The Girl in the Green Dress

This is kind of a departure for me. I wasn't intending to write a noir sort of story, but that's almost what this came out as. I hope you like it. It includes characters from my stories "Clean Slate" and "Playing It By Ear," in case you wish to go read some more about these people. But they're all such assholes, you might not want to bother, lol!

Enjoy!

* * *

1: Julie's new partner is a dick.

"Cool. Anything else?"

"Yeah." Ben frowned down at his clipboard. "Traci is asking again if you'll authorize access to the party budget."

"Doesn't Kel-Q usually do the party shit?" I yawned. It had been a long day already, and I still needed to get to Profft Street by four. That was just a half-hour!

"Yeah, but this time it's Traci." An occupational hazard of running the kind of restaurant I ran was that most of the waitresses were called things like Traci. Or Meghan. Or Brittni. Or Linzee. Or whatever. I wondered where the hell all the Marys and Ediths had gone. "She told me you should just give her access to the party credit card if you're just going to keep dragging your feet on this bullshit. Her words, boss, not mine."

"Goddammit." I leaned way back in my chair. "She's so annoying."

"She says you put her in charge of the crepe paper for the Christmas thing," Ben shrugged, glancing over at Amy Bishop. She sat, a statue in the corner like always, completely relaxed. But then, when you're representing Corporate, you've got no pressure.

"No, she said she'd take charge of the crepe paper for the Christmas thing," I snapped. I waved a hand. "I never said one thing or the other."

"Well whatever, Tony," Ben shrugged, "either sign the order, or give me the card number and she can do it. At this point, why not?"

"What's she going to do," Amy pointed out softly, "steal the party budget out from under your nose?" It was almost a joke, from a woman not known for joking, and I stared at her. It was so hard to figure out what to say at times like this, but the clock was ticking and Profft Street was waiting.

"Fine. Give her the fucking card number, Ben."

"Cool. One more thing." His eyes glittered as he glanced over at Amy. "We're going to need to advertise for a new hire."

"What?" I had nowhere near enough money for an extra waitress. "Says who?"

"Says the little stick Meghan peed on the other day," Ben snorted.

Fuck! "Meghan's pregnant?"

"We'll have to get rid of her as soon as she starts showing," Amy agreed. "I'll find out whether any of the girls from Southside wants to switch to here."

"Or," Ben wheedled, "we could just do our own hiring..." I traded a sour glance with Amy. Ben doubled as the hiring manager here at Cheeks & Company, and he loved interviewing. Cheeks is an "asstaurant," catering to a certain kind of diner who does not mind if his waitstaff wears almost nothing, and that creep Ben took advantage of the interview process to get an eyeful. Or, according to rumors, a lapful.

"How the fuck is Meghan pregnant?" I moaned. Meghan had the best butt in the whole restaurant, and at 27 she had a sense of maturity a lot of the other girls lacked. I'd been thinking about making her a manager. Now I'd have to go with Lisa...

"Pretty sure she let some guy cum in her vagina," Amy put in, acerbic. She was already making notes. "That's how it usually happens. I'll ask at Southside," she added, with a pointed glance at Ben. "Don't post the job until I tell you to."

"Fuck," I sighed. The clock pulled at me. "Listen, I've got to go. I'll be back in time to supervise the mise en place, but only if I leave now."

"Cool." Ben was finishing up for the day, and Amy was off to do... hell, whatever it was she did down in the mysterious offices of Southside Chiropractic and Wellness. I'd heard rumors of the kinds of things the girls down there did, but I didn't want to know. I had enough problems running Cheeks. "See you tomorrow, boss."

"Yeah." I stared moodily at the schedule. Right now was the slackest time of the whole day, the yawning valley between lunch and dinner, and the schedule said Tori was the manager right now. She could handle it, along with Bar Guy Keith. "Thanks, guys. Next week, Amy?"

"Unless something gets fucked up, Tony," she replied sweetly. I scowled. I did not like Amy. I didn't approve of what she and her partners did down there at the massage place, if half the rumors were true, but what could I do? They paid well, and they'd hired me when nobody else would. She stood now, a rail-thin cadaver with that short hair you see in memes. "Bye."

I stalked out, giving Tori terse instructions. "Hold the fort, okay?"

"Sure thing." Despite her annoying Valley Girl voice, Tori Nguyen gave off an air of ironclad competence and control that belied the bubblegum smacking off her teeth and the skirt that only came about a third of the way down her ass. "I won't let anyone fuck with us."

"Hm. Yeah." We had a total of three covers at the moment, plus a couple of salesmen at the bar, but she was right to be worried. Diners occasionally got handsy, which was another occupational hazard at Cheeks. I nodded as I nudged aside the revolving door, treating myself to a parting glimpse of the bottom of Tori's smooth, tight cheeks as I left.

There are definite perks to working at an asstaurant. My colleagues in the world of breastaurants, I knew, enjoyed their gigs too, but the honest truth was that there wasn't much stopping our girls from going pretty minimal up top too, if they wanted. A trip to Cheeks & Co might show you some tit, too, but a trip to Hooters won't show you very much ass.

Say what you like about Southside Wellness; in building out two restaurants centered on sight of naked female asses, and then getting that past the Health Commission somehow, they'd figured out a way to print their own money.

I swerved my Mustang around some old bitch on the Inland Highway so that I could get to Profft in time, and sure enough, it was 4:01 when I made the turn onto the 1300 block and slowed down among the warehouses there. On cue, the light whoop of a siren split the afternoon, my window glinting blue as the police SUV swung into place behind me. "Right on time," I muttered to myself, glancing into the rearview. I sought some curb space ahead and pulled in.

Without signaling. Because fuck the police.

Two cops emerged from the big black rig, which was one more than I expected. I tilted my rearview as they approached, all cop-nonchalant, the bright sun of early winter reflecting off their aviator shades. Lindberg was wearing her blue uniform today, complete with badge, which surprised me; her buddy, who sauntered up to my passenger side, was a brutal-looking man of maybe thirty or so. I heard his handcuffs scrape against my quarter panel as he sidled up to my window, the inconsiderate motherfucker.

Making sure to keep both hands on the wheel (even though it hardly mattered these days), I smiled blandly up at Lindberg as she leaned down into my window. "Look at you in that uniform, Julie! Been awhile since you've been out of plainclothes." I looked down at where her necktie hid her chest. "Your ass looks great in that outfit."

"Shut the fuck up," her partner grated from the other side of my car, but Lindberg just smiled. She was a cool customer, that was for sure: the youngest and, unfortunately, sharpest detective on the force, she'd had me by the balls for a few years now.

"I know my ass looks great, Tony," she sighed. I could smell her auburn hair, bound tightly under the goofy little police hat. "I figured I should give you a little thrill. You armed, babe?"

"Always." I had a Glock under my jacket, which I knew she knew. Hence, the hands on the wheel.

"Want to pull it out and place it on the passenger seat, buddy?" She smiled. "Carefully?"

"No," I flared. "Your partner might steal it."

"Fuck you," he grunted disgustedly from behind me, but Lindberg smiled again.

"This is my new partner, Aaron DiMaggio. Aaron, meet Tony Massacoli, my most worthless confidential informant."

I turned my head slowly, making sure the big guy could see the contempt in my smile. "DiMaggio." I went for it. "I've been wondering where you'd gone. A nation turns its lonely eyes to you."

Lindberg chuckled slightly as the new guy looked like he wanted to rip my ears off and eat them. "Get the fuck out of that car, you fucking felon."

I smiled easily and chose not to move. "I wasn't convicted, Joltin' Aaron," I reminded him softly. "As I'm sure the lovely Julie here told you."

"Fuck you," he spat, enraged.

"Come on in and try." His act did not work on me, and he needed to know that right off the bat. Which was a good pun, in context; I was thinking of a way to work that into my next taunt when Lindberg sighed.

"Both of you shut up," she ordered, "before I lock you in a room together to suck each other's dicks." She swept her sunglasses off, putting on a fake smile. "You'd like that, though. I'm sure you got more than your share in jail."

I sighed, no longer in the mood for banter. "What do you want, Julie?"

"For starters? Your gun, on the seat beside you. Drop the clip and lock the slide to the rear." Her eyes flickered across to her partner. "Wouldn't want any misunderstandings here. After all, Aaron and I are rusty. Like you said, it's been awhile since we've looked like cops."

"It's a magazine." I didn't move.

Her eyebrows rose. "What the fuck?"

"It's a magazine. Not a clip."

One eyebrow came down, the other one giving her an incredulous expression. "Don't you dare play fucking word games with me, snitch," she spat.

"Yeah. So, to what do I owe the pleasure today?" I hauled out my pistol and took special care to let them see my finger off the trigger as I slipped the mag out and dropped the chambered round. When I looked back at her, she had her hand out flat. "Seriously?"

"No misunderstandings here, Tone," she muttered, still with that smile. But her eyes were dead serious, and she knew she had my dick in a vise, so I laid the ammo in her hand and put the gun on the seat. "We're in uniform so that it won't be obvious we're detectives, talking to fucking sleazebags like you."

"Look at that .380 piece of shit," DiMaggio cackled, examining my gun on the seat. "You should get something with some umph behind it, dickhead." I ignored him, staring at Lindberg. I'd already forgotten about him. He was not important here; as always, this was about Lindberg and me. Her eyes glanced coolly across at her partner, then back to mine as she leaned in.

"You're not my most important CI, Tone, but here we are." I could smell her deodorant now too, the air in my car close as she leaned in. "I need some help from you, maybe."

"Yeah? Maybe?" My whole body was tense. Julie Lindberg was not all that corrupt, really, but there's no telling what cops will do to you if they're feeling peckish.

She made a show of glancing around, but there was never anyone in this part of town. It was all light industry, and the shifts didn't change at four. "Drugs, babe."

I arched an eyebrow. "Drugs?" That was something I'd never been into, at all... but my old buddy Roderick was, and Lindberg knew it.

"We're seeing a lot of movement. Fentanyl mostly, but some other stuff as well." She squinted. "I was on this guy's ass last week, you know, trailing him, when all of a sudden? Guess who he passed his stash to?"

I made my eyes go wide. "Gee whillikers. I'm on fire with anticipation, Julie."

"One of your waitresses," she winked. "More than one, actually; we ID'd two of them, but the other two we're still working on. Maybe you can help me out if I show you a little picture?"

My gut sank. I hated this. "I'm not selling out my own employees, Julie."

One carefully plucked eyebrow rose. "Interesting opinion you've got there," she murmured, "considering what's hanging over your head." Her lips quirked into a little smile. "Maybe you could talk to your lawyer about that, next time you fuck her." She batted her eyelashes. "You're probably still keeping that from your wife, I'd imagine..."

"Shit." I hated the hold they had over me. "Give me the fucking pic."

"Thought you'd play ball," she chuckled. "We'd find out who it was eventually anyway." Which was true. Which was why I made an effort as I looked at the shot she passed to me, a grainy surveillance-camera picture that looked like it had been taken with a telephoto from several blocks away. "Tell me. What do you see? Those two on the right."

I felt relief wash over me. I didn't know one of them, and the other one was so blurry she might as well have been a man. She wore a green trapeze dress that went to just under her crotch, I could tell that much. The pic showed the four of them on the sidewalk outside Typhoon Shotgun's, one of the more savory clubs downtown. "You know the two on the left?" I asked her sourly. "Quite a feat, because I only know one of them. That's Jennae."

Lindberg nodded. "Her friend works at Cheeks on the Southside. What about the other two?"

"I have no idea who the short one is." I peered hard at the photo, seeing something that just might be familiar in the blurred girl... something about her shoulders... "I can't tell anything about that last one, in the green dress," I told her at last, passing back the photo. "Get a better lens, Julie."

"Look again, motherfucker," groused DiMaggio from behind me, but Lindberg and I ignored him.

"The other girl," she pressed quietly, "in the green? She's the one that we think took the stash."

"Well, then I wish you luck finding her." I shrugged. "Too bad I can't help you, Jules."

"Sure you don't want to look again?"

I glared up at her. "Look, you know the score. My girls all have second jobs at places like Southside Massage, or the Nutcracker. Shaky's. My day shift wait staff do the night shift as strippers, and vice-versa. All the rest of my girls are students. You're telling me Cheeks is the place where you think they're dealing drugs out of?"

"I don't know." Lindberg's eyes flashed. "You tell me. It's easy to do a drug deal as a waitress."

"Fucking obvious, is what it is," DiMaggio grumbled.

"Money being exchanged, receipt coming back with a little something extra on that little tray? That kind of thing?" Julie pressed.

"Sure. Sure. Because no way could they be doing a handoff during a happy ending at the massage place," I shot back, "or a lapdance at Shaky's. Or, fuck, in the dorms at the university."

"Yeah," Lindberg said slowly, "and as far as you know, we're checking those places too. Don't assume you're my only rat, dickhead." She sniffed and thrust the picture back into her bra. "Look, whatever. If you see anything, you've got my number." She glanced across the car at her partner. "Want my partner's digits too, Tony?" she chuckled.

"No," I snarled.

"Yeah. No," DiMaggio echoed. She laughed and held up both hands.

"No problem, no problem," she snickered, "I know you prefer a woman's touch, Tone. You drive safe, heading back to that obscene little restaurant you manage." She smiled as she put her shades back on. "You busy on Thursday night?"

I cocked a wary head. "Why?"

"Because I might give you a call. I'll be on stakeout by the Marsh, and I'll be bored. There might be things going down," she leered, and I rolled my eyes.

"Can't your new friend Aaron do that?" I asked it quietly, and she giggled.

"What the fuck you say?" DiMaggio barked.

"Just stay by your phone," she smiled, "and don't be a stranger." She let my magazine and my loose round tumble to the street as she turned back toward her car. "Oopsy."

"Goddammit," I muttered, but by that time they were both swaggering back toward their ride, guffawing loudly. Fucking cops. I leaned out my window and watched my loose round start rolling, inexorably, toward the gutter on the far side of my car.

Fucking cops.

2: Sometimes, you need to call in extra help...

I was still pondering Julie Lindberg's photo a few nights later during the height of the dinner rush, as I chipped in to help the beleaguered Kelli Quinones on the hostess station. Kel-Q was a capable, experienced restaurant worker, and she was quite popular among the sort of men who liked their women on the meaty side.

Which is a polite way of saying her ass had a life of its own, jiggling pleasantly no matter what she did, how she moved. Tonight, knowing she was hostessing, she'd dressed down in nothing but a thong down below and a tight t-shirt on top. She glared at the men waiting to be seated while I frowned at the display. "We're down a high-top?"

"Yeah. Drunk guy puked on it and then one of the chairs broke." We shrugged. This was the kind of thing that happened at Cheeks. "I texted you about it."

"Oh, that's right. I remember," I lied, turning to a new arrival. "Welcome to Cheeks & Company, man, can I put your name in?"

"Beckmann. Party of four." He was talking to me, but he was staring quite unabashedly at Kel-Q's quivering hip, where it curved around back. So were his three friends.

"Got it. About twenty minutes okay?" I keyed the pager and slipped it across to him. "Feel free to kill the time at the bar, bud."

"Yeah. Thanks." I could tell that Beckmann and his homies were first-timers here, ogling the butts with no self-control at all. The whole place was abuzz.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, "see who else can come in. We need someone else to help out Keith at the bar, and I think Chelsee is the only one who can do it. So we need a server to replace her."

"I can do it," she said eagerly, eyes lighting up with the joy of tips.

"No." I knew how pissed the other wait staff would get if I broke the hostessing rotation. "Call. Tell them I'll authorize overtime."

"Shit, dude," she scowled, "I'll do it! Let me work!"

"Nope." I smiled as the door swung shut. "Hi! Welcome to Cheeks & Company! We're looking at about a half-hour wait," I winked, "but there's plenty of other things to look at too!"

Ah, the life of an asstauranteur.

* * *

"Anything?" I was feeling haggard almost an hour later, and I needed to piss. I'd just gotten back from making sure the fucking cooks weren't going to catch the kitchen on fire.

Kelli glanced up. "Traci is coming in. Should be here soon."

"Oh, fuck. Thank god." The place was slammed, and it wasn't even 8:30 yet.

"Yeah," she sniffed, "thank god. I mean, if only there were some waitress already here, some bitch named Kelli..."

"Sorry, Kel, but you know the score." She did, I knew. She just wanted more tips. I hesitated, knowing I should just leave it at that, but I couldn't stop myself. "I'll try to make it up to you."

She perked right up. "Really?" My heart sank as her dark eyes took on a crafty gleam. Goddamn it. Why was I such a sap?

"Uh, yeah..." Quinones was a really good server, and a reliable employee, but she had an air of unsavoriness about her. She struck me as the kind of girl who might be into drugs or something, though in a small way. It occurred to me, a few seconds late, that offering her a favor had been a bad idea. "Maybe."

She narrowed her eyes at that, the face I'd seen so many times in this gig: the face of a woman who makes her living off the lusts of men, prepared to be disappointed by them. No, expecting to be disappointed by them. "You're so full of shit, Tony," she sighed.

"Hey." I spread my hands helplessly. "There's only so much I can do, Kel." This was true, too. Even on my best days, it felt like my life had about forty or fifty extra pieces that I had no clue how to fit together.

"Uh huh." She swung around, turning her back pointedly to deal with a waiting customer, her glorious butt staring me in the face all of a sudden. I sighed and looked away. One of my friends had asked me once how I didn't walk around at work with a constant hard-on from all the twentysomething ass flesh on display, but honestly? I just thought of these women as employees. Great bare asses or not, they were just employees.