The Tall Open Window

Patty gasped as a freckled finger and thumb found, circled and gently rolled her clit. Her eyes were screwed shut now. Her breasts heaved; she began gasping for breath.

The two taller women rose into a half-crouch, leaned in towards each other while continuing to stroke, caress and fondle the body of the fair woman between them. Soft lips locked onto soft lips above the writhing Patty as their hands played with the girl. Kitty paused, slid out of her clothes while Valerie continued to run a free hand over the blonde's high, firm boobs.

Kitty pulled away suddenly, twisted, came to rest on the bed with her head between Patty's legs. Her tongue slid up a perfect thigh, along the girl's glistening pussy in broad, loving strokes. Her head bobbed back and forth as she penetrated the blonde's slit with her tongue. The redhead on the left grinned, shifted herself. Her mouth came down on Patty's, swallowing the girl's rising moans as her hands mounded and squeezed her breasts.

Patty's groans rose suddenly into a muffled wail. Her bum rose off the ground, leaving the girl suspended on head and heels as the brunette's tongue drove her off the edge into a quaking, overpowering orgasm. Kitty continued, sucking and licking the girl's sex, pushing her further and further along into an almost agonizing pleasure.

Watching, I didn't think the little blonde was faking it. It was an incredibly erotic scene and I found myself thinking Cooke would be pleased. I found myself perspiring, shifted in my chair, adjusted my bra slightly. Nobody was watching.

Finally, it ended. The fair figure collapsed between the two others, shivering and panting. The other two looked at each other, grinned slightly.

The cameras continued to roll as Kitty and Valerie gently stroked the young blonde, murmuring small words into her ear. After a couple of minutes, she opened her eyes, smiled gently.

That was apparently what Cooke had been waiting for. Her voice rose across the studio.

"Cut!

"Good job, ladies -- really hot. One hour for lunch!" she called. Then, to me, "Don't go away; I just need to get some stuff from my office."

The other two helped Patty sit up, then lifted to her feet. They offered her a robe before the three of them, holding hands, went looking for their own lunch.

+

La Charcuterie was an upscale dining spot I'd not tried before, specializing in simple fare served impressively at very impressive prices. I ordered soup, a salad and a vermouth twist.

"So," Cooke said as the server left. "You said you were here for something else."

"Have the police been to see you yet?" I asked.

"Police? What for?"

"They'll be here eventually, take it from me. Dawn and Michelle were killed last night."

Her face went pale.

"Killed? Who... but... where...?"

I saw no reason to share too much. "A guest at the Plaza Hotel phoned the front desk to report gunshots. Dawn and Michelle had been shot. It looks like it was a robbery."

She sat silently for a minute. "Oh, shit," she said softly, downing her wine in one gulp. The waiter hurried up to refill her glass.

She lifted it and made as if to gulp that one, too, but paused, put it back on the table. Her face was grim as she spoke. "How did I know it was going to be one of those days?"

We sat for a few minutes, neither of us saying anything, before she shook her head as if trying to put the news aside.

"Well, that's one type of grief, but I already have another to deal with. You said you handle other kinds of cases."

She paused, looked me straight in the eyes.

"How confidential is all this?" she asked.

"Define 'confidential'," I replied. "If you're asking me if it's 'cathedral confessional confidential' or 'lawyer's office confidential', then no. I can be required to testify in court if I'm summonsed."

She looked concerned.

"On the other hand, the terms of my licence require me to keep all information I come by to myself unless 'required by law'. And it's not good for business for a private eye to be a blabbermouth.

"Bottom line?" I said. "Unless I get hit with a legal order from a court, what's said between us stays between us."

She thought about that, nodded.

"OK," she said. "I can live with that. Do you handle missing persons?"

"I have," I said. "Who?"

"My bookkeeper has vanished. Colleen Baden."

"Ah."

"I am worried for her, of course."

"Of course."

She looked at me again, made a decision.

"No, that's not quite it. Look, we had a... disagreement. I'm afraid she might have... Oh, crap. She took some documents, business agreements and such. The film business requires a lot of..."

She hesitated.

"Discretion?" I suggested.

"Yes! Exactly."

"And you want the documents back, quietly, without getting the police or lawyers involved."

"Precisely."

I thought for a moment, nodded.

"I charge $500 a day plus expenses, a week paid up front."

She nodded. "I'll send you an e-transfer this evening."

"Tell me about your missing accountant," I said.

She reached into her purse, pulled out an envelope. "I have her file here -- a photo, her address and so forth."

I thumbed through it.

"How long had she been working for you?"

"Two, no, two and a half years. She came highly recommended."

"Forgive me," I said, "but I need to know. What was the disagreement about?"

She just looked at me. "Why?"

"Motivation drives actions," I said. "Do you think she's out to hurt you personally?"

She thought a moment and I could see her make another decision.

"How to put it?" she sighed. "It was just, I don't know, a personality clash. She wanted a bigger job, wanted to be more than just a bookkeeper, but it's my studio and my way of doing business. I turned her down and she was annoyed. No - more than that. She was furious that I'd ignore what she saw as her underutilized talent."

It sounded plausible. Plausible enough, I thought.

"Did she have any talent?"

"Outside of financial numbers, no, not that I ever saw. But everybody..."

I cut her off. "Everybody has dreams, right?"

She nodded.

"When did you see her last?"

"Friday afternoon. She didn't show up for work Monday morning. Instead, she'd left a note on my desk..."

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath.

"Oh, shit. Fine. To be honest, she's blackmailing me. She wants money for the files."

"Did she wipe your files here?"

"No, they seem OK and I've got backups anyway. She's got copies, though, I'm pretty sure of that. And the computer logs show her getting into areas she shouldn't have had access to. Really confidential files, you know?"

I nodded.

"How much was she asking for?"

"$50,000."

"Ouch!"

"Ouch, indeed. Do you think you can find her?"

"Maybe. Is there someplace I can talk to your other people? Someplace private?"

"Leave them out of this," she said. "After Dawn and Michelle, I don't want anybody upset more than they're already going to be."

We kicked that around for a while, but she wouldn't budge. I quit arguing and turned my thoughts back to the two dead actresses.

"Out of curiosity," I asked, "how much do you pay your people?

"We're flexible, but it's generally industry scale plus a little bit."

"What's 'scale' for women? I mean, across the industry?"

"Depends. Hot Flashes is straight girl-girl action and that pays a little less than with a man and much less than, say, anal or S&M. Call it $400 to $700, depending on looks and experience."

I was surprised. "That's not all that much."

"No, actually, it's not. A lot of girls have a vanilla job to make ends meet. A top actress can pull in a lot more, of course."

"Were Michelle and Dawn 'top actresses'?"

"Not really. Michelle might have got there, but no. Not yet. She had the looks, but still needed to work on her acting skills."

She thought for a moment. "And Dawn? Well, let's just say that she'd peaked a while back. She was a better actress than Michelle, but skin cream only holds off wrinkles so long."

I changed direction. "How long does it take to make a normal film?" I asked.

"Industry rule of thumb says maybe four or five minutes of screen time per production day. We can compress that a lot here. Our crew are experienced working together and that helps. The scripts are simple. Wardrobe isn't normally a big deal." She smiled at that, continued. "So, for a simple 10-minute video, it's generally two days max if everything goes well. I can often pull it together in one long day. Editing, voiceovers, distribution and that kind of stuff is on top of that, of course."

"So, how big's the crew?"

"What you saw is pretty typical. Smaller than mainstream ones. A lighting tech, usually. A camerawoman, more usually two -- and good ones are worth their weight in gold. A soundwoman. So, four or five minimum on set, plus the cast.

"That's it?"

"Yes and no. Our people have a bunch of, shall we say, overlapping jobs, more so than a normal studio. There aren't a lot of props; sometimes they can just be brought out in a tray each morning. Wardrobe? Like I said, not so much; we've got some, but it's generally important only for historical pieces. The girls mostly do their own makeup and hair, but on occasion we have to get somebody in."

"Do you do all your shooting at the studio?"

"No. That'd be too confining. There's one expense we can't dodge, but you'd be surprised how many mansions are up for short-term rentals at surprisingly reasonable rates." A smile broke across her face. "Actually, it's kind of an industry joke, how many rental owners have been surprised to see their place on-screen."

She looked at her watch, reached for her purse. It was obvious our time was up.

"I'll be in touch," I said. "Thanks for lunch."

"Don't mention it." She looked me up and down, grinned. "You know, honey, if you're ever in the need of some extra cash..."

"I'll keep it in mind," I said.

+

I went back to my office to think, do some online searching for the missing Ms. Baden.

There wasn't all that much to go on. It would take me time to dig further and I knew people who could dig much  further, for a price. But Cooke wanted me to find her missing files pronto. And without 'upsetting' -- meaning talking to -- her other staff. It didn't give me a lot of scope.

Rotsa Ruck, Taffy...

At 4:00 or so, I pulled my beater into a loading zone across the street from Hot Flashes, down the street a little bit. I had a good view of the front door. After a while, a girl I recognized exited, dressed quite conservatively. Another two followed in a few minutes. Then the one I wanted, the only one I'd spoken with privately when I'd been there the first time.

"You're not afraid, are you?"  Her voice had been almost a whisper.

"Afraid?"  I'd asked. "Afraid of what?"

"Of anything. Nobody pushes you around, do they?"

I'd just looked at her.  "What're you afraid of, kid?"

She hadn't answered and I hadn't pushed it.

Now seemed like a good time to push. Find the weak link...

I followed her for a couple of blocks. The neighborhood turned less prosperous, grubbier. There were fewer professional offices, more pawn shops, more litter.

She turned and without looking around, entered a door under a flickering neon sign saying Murdock's -- Girls, Girls, Girls!

I waited a minute or two, parked the beater and went in.

The place was dark and smelled sour. The floor hadn't been swept in long enough that there was a repeated low-level sticky crunching under my feet as I walked. There were maybe fifteen tables with seating for four at each. The far corner was an elevated stage affair surrounded by gold bars like a big cage. Inside was a pretty ordinary stripper pole with a pretty ordinary stripper wrapped around it, trying not to look bored and failing. The music was too loud and one of the overtaxed speakers was full of musical fuzz.

I didn't know the bartender but could see he wasn't happy to see me. I wasn't dressed for the Mayor's Ball, but I was three steps and a shuffle above any of the customers -- all men -- in the place. Was I a reporter? Worse, a health inspector?

I sat at the bar, ordered a beer. He didn't ask what type, just pulled me one from a tap and put it down in front of me, spilling a little and not bothering to wipe it up.

I looked at the glass, turned it without lifting it. There was lipstick on the rim. I left it sitting there and turned back to him.

"I'm looking for a girl," I said. "I think she might work here."

"You a cop?" he asked.

"Do I need to be?"

"Leave the girls alone," he said. "They don't need your hassle, whatever it is."

"Francine," I said. I held up a small photo of her. "I'm on her side."

He looked at the photo without taking it, then his eyes drifted over my shoulder.

A hand the size of the police commissioner's ego descended on my shoulder as if by magic.

"Time to go," the bouncer rumbled.

The bartender had a smirk on his face.

I slid off the chair, turned to face the bouncer. He was big enough, but his gut showed more attention to burgers than barbells.

I looked up at him. "I'm looking for Francine."

"You just ain't listenin', bitch," he growled.

He grabbed me by the shoulders, began to shake me like a disobedient child. I heard the bartender chuckle. The goon paused, holding me to see if I'd learned my lesson like a smart girl.

Well, yes, certainly I've got heels in my closet, but nobody but a stripper or Catwoman wears heels on the job. Today, it was a pair of brogan boots with solid leather soles. New ones, too, with sharp edges on the soles.

I gave a little hop, lifted one knee to my chest and used all the strength in my leg, all the force my falling 120 lb could add, to drag the edge of my boot sole down along the full length of his shin. Leaving his shredded shin, my foot slammed to a hard landing in his instep. I've broken bricks in the dojo with that kick and this time could actually feel small bones breaking in his foot. A second later, the pain from that was overtaken and run off into the ditch by my knee smashing up into his groin. His hands fell away from me and he dropped to the floor, moaning and clutching assorted bits of anatomy.

I stepped back, trying to control my breathing. My eyes swept across the bar, my fingers inside the purse pocket holding the PPK. Faces showed mainly surprise, very little anger. Eyes flicked from me to the big figure on the floor, now vomiting quietly. They shrugged, turned back to the girl in the cage.

It was that kind of joint.

I looked at the bartender again. He hadn't moved, but he wasn't smirking now. Oddly enough for this sort of dive, he was actually wearing a tie. My hand grabbed it, carried on into a hard stiff-arm shove against his chest. Resisting my push, when I suddenly switched and hauled back on his tie, he wound up helping me pull him half-way across the bar.

"I'm still looking for Francine," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

Lips thin with anger, his eyes shifted to indicate a back hallway. "Change room, third on the left past the Toilets sign."

I let go of him. The jerk at my feet had fainted. I picked up the beer, sniffed it and poured it over the figure on the ground.

"You need to get better beer," I said. "And a better bouncer."

A woman I didn't know pushed by me at the door to the change room. Inside, Francine was alone, half-undressed. A look of shock came to her face as she recognized me.

"You're her, aren't you?" she whispered. "The private eye?"

"Yep. Right now, sweetie, the question is who are you?"

Her eyes dropped. Maybe it was just the right time for that question.

"I'm toast," she said softly.

"What?"

"Toast," she repeated. "I'm fucked. I hate my life. I hate being here."

"So," I asked, trying to sound kind, "why don't you move on?"

Sad eyes came up to meet mine, eyes full of too much experience.

"Fillipo, the bouncer? He, um, kindasorta manages my contract on behalf of the mob." I could see a look of despair on her face at the word 'contract'. "He told me that if I left here, he'd track me down."

"Fillipo? Big guy, balding?"

"Um, yeah. He's mean, real mean. He likes to hurt the girls. Amy tried to leave once." She shivered, but didn't give me any more details. I guess they weren't really necessary. Goons like Fillipo -- and their habits - are much the same anywhere. Now I understood her earlier comments about fear.

I held out my hand. "Get dressed, honey. It's time to go."

"But what about Fillipo?" she whispered.

"Fillipo and I have come to an understanding already," I assured her. She took my hand, got to her feet, started pulling on her clothes.

Flashing blue and white lights filtered through the filthy windows from the ambulance outside. It was enough to pull half the eyes in the place away from the siliconed dancer on her pole. I held Francine's upper arm, steered her around the two medics working on the semi-conscious Fillipo. My other hand lingered under my purse, close to the PPK.

That turned out to be a good idea. When the bartender saw me, his courage had returned and his hands moved to under the bar. I pulled the PPK from its holster, let it hang down towards the floor.

"We're leaving," I said, staring him in the eye.

I cocked the hammer on the.380 with my thumb. For some reason, it almost echoed in the room.

"Any problems with that?" I challenged.

His empty hands appeared from under the bar, slowly.

"Good call," I said.

We emerged out into the evening, pushed through the crowd that had gathered. I led her to the beater, put her in and took off.

"Where to?" I asked.

"Away," she half-sobbed. Then, in a whisper, "I just want to go home."

"Where's home?"

"New Haven."

"Who's there?"

"My sister and her husband."

"Do they know?"

"About my life lately? No. I never told them." Her voice was bitter.

"Does Fillipo know about Connecticut?"

"No. I told everyone here that I came from California. It seemed more glamorous."

I thought for a moment. "Anything at your apartment here that you'd really miss?"

"No."

I turned, and again, headed for the train station.

"Let's talk," I said.

+

I watched the train pull away. Francine knew nothing pertinent about the missing Colleen, but had given me a lot of background on Hot Flashes.

Item: Daphne had treated her well. Francine had even been invited to dinner at her apartment once or twice, but hadn't been able make it because of her other job, cashier in a liquor store.

"It's why I agreed to dance at Murdock's. They told me they could be flexible on hours and it looked a lot better than minimum wage for chasing teenagers away from the cherry brandy."

Once she'd started though, things had got worse rather than better. Hours got longer, tips had to be shared and Fillipo...

Let's just say I was now wishing that I'd broken both  his feet.

Item: Francine was fairly new to Hot Flashes, but there seemed to be two groups of girls. Some were pretty happy. The others? Francine didn't understand why, but some of them seemed very quiet. She'd put it down to the usual stresses -- finances, life in the big city and so forth.

Item: Michelle's wife, Rachel, hadn't particularly minded her working at Hot Flashes.

"It's only other girls," she'd said. "It wasn't like it was with men... you know..." She shook her head. I didn't know, but kept my mouth shut.

"She never went with men. Not ever. She said even thinking about a dick made her queasy. It was a little weird, you know? Most of us are at least fairly bi, but not Michelle."

I thought of something.

"Anybody told Rachel yet?"

"I doubt it," she said, very quietly. "Didn't I mention? Michelle and Rachel had a massive fight two weeks ago. Rachel stomped out, left town. Nobody really knows why or where she went."