by Karl Tutt
“Dee?” I knew the voice immediately.
I was already breathing hard and there was a longing between my legs.
“I’m sorry, Dee. I didn’t want to do this on the phone, but I have to be careful. I just can’t . . . I mean it won’t work with us. You know what I’m doing in the fall. Everyone will be watching. I’ve got be ready.”
“Yeah, you do. I guess I’m baggage. Very heavy and very dirty.”
“No . . . I mean . . . “
“I know what you mean, Rod.”
I hung up. The man was ambitious. Maybe our next senator from Florida. Running around with an ex-stripper, call girl and disgraced cop could put us on the cover of THE NATIONAL EQUIRER. We’d be front page news in every grocery store in the country. He couldn’t afford the risk. Hell, it’s every man . . . and every woman . . . for herself. I cried, but not too much. I remembered Dad’s wise words. “The only thing you can trust is that each person will act in his own self-interests”. So it goes.
What to do now? I still had to make a buck and keep myself off the streets. At first I had a tough time figuring it out. The only things I was good at were pole dancing and hooking. I sure wasn’t going back to the strip clubs and hooking -- at least the kind I was doing -- has a lousy retirement system. I was no longer a cop, at least not the public kind. Actually it didn’t take me that long.
The answer was sort of obvious. I’m a hooker again, just a different sort of client. Got my license, rented a small office and looked for someone I could trust. The name’s on the door in WalMart stick on letters.
DEE RABOW
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
I am sitting across the desk from an old friend. You’re gonna tell me I’m crazy. But we already knew that, didn’t we?
My old friend? His name’s on the door, too. Ricky Fuenes, crooked cop, knight in white armor, old partner, new partner, the guy who thought about killing me, the guy who wouldn’t let me die. Hey, it makes sense to me.
Now if we can just get a damned case or two.