THE STALK IS REAL

Writer’s Stalk Newsletter Edition 6

Our agency motto is, “We will find you.”

Business is slow. I’m kicked back in my office chair, feet on the desk, bourbon in hand, fedora pushed down over my eyes, trying to think of ways to find clients. I’m good at finding people— it’s my job. But clients — those hopeless bums — usually come to me. Not lately.

Until — there’s a knock on the office door. I push my hat back, take a slug of bourbon, and growl, “It’s open.”

A good-looking guy with a scruffy, short beard and eyes sweet enough to be a dame’s comes in. He’s sorta shy, and that makes me gruffer.

“What do you want? I don’t have all day.” I do, but he doesn’t know that.

He sits, takes off his own hat, holds it between his knees, and turns it around and around by the brim. It’s making me dizzy.

He stammers, “My name is Robert Hoffman. I…I know you’re a detective, but I hear you find things.”

“You heard right. Spit it out,” I snarl encouragingly.

“I need you to find me a girlfriend.”

“How long’s she been missing?”

“No, she isn’t missing, I mean I don’t have one and I need one. My father is dying and he’s worth a fortune. But he won’t leave it to me unless I’m at least engaged to be married. I’ve tried everything. Sitting at the counter looking lonely and drinking coffee at diners, classified ads, tea dances, every clip joint and dive bar in town, even church — nothing is working.”

I take my feet off the desk and lean forward, pissed. I feel insulted. I’m not a damned matchmaker. Then I remember how slow it’s been. And I am good with the ladies.

“My retainer is $500, then it’s $100 a day plus expenses. Pay me and get outta here so I can get to work.”

“How can I thank you?” he gushes.

“Just get out.”

Bringing Your Mad Online Dating Skills into the Real World, by Robert Hoffman

Two days later, a line forms at my door. Word is out. If this keeps up I’ll have to hire a secretary and get a bigger office. The other tenants are complaining about all the stiffs in the hallway. Word is out that I find mates. And not just the kind who are already cheating on you.

I scan the line of down-and-out guys, and zone in on a hot little number. The only woman in line. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Zena Comics, she purrs. It’s a weird moniker, but I’m not judging. I gesture to Zena to follow me. She does.

I pour her two fingers of scotch, she sips and grimaces. I chuckle and sit behind my desk, feet up. She puts the drink down on my desk, sits and looks at me expectantly.

“What is it you want, hon? You can see I got a line. ”

“I’m looking for someone to date. I’m a divorcee, and it’s grim out there. It’s not safe for a woman alone in this gritty city anymore. I’m told you fix people up.”

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Why would a pretty dame like you need help finding a date?”

“I’m a cartoonist. Ya know, like in the funny papers? Seems a lotta guys don’t like funny women. Or maybe I’m only meeting comedians and cartoonists and they just want to compete with me.”

I don’t judge this either. It explains the name Zena Comics.

“First off, I’m not a matchmaker, get it? I’m a gumshoe, a private dick, a flatfoot. Yeah, I got a certain flair with you ladies, but the only men I follow are cheating on their wives or planning their next robbery. Believe me, you don’t want those guys.”

Her eyes mist up, and she rises.

“Wait, where’re you going so fast?”

“I’m going shopping. It’s the 1940s. We don’t have Amazon yet. Shopping takes my mind off these clowns I’ve been going out with,” she answers.

A little snarky if you ask me. But I like feisty women. Then a light switch flips on in my bourbon addled brain.

“Hey, stick around a bit. I’ve got a client coming in. He’s a little older than you, and he’s a cartoonist, too, but his sick dad is worth millions. That‘ll buy a lot of art supplies and silk stockings.”

Introducing My New Sexual Partner, by Zena Comics

After I introduce Robert and Zena, they compare cartoons and slip off into the night. I lock my door and turn off the lights. This matchmaker gig is exhausting. I’d rather stalk my cop friends, look at dead gangsters, and solve murders. It’s less hazardous. It’s how I made my bones. I’m good at it.

Truth is, I’m not really that good with the molls and dolls. I work the graveyard shit mostly, I don’t always come home, I say what’s on my mind. That’s probably why I drink alone in my office.

Private Dick is an odd enough job. I don’t need to add Yenta to my moniker.

I look up and see a shadow in the office door window. If it’s a guy, I’ll be pulling my roscoe and not making a sound. But the silhouette is a dame. Damn. I get up and open the door. She jumps, and looks like a deer in the headlights.

“I don’t bite. Usually. Come in.”

She looks uncertain, but enters after I flip the juice and the light comes on.

“It’s late. What do you need, lady? Make it quick.”

“My name is Stephanie Wilson. This will sound crazy, but I have a medium. Her name is Luna Fortuna.”

She sounds crazy, all right. What’s with all the looney names today?

“What does that have to do with me? You can jaw with me right here. We don’t need a seance.”

“Luna told me I would meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger. He would have an odd job. But I can’t find him. I’ve checked out guys who build wooden kimonos, guys who make gin in bathtubs, number runners, every peterman, piker, yeggman and all the other weird jobs I can think of. No tall, dark, handsome strangers anywhere. I need you to help me find him.”

I stand up and so does she. I’m taller. I’m dark. Well, well. Maybe this matchmaker gig isn’t such a busted flush after all.

Luna Fortuna Seeks Wisdom, by Stephanie Wilson

Thanks to Andrew Rodwin for stalking work, and Gary Chapin for editing.