The Maltese Pussy Cat

Author's Note

Just a short slice of life in the world of Samantha Spade, private eye, for the Hammered: Ode to Mickey Spillane challenge. And a tip of the hat to Maonaigh's entry in the previous Spillane Challenge.

The office of Sam Malone, 10:00 p.m.

It was a rainy night in the city. Nobody in their right mind would be out in this kind of weather. That's what I thought anyway, until I heard the hand rapping at the pebbled glass window of my office door. It was a timid knock, the kind you'd expect from a scared little namby-pamby who's a little light in his loafers, or maybe a dame. But what kind of dame would be out in this squall, I didn't know.

I reached into the desk drawer and pulled out the Smith & Wesson to tuck into my palm just in case it was a ruse. You meet all kinds in this line of work.

"It's unlocked," I holler, "Come on in."

Sure enough it was a dame. And a real looker at that. A bottle blonde for certain, but she wasn't showing any dark roots and she had a dress that looked it was painted on a Vargas pinup. The gal had the figure for it, too. If she were walking down the street on a sunny day instead of standing in the doorway looking like the cousin of a drowned rat, she'd turn more than a few heads, easy.

"You're all wet."

"Mr. Malone?" she said, and paused. She looked me up and down, twice, before she continued.

"You're not Sam Malone," she said, flatly.

"You're right about that, doll." I stood up, casually slipping the .45 in my pocket as I did. I hardly figured I'd need the piece, but I didn't want it out in the open, making her nervous. She looked like she was about ready to drop as it was. "Sam's the name, alright, but it's short for Samantha."

"But it says on the door..."

"Just covering for a friend, that's all. Malone's tracking down some crooks up state."

"Oh." She shivered. Or maybe she choked back a sob, I don't know. The poor gal was soaked to the bone, so any tears that fell from those eyes of hers, they were lost in the raindrops still streaking her cheeks.

"I'll get you a towel." I turned to tug on the middle drawer of the filing cabinet behind me. The one labeled miscellaneous. Rummaging around inside I found Malone's spare shaving kit, stashed behind some old case files. I pulled out a hand towel, ready to pass it to my potential client, when I spied the bottle and two glasses. I smiled. Malone sure was boy scout, I'll give him that. Always prepared.

"Here you go," I said, stepping around to the front of the desk with the towel in my hand.

She dabbed at her face. "Thank you."

I turned my attention back to the filing cabinet drawer with the bottle I'd found. I put an eyeball on the two glasses and they looked pretty clean, so I snatched it all up and plunked the glasses down in the middle of the desk.

"You need a drink," I said. It wasn't a question.

"Thank you, Miss... um..."

"Spade," I said. "Sam Spade."

"Thank you Miss Spade, but I think maybe I should just get right down to business."

"Suit yourself, toots," I said, filling a glass two finger's full from Malone's secret stash of Canadian Club. "But you look about as healthy as a kitten left out in a storm on a sinking ship. Maybe a little something to warm you up?"

I pushed the glass in her direction and watched her struggle with her inhibitions. The desire for a little liquid courage seems to have won out and she reached out to wrap her slender fingers around the glass.

"Here," I said, hustling around to her side of the desk, dragging a side chair with me. "Take a load off. You look like you need it."

She said nothing. Just stood there, clutching the glass of whiskey, and staring down at the toes of those shiny black heels she was wearing.

"Let me get your coat," I said.

She juggled the glass from hand to hand as I helped her slip out of the wet sleeves. "Thank you, Miss Spade," she said.

She managed to get herself seated by the time I hung up her coat and sat hunched forward, staring into the whiskey glass she clutched in both hands.

"Sorry there's no ice," I said. "Smoke?"

She shook her head. "Miss Spade?"

"Yeah, doll?"

"Can I trust you?"

"As much as anybody around here," I said. "More than the cops, anyway. And I'm not going to go blabbing to them, if that's what you're worried about."

She looked like she was thinking it over pretty hard as she lifted the glass to her lips. I figured she'd have one sip of the strong stuff and pull a face, but she knocked it back in one gulp without so much as a grimace.

"Let me top you up," I said, reaching for the bottle.

"Thank you, Miss Spade."

"Please, call me Sam." I perched myself on the edge of the desk and added another two fingers worth to her glass. "I didn't get your name."

"I didn't mention it."

"So that's how you want to play it, huh?" I stood up and reached into my suit coat to pull a pack of Luckys from the inside pocket. "I got better things to do with my night than play twenty questions, so why don't you spill it or get lost."

I shook a Lucky from the pack and struck a match to its tip. Tilting my head back, I exhaled a cloud over her straggly, wet, blonde locks before turning my back to find an ashtray on this borrowed desk of mine.

"Miss Spade?"

I felt her hand on my shoulder and heard her sniffle. If she was going all out for the academy award that night, it seemed she was well on the way to a nomination. I laid my Lucky in the ashtray and turned around. "Look, it's late," I said. "Why don't you beat it on back home and come see me in the morning if you still think you got a problem."

No response.

I took her by the chin and lifted her face to look into those mascara smudged peepers of hers. Her lip quivered right before she pulled away.

"Looks like you've had a rough night," I said. "When's the last time you ate?"

"I don't need your pity, Miss Spade."

"I'm not offering any. I'm offering a plate of eggs or a sandwich, if you'd rather."

"It's been a while."

"Come on. I know a good all-night joint right around the corner."

I grabbed her coat from the hook and helped her get her arms in the sleeves. "It's a little damp still, but it's a short walk."

"Thank you, Miss Spade."

"Sam. Please, call me Sam." I picked up my hat next. "When we get some food in you, maybe then you can spill the beans on who or what's got your feathers all in a ruffle."

"It's not a secret, Sam. It's my pussy cat. Mister Sparkles. He's missing."

Halfway to the door I stopped, wondering what I'd gotten myself into while at the same time trying to figure odds on whether or not this dame was playing with a full deck. "Mister Sparkles, huh?"

"That's right, Sam. Mister Sparkles. He's very special. And he's missing."

I shrugged and opened the door. "Sure, doll. Sure."

Hopper's Diner, 10:30 p.m.

Just before we walked into the diner, my client—I still didn't know her name yet—she stopped to stare at her reflection in the big plate glass window just long enough to fluff her hair and paint on fresh lipstick. All the way over here, I was thinking how I should have ditched her outside my office, sent her home. Now, glancing at her reflection, I was beginning to entertain second thoughts.

I still wasn't planning to take on the case of the missing pussy cat. Business was slow, but I hadn't reached that level of desperation just yet. But standing there looking at her reflection as she prettied herself up, I convinced myself a late night bite with this dame wasn't going to kill me. It's not like I had a lot going on at home.

But it was when she slipped one hand into the crook of my elbow and laid the other on my arm like we were walking into church on Sunday morning that I knew I'd have a hard time saying no to this broad.

The bell on the door jingled as we walked in.

"Sam." The owner of the place said, giving me a nod and hustling to slide a fresh cup of joe onto the counter as soon as we crossed the threshold.

"Ed," I said, taking off my hat and tossing it on the rack by the door.

"The usual?"

I nodded and reached to help my prospective client out of her coat.

"And for the lady?"

"The lady will have the same," she said, pulling her arms from the sleeves.

Ed poured another cup of coffee. "Cream or sugar?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Two steak and eggs coming up," said Ed, heading back to the kitchen to fire up the grill.

"Nice place," she said, finding her seat at one of the stools.

"Good food. Coffee's always fresh. And Ed's a real stand up guy." I let my eyes wander to the lipstick print on her cup. "Put three kids through college slinging hash day in and day out. Youngest one, Mary, she's a veterinarian, and that's eight years of school. Never heard Ed grumble about it once."

"Sounds like you've really got your finger on the pulse of the city, Miss Spade." She took another sip of her coffee.

I kept waiting for her to pull a face, but she took her coffee just like she took her whiskey. Neat.

"In this business, it's not what you know doll, it's who you know. And what I still don't know is who I'm sharing this late night breakfast with."

"Elizabeth," my client held out her hand, "Elizabeth Andersen, Miss Spade."

I took her hand long enough to be polite, but not long enough to get attached, and then traded it for the handle of my cup. "So, Miss Andersen, what do you say you and me enjoy this little night out and then head on down to the police station to report your missing kitty? They can keep an eye out tonight and turn the case over to animal control in the morning."

I decided to take a sip while I waited for her reply. I didn't have to wait long.

"I told you, no police."

"Listen doll," I said. "It's been real nice so far, so what do you say we just enjoy our meal. And then we can go our separate ways. Missing persons I do, missing kitties, not so much."

"You don't understand, Miss Spade."

"No, I'm afraid I do." I had a whole list of things I understood, mostly about the number of screws loose in her head, but I shut my trap as soon as Ed rounded the corner with two steaming plates. Samantha Spade was not one to embarrass her date, even if she was undeniably certifiable.

"Need anything else?" asked Ed.

I looked at Elizabeth. She shook her head. "Thanks, Ed, we're fine."

Ed topped off our cups and retreated to the kitchen, while I picked up my knife and fork. If I was paying for this misguided date, I was sure going to enjoy it before my food got cold.

"Are you familiar with the Maltese Tiger, Miss Spade?"

"Can't say I am." I stabbed a piece of egg and watched the yoke run out.

"It's a rare genetic variation of the South China Tiger. First spotted in nineteen-ten by Harry Caldwell, a missionary in the area. It has blue fur, Miss Spade. That's what makes it unique."

"You sure ole Caldwell wasn't half in the bottle when he spied this... this blue furred tiger? I understand the opium runs pretty free over there too." I cut a piece of steak and used it to mop up some of the yoke on my plate. So far Elizabeth hadn't touched a thing.

"I assure you, Miss Spade, it's very real." Finally, she picked up her fork.

"You been to South China then, Miss Andersen?"

"No."

"So how do you know—?"

"Because Mister Sparkles is a Maltese Tiger, Miss Spade."

I let my fork slip through my fingers and it landed on my plate with a bang. "Mister Sparkles... Your missing kitty..."

"Is a Maltese Tiger from South China. Yes." Elizabeth cut off a hunk of steak and popped it in her mouth, just looking at me as she chewed.

I focused on those ruby red lips as she worked her jaw, thinking to myself what a bad idea it was getting involved with this dame and her nonsense.

"And how did you get your hands on a Maltese Tiger?" I asked.

Elizabeth finished chewing, swallowed, and dabbed at her dainty mouth with the corner of her napkin. "As you're fond of saying, Miss Spade, it's not what you know, it's who you know."

"And why on God's green Earth would you need a Maltese Tiger, Miss Andersen?"

"I'm a dancer," she said. "Mister Sparkles is part of my act."

"You with the circus or something?"

"I'm a private dancer, Miss Spade. Are you familiar with the term? Of course you are. And I'm very good at what I do."

"And Mister Sparkles? What's his part in all this?"

Elizabeth touched the tip of her finger to the back of my hand and circled around to drag it down over my thumb as she answered. "Picture a woman wearing nothing but a pair of three inch blood red heels, walking onto the stage with a blue striped Maltese Tiger on a leash. Grabs the attention, doesn't it, Miss Spade?"

I turned my eyes to the red lipstick print on her coffee cup as I pictured the blood red heels of this act she mentioned. Somewhere in there her hand left my arm and disappeared from my view, rubbing up against me. "And Mister Sparkles?" I asked.

"He does a few tricks and then exits stage left for a fat, juicy steak and a nap. The rest of the show is a solo act." Elizabeth laid her hand on my thigh as she said this, but not before she bumped against the .45 in my pocket. "There's no animal cruelty, if that's what you're thinking."

Actually, I was thinking about the last P.T. Barnum act I'd seen, except with three inch red heels and no clothes. And the star performer sits beside you to rest her hand on your thigh when it's all over. But I kept my mouth shut and just let that movie play out in my head. My jacket pocket was feeling significantly lighter than when I sat down.

"How does one get into this line of work, Miss Andersen?"

"It's not what you know, Miss Spade—"

"It's who you know," I finished for her. "And please, call me Sam."

"If you'll call me Elizabeth."

"Sure, doll." I said, and picked up my fork.

Outside Hopper's Diner, 11:15 p.m.

"Thank you for the meal, Miss Spade... Sam," she said. "But I think you're right. Maybe I should go to the police about this." Elizabeth Andersen turned on her heel.

I ran my hand over my pocket, the pocket that started the evening heavy with the weight of the .45 and now was light as a feather. And with my other hand, I lashed out to grab her by the elbow.

"Oh, Sam!" she gasped.

I pulled her close. "Don't you Oh Sam me, Miss Andersen. And give me back my piece you lifted before you go slinking back to wherever it is you came from."

"You have to understand—"

"Understand?" I said. "Understand what? That you're a dirty double-crosser? That Mister Sparkles only exists in that pretty little head of yours? The only thing I don't understand is why I shouldn't cuff you in the mouth and drag you to the police station myself. What were you planning to do with a gun anyway?"

"Oh, Sam," she said again, only this time she'd turned on the waterworks, hitching and sobbing as she stood there.

I kept my grip on her arm.

She gave up the act after one last sniffle. "It's in my coat pocket," she said. "Your gun. It's in my right coat pocket."

I reached out with my other hand and dug the piece out of her coat. Only when I had it safely stashed back where it started the evening, did I let go of her elbow.

"Oh, Sam—"

"Don't start with the Oh, Sam. Goodbye, Miss Andersen." I took a step down the sidewalk. "Hope you find Mister Sparkles."

"Sam! Sam, wait!"

I kept walking. "Save your sob story for the cops, Miss Andersen. I'm done."

"I can't go to the police, Sam."

I paused.

"Mister Sparkles is an exotic animal. It's not exactly legal to keep a pet like that. I'd be arrested for sure. Probably lose my job."

I turned around to look at her standing there, hands out, pleading. "Not my problem, doll."

"I'd pay you of course," she said. "My line of work provides me with a comfortable living, Miss Spade. All cash transactions. How much do you want?"

I stopped to think about it. Sure, she was nuts, but cold hard cash is tough to pass up, particularly when business is slow.

"The regular rate," I said, reaching into my inside pocket for the pack of Luckys. I shook one out and lit it up as I was walking back to close the distance between us. "The regular rate, plus expenses. Nothing more. If... If I agree to take the case."

"Please, Sam. I've got nowhere else to turn."

"Sure, doll. Sure." I blew a cloud of smoke over her head.

She reached up to pluck the Lucky from between my lips. I caught her by the wrist, expecting her to toss it on the ground and lecture me about the dangers of smoking. But when she brought it to her mouth to take a drag, I let go.

I watched the smoke curling out the corners of her mouth while I dug around in my pocket to fish another one out the pack. "Tell me something, Miss Andersen. Do you always get what you want?"

"When it comes to men, yes," she said. "With private detectives..." She lifted the Lucky to her lips and took another puff. "I don't know, but I'll tell you in the morning."

She put her arm in the crook of my elbow again, just like going to church on Sunday, and started walking. Her heels clacked out the time as I kept pace.

"You want to tell me where we're going, toots?"

"Back to my place," she said. "To get the advance on your fee."

"Your place, huh?"

"I know you don't trust me, Sam. Not after that stunt I pulled. But I know how you operate. You'll play it straight. And I know you won't leave me high and dry once you're on the job."

"If I agree to take the case."

Elizabeth wrapped both hands around my arm and leaned her head against my shoulder as she answered. "You will, Miss Spade. You will."

The InterContinental Hotel, 11:40 p.m.

"Swanky digs you've got here, Miss Andersen," I said as she paraded me through the lobby past the elevator and to the stairs.

"I told you Miss Spade, I'm well paid for the work I do."

"But not well enough to tip the elevator operator, huh?" I said as we mounted the first step.

"I enjoy the exercise," she responded. "I like the way it keeps my legs toned, wouldn't you agree, Miss Spade."

"Sure, doll." And I took a peek at her gams in spite of myself. She wasn't lying. They were fabulous specimens of feminine physique.

"Won't you close the door, please, Sam," she said, and disappeared into the suite of rooms as soon as we crossed the threshold.

"Sure." I closed the door and hooked the chain lock.

"I've got your down payment, Sam," she hollered. "It's in here."

I followed the sound of her voice. I found her around the corner, standing in front of a wide mirror mounted over a make-up table, stark naked except for a pair of heels. Not blood red, but black.

In one hand, she was holding a wad of cash, but it's what she held in the other hand that caught my eye. A dildo, a little longer and a little fatter than the one I kept at home. And with a curious bend in it.

"I'm just freshening up," she said.

"I can see that."

"Would you like a drink before we get down to business, Miss Spade? There's a bar in the sitting room." She tucked the dildo under her arm and reached for a bottle of lube.

"Saw it on the way in."

"Of course you did. You're a detective. Very observant. So you probably know what I have planned for us."

"I'm flattered, Miss Andersen, but I'm not really the receiving type, if you catch my drift."

"Of course not, Miss Spade." Elizabeth spun around to face me.

I looked her up and down. If she was a bottle blonde, she wasn't giving it away. And it's not that the carpet matched the drapes so much as it was somebody had stolen the rug. There wasn't so much as a single short and curly on her.

"This is for you," she said, stepping forward to within inches and slipping the bundle of cash into my inside pocket and thrusting out her hand that held the dildo. "The payment for your detective services and the strapless and lube for your other services."