever since Chicago was dubbed “Gangland” by some bureaucrats far off in Washington, D.C. who wouldn’t know bathtub gin from seltzer water, everyone needed something done on the Q.T. Cops were either on the take, or too busy playing it safe so as not to turn their wives into widows. I took all this to mean that I had chosen wisely to pursue the career of a private investigator.
Once I got my name on the door, the clients were steady. This month, though, had been slow. I could hear Miranda outside my office door, filing her nails. Obviously finished with the paper-pushing and bill-paying duties, she was now counting the minutes to the weekend.
She was a cute, bosomy brunette from Leonard, Missouri, who had stepped off the bus with a meager life savings and a smile, determined to make it big in modeling. Her plan was to make connections here and follow the catwalk all the way to New York. The kid had potential, with legs that went up to her neck, a waist that an elf would kill for, and a good, healthy chest blessed with God-gifted buoyancy. She was almost the perfect woman in her five-foot-eight stature, but she was a bird who had brains, and that made her a dangerous combination.
I still thank the Fates that she answered my ad in the Chicago Chronicle. She was the fourth applicant who was easy on the eyes, but Miranda’s predecessors lacked something that she had in abundance: a command of basic grammar. She not only had a way with a Smith & Corona, but could also write with a flair that would make Fitzgerald green with envy. I hired her right away. She immediately put the office to order, keeping my books balanced and the place looking tidy and nice. Even brought in a few plants to liven up the surroundings, although the modest rubber tree by my desk was silently turning a depressing shade of brown and black. Guess my thumb wasn’t green enough for its liking.
When Miranda and I first laid eyes on each other, it wasn’t the best of beginnings because we both couldn’t stop staring. She was staring at me because—well, hell—look at me! I’m a dwarf! A four-foot-one Casanova with a thirty-something-inch waist, long red beard and braided hair in a custom-made blue pinstripe is going to catch your attention! As for me, I kept staring at her chest on account of the low-cut blouse that provided a sneak peek at what the Good Lord had graced her with. Now, I’d seen my fair share of racks strapped in chain mail, leather armor, and a wide assortment of fashion that gives the term “breast plate” a whole new spin, but there was just something about the clothing of this realm and what it left to the imagination.
Miranda finally quipped, “Take a picture and the memory’s yours forever…” to which I replied, “Yeah, well, not only am I a private dick, I’m also a great footstool in a pinch!”
We had a good laugh, and the interview finally made it to Mick’s, where we enjoyed java and chili together. (You got to love a girl who appreciates fine cuisine.) There, I fed her a story about parents who didn’t love me, my days with the circus, and finally jumping ship to find myself a home here in Chicago. (The circus idea worked really well because I would sometimes get the odd phone call from the agent asking for the “Waldorf” routine.) She never knew the real story because, quite honestly, I didn’t think she needed to know. Even though being my right arm for these many moons now (and coming up on a year…damn, I’d better think of something special to do for her!), I just don’t think she needed that kind of a burden. Some secrets are best kept to yourself.
The rapid scritch-scritch-scritch of Miranda’s nail-sculpting broke the stillness in the air. A stillness like that before a storm conjured by a necromancer’s hand. My eyes stared at the words spelling out “Baddings Investigations” in reverse, gracefully arched across the smoky glass of the doorway’s pane. The frosted glass caught the glow of the hallway lights, but no silhouettes of approaching customers.
The quiet times were when I grew the most anxious. I hopped down from my chair and paced the office floor, slowly stroking my long, red beard. It had been a really dry month, and my brain started to ponder, plan, and worry. I picked up my mitt and bounced a worn-in baseball against a blank spot on the wall between the baseball pictures I’d hung in my office for personality.
Of all the things in this strange world, I found a natural attraction to baseball. Don’t know if it was just the spirit of competition nurtured in the sport, or the carefree attitudes of the pastime’s finest. I suppose you could say that the sport had a magic all its own, and I fell victim to its spell.
I couldn’t help but smile whenever I cast a glance on my prized possession: an autographed picture of Babe Ruth, posing with yours truly. It was one of those “right places at the right times” kind of photographs. Me b
eing a dwarf, he thought I was a bit of a laugh. Imagine his surprise when this dwarf gave the attitude right back at him. That gave way to the picture of Babe, enjoying a big guffaw while shaking my little hand. He respected attitude. I like that.
The ball I now tossed was a pop fly I’d caught while in the cheap seats at a Cubs-Phillies game. Sometimes it pays to be the “odd man out.”
“Billi!” Miranda snapped while continuing to file her nails. “You keep that up, and you’re going to knock a hole in the wall. Landlord will have your ass on a plate.”
“Eh, come on, Miranda, you know I do this when I get restless.”
“I know that. You know that.” Miranda paused in her chiding to pop her chewing gum. “The landlord looks at it as property damage, not therapy.”
She had a point, but I couldn’t shake this restless feeling. It was that same uneasiness I always knew before a charge against enemy ranks, battle-axe in my grasp with my fingers splaying slowly around the handle. If I were pacing the office with my axe in hand, it would have probably made Miranda’s chestnut-brown mane turn white. I figured the pitching practice was a nicer alternative.
The ball bounced back from the plaster wall and returned to the form-fitting mitt with a satisfying snap.
“Fine, then,” Miranda shrugged. “Just don’t take it out of my paycheck.”
“You got nothing to worry about, sweets. If anything, you deserve a raise.”
I could hear the creak of Miranda’s chair as she stood up and crossed the room to my own office. A second later, she was leaning against the open door frame and smiling, lightly blowing her nails clean. In the blouse she wore, her voluptuous beauties presented themselves proudly. Yeah, that’s what I really love about Miranda. She knows what she’s got, and isn’t shy about showing it off. To that end, I did take her under my wing (a short wing to say the least) and gave her a few quick pointers on how to protect herself if any mook wanted to give her a reason. She’s a good girl.
“What’s that about a raise?” she pressed.
“Now, come on, Miranda.” I smiled, defiantly throwing the ball back against the wall. “You know as well as anybody the book’s been a little tight lately. What we need is a case that’ll set us up better than some of these nickel-and-dime divorce jobs. Then, I can finally give you that raise I’ve been promising. The Fates know you’ve earned it, keeping a dwarf like me in line.”
Miranda gave a heavy sigh. “You’re just like all the other men in my life.”
I raised a bushy eyebrow. “Four-foot-one with scraggly beards, fiery-red hair, and devilishly handsome good looks?”
“No, just telling me what I deserve but not delivering,” she smiled with a mischievous wink.
“Miranda, honey.” I snapped the glove tight around the ball and turned to face her. “Now, you know I don’t want to mix the business life with the personal one. I wouldn’t want to hurt you emotionally…” I returned her the same kind of wink. “…or physically.”
She rolled her eyes and popped her gum again. “If I were given a buck every time a guy told me that, I wouldn’t need a raise.” Miranda measured with her thumb and index finger a space in the air about the length of a yeoman’s arrowhead as I wound up on my imaginary pitcher’s mound, with the Sultan of Swat threatening to send my next pitch into the Acryonis Highlands. “I ask you, Billi, since when is this eight inches?”
And this is yet another charming aspect of Miranda’s personality. She is every inch of a woman—sultry and hot as a dragon’s den, where the humid air collects against rock walls and coats the floor with a silvery sheen, one drop at a time. She also has the edge of an enchanted blade, an attitude absent from the stereotypical “small-town girl” found in the farmlands of El Hanor Durea or in Norman Rockwell’s Saturday Evening Post covers. Miranda can talk like one of the guys, smoke a stogie with a twinkle in her eye, kick back a shot of Jack Daniels, and still keep her elegance while sinking an eight ball in the corner pocket. It is something I do love about her, and something about her that continuously catches me off guard.
I gave my next pitch to Babe a bit too much pepper. The ball impacted at a high speed, sending a few chips of paint behind the file cabinets and covering my mitt in plaster powder with a leather-kissed snap.
“I’m not gonna say it, Billi,” Miranda said with a shrug.
“That’s good, since I know you’re already thinking it,” I scoffed. “How about you take the rest of the day off? It’s Friday. Find a nice book or bachelor to curl up with tonight, why don’t ya?”
She smiled. “Sounds like a plan, Billi.”
It was Friday and the clock was at three-thirty. I couldn’t justify keeping Miranda in the office simply out of spite. She had warned me about the wall, and I’d chosen not to listen. The phone rarely jingled between now and five o’clock, anyway. Far be it from me to keep the little minx imprisoned in this cage of stone, paint, and office supplies.
She was out the door faster than her shadow could keep up.
I always enjoyed this time alone in my office—even now, with my anxiety hitting unusual levels—because this was when I sorted out the thoughts of the week. My usual ritual between five and six: across the street to Mickey’s for a chili dinner special, and then a couple of blocks home to a modest one-bedroom flop. I was starting the weekend a little early myself, albeit not an exciting one by the looks of things. Eh, I never hit the town unless the mood suited me, and even then, I needed the right company. Seeing as I didn’t have either, I was looking at a quiet weekend, and that suited me just fine. Maybe a couple days on my own was just what the apothecary ordered.
The tink of the bottle’s lip sounded like it hit the glass hard, but it was merely the quiet of the room. It was a city kind of quiet, peppered with the soft rumble of traffic, the occasional car horn or siren, and the newsboy shouting out the headline of the Chicago Defender or the Tribune. I poured a healthy dose of Canadian whiskey and raised the glass to my lips. That warm nectar blessed my body like an old friend, sending a shudder that ale, mead, or my family’s home recipe couldn’t match.
Yeah, another love of mine in this world—the alcohol. Sweet Ambrosia. Sure, we were in the middle of the Prohibition, but in Chicago, it wasn’t a question of how you got the alcohol, but where. This little vice’s hiding place was a small compartment behind the team picture of the ’28 Cubs. (My first season with the guys! What an arm on that Sheriff Blade!) I couldn’t take the chance of any surprise visits from the local precinct. Nowadays, you needed the talents of a seer to tell who in the police was crooked and who was straight. Besides, I needed a drink. I didn’t particularly like the financial alternatives facing me. Calling up Harv and dusting off the “Waldorf” routine kept reappearing as the only solution. If I had to tell one more high-society dink the way to the can was to “Follow the Yellow Brick Road…”
But a dwarf’s got to do what a dwarf’s got to do. I got responsibilities to Miranda, the business, and myself. My fingers gripped the receiver, and even the slight chill of its surface didn’t sober me up enough to stop me from placing this call. I dialed the number and waited. One ring. Two rings.
Her voice made my blood go ice-cold. “Showenstein Talent Agency.” It was Mabel. It was always Mabel. The woman was older than some mountains in my valley.
My mouth moved to say, “Hello, Mabel, it’s Billi Baddings…” but I paused.
“Hello? Hel-lo?!” the voice crackled angrily. “I know someone’s there. I can hear you breathing!”
The doorknob was turning. At first I thought Miranda had forgotten her compact, or something. Then I saw the silhouette through the window, and that was when I hung up on Mabel.
The silhouette wasn’t Miranda. The silhouette was an opportunity.
She was a tall, cool woman, and through her veil I could still see, set in a pale canvas of smooth, supple skin, eyes as dark as a man’s intentions on that first meeting. The perfume she wore carried a bouquet of lilacs, rose, musk, and a touc
h of sandalwood. In a single word: expensive. She wore her hat at a tilt to block out the slanting rays of the early-evening sun, giving her angular face an even more exotic look. Her body held every curve in just the right place, giving her frame a profile that would make a Highland Elf long for the rolling hills and valleys of home. She was tall to begin with, but the designer heels she wore made her a six-foot mountain I would take delight in climbing sometime. The dying sunlight streaming through my office window caught the cascade of hair spilling from her wide-brimmed hat for only a moment, a blanket of raven-dark hair falling to the small of her back. Her lips matched the hue of a fine Italian red wine, and in that moment, I couldn’t help but feel a bit parched.
Oh yeah, the weekend was off to a good start.
“Excuse me.” It was a voice that spoke to me in a dream once. She had a polished, refined tone, sounding close to the “British” dialect of this world. “I’m looking for Mr. Billy Baddings of Baddings Investigations.”
“That’s me.”
“You’re Billy Baddings?”
And you just asked the prize-winning question—give this girl a Cupie doll! The question never came as a shock to me, because I knew a dwarf in this realm tended to turn a few heads wherever he went. Face it: Would you really expect a Scrappie like me as a private dick? Ringling Brothers, sure. Party entertainer, absolutely. But a gumshoe? So yeah, this was a familiar routine to me. Familiar, and annoying as hell, but I always have to handle this routine like a pro. All I need to do is get a client in the door, and the rest is up to me to sell them on my talents in discretion.
But first, the floor show. “Yeah, I know I don’t look like a Billy. I’m more of a Todd, or maybe a Brian.”
Ten minutes. Ten minutes is the average time a client’s shock at seeing that Billy Baddings is a dwarf glues their feet to my office floor. If I could keep her on my side of the threshold, I knew the case was mine.