Grad School, Part 307

She was a tall drink of water, that's for sure. Hell, a broad built that well doesn't just walk into your office every day of the week. I mean, this dame was quality. Those stems went all the way up. At least I assumed they did. I didn't exactly ask to ensure for myself, if you know what I mean.

- I hear you're a man who knows how to find people. That you're a real people finder, Mr. Pickle.

- That depends, sweetheart. And that's Detective Pickle to most people. Pick to my friends.

- Well... Pick... What exactly does it depend on?

She had that deep, breathy voice. You know the kind of mean. She must have been around the block a few times. She smelled like a carton of Lucky Strikes and her voice sounded like she'd smoked more than a few in her time. But dammit if that isn't just how I like 'em. She was some kind of tall, smoky drink of water, I tell ya.

- Depends on lots of things, Mrs...?

- Miss. Hotcans.

Obviously a fake name, but with a tuchus like that, who's going to argue?

- Alright, Miss Hotcans. Depends on who you need found. Depends on what you need 'em found for. And mostly, it depends on how much you're willing to pay for the privilege of the finding.

- Okay, Pick. How about this? I want you to find my sister. Layla. Layla Hotcans. Aren't you going to write this down.

She must be kidding. Hotcans was her real name? Or the sister used the same alias?

- Oh, I got a mind like a steel trap sister. You just keeping yappin'. Ol' Pick'll keep it all up here.

- Very well... Mr. Pickle.

So that was how she was going to play it. Well alright toots. Two can tango. Three can mambo. Four can salsa. Five can do the can-can. After that we just got ourselves a real crowded dance floor, if you take my meaning.

- Please, Miss Hotcans. Continue.

- My sister disappeared two weeks ago. She lives in Mission Bay and I... I...

She started to cry a little. What a cute little act. I could tell this tight little shotgun piece wouldn't cry from an onion up her pantyhose. You could smell that a mile away. The scent of a hardcase was all over her. Between that, the lightly toasted smell of her Luckies and the intoxicating flatulence she was laying liberally into the air, I was hooked. Damn, she could have bottled that scent and I would have poured it in my coffee in the morning. That's right, baby. I'm a real fart-sniffer and I ain't afraid to say it. These mean streets call for a man to sniff a fart occasionally. And I'll be an orangutan's bare-assed monkey's cousin once removed if you think I'm not going to do my very damned best to enjoy the smell. Of the farts. That I'm sniffing.

I handed her a tissue.

- Here. Miss Hotcans, please don't cry. Dry those eyes mama. Pick'll figure this all out.

- Thank... Thank you Detective... Pick. Yes, I don't know how I'll ever thank you.

- Oh we'll think of something, I'm sure.

With that, she let out a deep wet trumpet blast. I leaned my face in and breathed deep. My nostrils flared with the sheer elation of the moment. We locked eyes for a moment and a devilish grin crept across her face. I knew it then, like I know it now. We were destined to do the horizontal mambo. To make the beast with one back and one face buried in one smelly anus.

My favorite dance...

To be continued... maybe...