Birch Tree Island

Dear reader,

The usual copyright rules apply as in no portion, in whole or in part, may be copied, duplicated, or transcribed without the writer's express written permission. Thanks so much for your kind words, thoughts, and notes of encouragement. I am very touched and thrilled you enjoy my work, and as always, your taking the time to leave such wonderful words, either publically or privately, is deeply appreciated. Thanks so much again, and I hope this story is as much fun for you to read as it was for me to write. Kisses, YLA

*

I stared at the blonde dish in the navy blue, skirted suit, wrestling an urge to bend the leggy creature over my desk, a desk that had seen many better days. I'd like to hammer her into a dripping, pretty mess just to see if there was a shred of secret warmth to be found anywhere in that gorgeous yet icy vessel, especially between her tightly closed thighs.

"Naturally, we've done the best we can to keep this out of the papers," the meticulously dressed and pressed tomato continued, paying no mind to me. I crammed my massively broad and muscled body into the creaky chair behind my desk. "But when it gets out that Veronique Tate is missing, we could find ourselves in a very vulnerable position. The mayor doesn't want that to happen so close to his re-election."

I grunted in acknowledgement, not looking up from my legal pad. I clenched my favorite pricey pen tight in my thick fingers, ready to scribble down any useful info the pretty dolly had to offer.

"We've been working with the police with little in the way of findings so far. They're convinced we maintain questionable relationships. As a result, they aren't applying enough effort to satisfy Mayor Tate. And if this is leaked to the press, they'll naturally draw the same conclusion—that the mob is involved."

"Any recent pictures of the girl?" My pen scratched across the pale yellow paper at a frenetic pace to keep up with my ideas and gut feelings. Our chinning wasn't quite right. The dame was holding out on me, and more often than not, with sisters like this, it was the things they didn't say that were the give away. She was tense as a tiger, and she knew I knew. Reluctantly, the lady slid an eight-by-ten glossy photograph across the battered old desk's pitted mahogany surface.

For the first time since she'd strode into my office, I felt genuine interest in the case when my eyes settled on the looker of a kitten in the picture. Far from the proper family portrait plastered across the papers shortly after Mayor Tate's election, this shot was of his daughter showing class with a capital C and sporting a body men would kill to touch. A marbled gray sky was the backdrop for Veronique Tate standing against the railing of a yacht, long, silvery blonde hair whipping in a very brisk wind. The same wind ruffled her ivory skirt with the navy blue stripe near the hem to give a great view of her knockout gams. The nautical ensemble would have been adorable on a younger girl but looked downright filthy on the buxom blonde holding a cocktail.

Her face was fresh and clean, devoid of makeup, with intensely blue eyes and a beatific smile. Veronique Tate was the closest thing to an angel I'd seen in far too long, and I'd deserve a good punch in the stones if I refused to help get her back.

Unfortunately, in this city of bait-and-switch dreams, tarnished haloes, cynical hearts, and friends or neighbors who'd just as soon look the other way when someone got popped even if they were blood, the mayor's family was forced to keep a low profile out of necessity. These were wild times, when nothing was certain. If you weren't careful, one wrong move or careless act could get you killed ... or worse. Most times, it was every man for himself. But there were always the dames or crumb crunchers that went missing. Kidnapped for ransom or sold into a life that'd made hell look like an attractive option. Often for nothing more than a few simoleons and a couple barrels of imported hooch.

"She's been missing for five days now?" I asked, the beauty in the picture still capturing most of my attention.

"Yes. There were some signs of a struggle, but no physical evidence to conclusively indicate precisely how many were involved in the kidnapping."

"Did Veronique have any trouble recently? Maybe a friendship gone bad? Problems with a fella in her life?" Often, young kitties this one's age would get their kicks skating around with the wrong gee just to raise a fuss, but such a high profile doll as Veronique Tate would surely have more sense.

The blonde's brows crept a bit upward at my insinuation that Veronique may have been catting around with some lowlife from the wrong side of the tracks. "Veronique didn't cavort around with boys, Mr. West. She had just returned from a finishing school in Switzerland. She was to spend two months with her parents then return to school in late summer."

I hadn't meant to offend with the implication. Surprisingly enough, I knew under her aloof exterior, this broad was tough as nails. It must be one bad scene for Ms. Ice to break down and come to a private dick like me.

"She is a very intelligent young lady and would never dare risk her father's reputation with such behavior."

"You're certain of this because...?" The woman primly crossed one stocking clad leg over the other. I admired her get away sticks and dangerously high stiletto heels that practically begged for me to stare.

"Because I have known the Tate family for years, and Veronique is not that kind of girl. Look, Mr. West. Either you'll take the case or you won't. I've much better things to do with my time than sit here with you soiling the character of a very decent and respectable young woman." So there was some spark in her yet! I plastered on my most winning and subtle smile that always nabbed the dames and met her intense gaze.

"All right, Miss..."

"Amelia Abernathy."

"Ms. Abernathy, I'll take the case. I need my advance up front, don't offer any sort of credit, and expect to be paid in full no matter the results of Veronique Tate's search."

Amelia blanched, but quickly recovered and nodded, reaching for her obviously expensive black purse. "I know this case is more high profile than you're accustomed to, Mr. West. But if Veronique isn't found..." Amelia lowered her face, bathing her features in shadow. "You have to find her."

I decided to give her the square. She was obviously no silly bim and understood the grim facts concerning cases like that of Veronique.

"I can't guarantee I'll find her, but I'm the best shamus in this town, and if there's a trail, I'll find it. I just want you to know that. This wasn't a trip for biscuits." She met my eyes with a level gaze then handed me a wad of spinach for my advance. "Thank you, Miss Abernathy. Let me walk you to your car."

**

The Starlight Club was a real darb joint. High class all the way, which meant I avoided it whenever possible. Not just because the gin cost an arm and a leg, but because there had been a bit of unfinished business between myself and Scarlett Marçais, one honey of a doll and the best damned torcher in this woeful and dreary city.

Had it not been for Slim O'Malley, we might have spent many happier years together. Slim's boys offered me a very generous choice one ink black night as they escorted me out of her place to my wheels: stay away or Scarlett and I would both be fitted for Chicago overcoats and no one would ever find our coffins unless Slim and the boys wanted them to.

So it was with a twisting gut full of acidic apprehension that I parked my heap in an out-of-the-way corner and checked my glad rags. A guy in my position couldn't afford to stick out too much, and I prayed the new look would buy me a little time for my visit. Even if I did look like a damned idiot in this highbrow get up.

"Evening." One of the hoods nodded at the door. The joint was hopping, and I could hear the ecstatic babble of patrons behind the door.

"Hey Joe. Whadda ya know?" I smiled, hoping I didn't come off hinky. "How much?"

"For you?" The other hood asked, something hard and calculating swimming behind his steely gray eyes like a shark. "A sawbuck will do."

"What?" I had the loot, but I wanted to put up a front, run my yap just enough, and get the bulge in this situation.

"Look, pal, either you pay us or you make dust. I can stand here all night."

I handed over a crumpled ten and they parted to let me in. The smell of champagne and money hit me full in the face like a ton of bricks.

"Hey Harry!" Polly, the hat check girl, appeared from behind her desk, bleached hair shimmering and refracting the light. Her kissable lips were as full and red as cherries in the summertime. "You ain't been around here much. A girl gets lonely sometimes, you know. We had some good times. I missed you."

"Evening, Polly." I nodded, handing her my fedora and sport jacket. My roscoe was well concealed under my suit coat. "You know damn well why I've been away."

The doll grinned, tipping me a wink. "Yeah, but you know where to find me." She leaned forward so far her perfumed bosom nearly exploded from her skimpy top. "So one of these nights, come find me."

"Careful what you wish for, sister." I grinned, but was lured away by the sudden uproar of catcalls and applause.

I crossed the posh hat check room and stepped into the supper club proper. As soon as I did so, I realized I'd just opted to put myself smack behind the eight ball. I saw her immediately and wanted to cheer and whistle the loudest out of all the sorry cats and kitties in the place. But I needed to cool it if I hoped to get anything out of tonight aside from a good roughing up.

Crooning "My Ideal" with a set of pipes smoky and sultry enough to lure sailors to their big sleep, Scarlett Marçais had every eye in the house glued to her subtle shifts and sways. Mine was no exception. Poured into a slinky, black satin dress with a slit clean up one hip and no straps or back to speak of, my canary surveyed the audience from her stage, a perfect gardenia pinned in her auburn tresses. She'd chosen diamonds to decorate her décolleté and stud her dainty little earlobes, and her perfect pout was blood red against her milk white complexion. A steel fist closed around my ticker. I hurried to a seat before I fell over.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming back here, Harry West." Agnes appeared, dolled up in her waitress garb and trying to hide the twinkle in her eye. "You know if Slim finds you here, you're going to end up dodging slugs. Need I remind you what happened to the last snooper dumb enough to come here? Ended up staggering down a back alley with nothing but a Harlem sunset to show for his trouble?"

"Eh. I've had worse.?"

"Enough knife wounds to paint an alley red?" she quipped.

"Don't worry, Agnes. I know it's a messy situation. But if you button your lip and I lay low, I'll be dust in a flash. I'm risking my neck for a very important client."

"Sure." Agnes grinned, shrugging her fine little shoulders. "You want a drink or are we just going to keep yapping? I've got to make a living, too."

"The usual. Now drift, dolly, before the hoods finger me for being where I'm not supposed to be."

Agnes blew me a kiss and then bustled off toward the bar. Her can wiggled under her skirt, reminding me of days of flophouse fun with my plucky little waitress when all the other occupants were asleep, or lazy afternoons of clean sheets and dirty talk in her cracker box of a place. But before my admiration could turn to obsession, another round of applause and whistles drew my eye back to the stage and the stuff of my dreams.

Scarlett now leaned against the black lacquered grand, her bare rounded hip pressed provocatively to the mellow gleaming wood. She peered at the audience through long dark lashes, then gave a playful smile to Fingers Nelson—the best damned pianist in the city. A bright red blush climbed up his mug as he began to play "Don't Sit Under The Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me," and she strode back to center stage with a twinkle in her eye.

An especially loud whistle from front and center and I was less than pleased to see the big man himself—Finn "Slim" O'Malley. He was surrounded by a crew of his most notorious droppers and dressed to the nines in a penguin suit and platinum cuff links. He pulled a coffin nail from a deck offered by one of his thugs.

I should have known that damned ginger would be here keeping tabs on his frail. Too busy chastising myself, I barely noticed Agnes as she stealthily set my scotch on the table. Agnes comes through again! My sweet baby had given me an entire hand's worth, not just a couple fingers. My heart warmed along with my chest as I took a swig of the fiery juice, watching as she next placed another bottle of bubbly on Finn's table. Just the thought of that steamy summer night with Scarlett was enough to make me want to chug the drink down, but I couldn't afford to go overboard with the rams with work to do. Even if I wanted that damned Mick to go climb up his thumb or take a long walk off a short pier.

It was then that I felt a gentle tap on my elbow. I turned to see a little China doll peering up at me from dark enigmatic eyes.

"Miss Marçais says I give you this note if I see you, and that you come with me through kitchen." The tiny Asian kitten was pretty in a delicate kind of way, and when she held out one hand for mine, I obliged, not risking another glance back at Scarlett or the O'Malley boys. I paused only long enough to grab my scotch.

We wove through the maze of tables with their linen cloths and crystal candleholders, respectable swanky couples, and daisy rich Joes mixed with bindle punks and flimflam men, all brought together for one reason: to watch Scarlett's simmering serenade and forget about their own troubles for a while.

The little China girl and I ducked back down a short hall into the steaming kitchen, dodging workers and nearly running smack into Agnes as she returned with her tray.

"Good luck Harry," she whispered, planting a quick peck on my mush as I was led toward the rear entrance of the kitchen.

"You wait here," pretty little bit instructed, tugging me into Scarlett's dressing room. "She come back to see you when it's safe. Wait in here." She tugged open a massive wardrobe and gestured toward all the fancy rags. I got it. Scarlett didn't want me to have any tangles with Slim O'Malley, and this was the least likely place she thought I'd be discovered, though it seemed damned obvious to me.

I struggled to get comfy pressed in amid crinolines, silky slinky gowns, dozens of pairs of shoes, and the overall perfume of rose and cedar wood sachets. The tiny footsteps of my co-conspirator paused, and then disappeared with a soft click out into the club. Every dress smelled like my Scarlett. The heady scent was all Chanel and cigarettes, roses and powder. In an instant, I'd closed my eyes and staggered down memory lane. My recollection was a bit blurred thanks to a little too much scotch and way too much Scarlett to leave the senses sharp and defined.

But oh, the memories. The luscious sprawl of her warm flesh spread out before me like a carnal feast. The silky taste of her thighs smooth as cream, and even sweeter. The perfect little gasp she'd made when I dared a solitary kiss on her heavenly mound. I'd been totally over the moon, and Scarlett was writhing so much she'd nearly dropped her cigarette. Then, her posh apartment door opened with a bang and the jig was up. Slim walked in and caught me red-handed and nose deep in his dame's pink as we sprawled on her burgundy velvet divan.

Turns out some of the O'Malley fellas had recognized my wheels and how often they'd been parked at Scarlett's place. Slim had gone for his bean shooter. I managed to kick the slime ball square in the jewels before he could squeeze off a round. From there, things got more ugly.

Long and short of it was Scarlett ended up with one hell of a shiner and a fat lip so bad she'd missed two days at Starlight. I was accompanied out to my car by a couple of Slim's boys who must have bench pressed tanks in their spare time, then given a few not so gentle reminders to stay away in case I ever got any more ideas.

So you might be wondering why it was I'd come back. It's simple really. Yeah, I knew a lot of the female staff at the Starlight on a more than personal level. Polly for instance—she could suck the chrome off a pipe and almost killed me when we'd fucked—she loved it harder and faster every time. Agnes was a pure doll. She'd fix me a steak and potato dinner, and we'd dance the hours away before I'd take her home. She was a really classy dame despite pouring swill for boozehounds for a living. And Scarlett ... well, you know about Scarlett. Thing is, Scarlett knows everything about everything.

She'd been there when the Sandoval boys gunned down Tim O'Malley over a boat full of coke and smack. Slim would snort lines off her back while they fucked just to see if he could. And it was rumored that Slim had undertaken a new line of work: renting young naïve Janes to high-class customers. The girls supposedly swapped stories and saw fit to confide in the glamorous goddess that was my Scarlett. Scarlett had been asked to help with the approval process of each new piece of pretty profit the O'Malleys found. If Veronique had gotten mixed up with the wrong girls, Scarlett would know. I had to find out somehow, and this was the least likely way a sane man would do so, which meant it was the most likely way I'd have any luck. Ameche was out since I didn't doubt the Boys were listening in on Scarlett's horn, and she knew coming to see me would only get her more than her share of hurt from Slim.

How long I was lost in my thoughts I couldn't say. I was yanked clean of them when I heard the rumble of a man's voice accompanied by high musical laughter. A sound so fine could only come from my baby, and every muscle in me went tense as piano wire at her approach.

"That was fine, love. Just fine." Slim's brogue, slightly slurred by vintage scotch, boomed from right outside the dressing room door. "You really know how to knock them dead, don't you?" A more muffled laugh and the door opened.

Scarlett's vertigo-inducing high heels clicked across the tiled entryway followed by the weightier thump of Slim's perfectly polished Rochesters. Never one to resist staring down the barrel of a gun, I eased forward, trying to make as little noise as possible, to steal a peek. Sure it was dangerous, and for a moment, I could have sworn Slim heard the rustling of a very formal gown as I pushed it back out of the way. But Scarlett's coquettish chatter camouflaged the noise.

"Baby, can't we go back to your place? It was so embarrassing when Ming-Yu walked in on us to collect my dress."

"Passion never waits, love," Slim replied, slipping out of his jacket and removing his bow tie. The heater strapped to the inside of his jacket came next, though he was wise to put it on the night table, not far out of reach if the need arose.

Scarlett, already familiar with his way of doing things, had peeled down the shimmery bodice of her dress to show off the snowy peaks of her glorious mounds capped with pink nipples, like little berries atop whipped cream. With a practiced pout, she pulled the gardenia from her hair and tossed it to a grinning Slim, who was more than halfway to naked.

"Aye, such fine titties you have, love," Slim murmured as he approached the statuesque body of my Scarlett. "Get that frilly dress out of the way or else you'll really have an embarrassing situation when Ming-Yu finds my spunk all over it."

"Of course darling," Scarlett acquiesced. With a whirl that made my blood rush, she turned her back to Slim and shimmied her hips, the black fabric sliding down over the perfect heart shape of her bare ass as Slim caught her by the shoulders, forcing her forward to bend over the side of the bed.