The day dawned hot and muggy. Hot like an egg frying on the dashboard of a '76 Camaro out in the LA sun for three and a half hours. Exactly 88 degrees. Muggy like a back alley in New Orleans, stinking of sweat and fear and the three twenties you keep in your shoe for emergencies. And, like a conjunction between two ideas that go together.

I was sitting in my office, contemplating whether 8 AM was too early to crack open the bottle of Chivas sitting in the bottom left drawer of my desk, when in walked trouble.

She was tall, with legs that started at the floor and went all the way up to her hips. I knew she was going to be trouble the moment I laid eyes on the blonde wig and the lipstick that reminded me of a sign – a stop sign. What got me thinking that way was that it was red and had the word "STOP" printed on it.

"I'm looking for Sam," she purred.

"That’s what the sign on the door says, princess. I'm Sam. Sam Ladle."

I decided it wasn't too early for the Chivas after all and laid two shot glasses on my desk.

"Ladle?" She looked confused.

"Spade was taken. So was Spoon, Sai, Shit. It was all gone. I didn't even know that detectives couldn't share a name, but there's a copyright office and everything."

I poured two shots, looked her over once again, and downed them both.

"So what can I do for you?" I said, wincing.

She sidled up to my desk like a cat on waxed linoleum. "My boyfriend's been murdered," she said, her eyes lingering a little on the shot glasses. "I need you to find out who did it."

I snorted loudly, making the delicate whiskey come back up my nose. "You don't need me, Toots," I replied, my eyes watering. “You need the police. Why don't you go eyeball their shot glasses and leave me in peace?"

Her eyes darkened. "What? You got clients coming out your ears? I got money – I can pay you."

"Now that's a different story," I said after my coughing fit ended. "I get $244 a day, plus expenses."

She frowned, her eyes still dark. "That's an odd number."

"I know. I quit smoking when cigs hit six samoleans a pack, so I don't charge for that anymore." I filled the shot glasses again and put the bottle away. When I'm working a case, I don't get three sheets to the wind before 10. This time I handed her one of the shots.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" I asked.

She downed the stuff like a pro and slammed the glass down.

"My boyfriend never hurt nobody," she said. "He liked to sit and just watch the world go by, ya know? He was rich, too. He invested in all kinds of stuff, like drugs. He was smart."

She wiped a tear, which smeared her mascara and made her look like a raccoon.

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a crying dame in my office. But before I could throw her out, I remembered the money.

“There, there, and all that stuff," I said convincingly. "How did he kick the buck- I mean, how did he die?"

"He fell off a wall," she said. "But I think he was pushed."

"Why? Did he have enemies?"

"That's just it – everybody loved him. I mean, all the king's horses and all the king's men tried to help when he fell. I didn't know anybody that didn't like him."

I didn't like where this was going.

"So what makes you think he was pushed?"

"Because he was careful. He never fell. Never. He was fragile, and he was scared of breaking, so he was careful like you wouldn't believe."

She looked like she was going to cry again and was wistfully eyeing the shot glass.

"So if he was so fragile, what the hell was he doing sitting on a wall?"

Against my better judgment, I reached for the whiskey again and poured two more shots. It's easier to be an alcoholic private eye if you’ve got company. I was told you either pour two shots or none.

"He liked the view, I dunno."

She slammed the drink and looked me square in the eye.

"Are you taking the case?"

I noticed that she had a lazy eye – somewhat distracting, but strangely attractive at the same time. She was looking at me and everywhere else all at once.

I reminded myself that although she was obviously back on the market, she was still grieving. Also, the money.

"Fine. I’ll see what I can do."

I put my head down on my desk, nursing a future hangover and the feeling that I was going to regret taking this particular case.

I heard her get up and walk toward the door.

"Give me a buzz when you find something," she called from the entryway. "You do know how to call, don't you?"

I winced.

"Just pick up the phone, put it to your ear," she said. "Your right ear if you're right-eared, your left ear if you're left-eared – then push the buttons in the right order and wait for me to answer. I'll be waiting."

And with that, she was gone, leaving me wondering how she ever had sex with that egg, and why I didn't ask for any money upfront.

The Delusionist is actually Wolfram Donat, who runs the creatively titled Irrelevant Cheetah.
wolf@wolframdonat.com