Dirk Saber P.I.: Jane Russell Ch. 02

Without rainfall and without bloodshed, the 4th of July parade ended in the Catholic Church parking lot at the opposite end of town. Dick Tracy appeared anxious to water some trees, so I parked my Ford in the shade and let my Dick loose. Screw the leash law. My Dick is well behaved. As I stood leaning against the fender watching him sniff and spray, I pondered my approach to Aunt Becky, a.k.a. Janie. Should I act sociable and sophisticated, or tough and cynical?

Because my keen senses were totally distracted, I jumped when I felt a tap my shoulder.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," said a soft voice filled with sincere, feathery tingles.

Turning quickly, I answered in an unmanly squeak, "You didn't."

Then I cleared my throat, looked into Aunt Becky's milk chocolate, melt your heart eyes, and decided to be myself for a change. "Well a little, you caught me daydreaming." Then I smiled and added inside my head, 'about you.'

She'd put on a thin, blue robe over her "Outlaw" movie costume, but it didn't detract from her physical magnetism. I struggled mightily to keep my eyes from wandering down.

"How may I help you, Ms..."

She held out her hand for first contact, "Renaldi, Rebecca Renaldi. But please, call me Becky."

Her hand was warm and delicate, but the grip firm and direct. The alliteration in her name sounded poetic, but I deferred to her request. "Okay, Becky."

As a distraction, I turned my eyes away to locate Dick Tracy, and spotted him hunched over relieving his bowels.

She followed my eyes, and said, "Dogs have no shame."

"No, they don't." I said, pulling out a biodegradable poop bag from my suit pocket.

Unsure of how to take the conversation from poop to private investigator business, I waited for her to start. Surprisingly, she asked, "Are you John Smith?"

"Yes, I am." My surprise must've been obvious. I suck at poker. My facial expressions are understandable, like a boner at a nudist camp.

She smiled coyly, and said, "It's a small world. We have a mutual acquaintance."

Intrigued, I asked," Who?" sounding oddly owlish.

"Samantha Watson. Her law firm represented me in Los Angeles. After they won my case, I needed someplace safe to hideout for a while. When I mentioned my brother lives here, Samantha said I should look you up if I needed help. She said if I felt in danger you'd keep me safe." Becky paused, looked away, and then added, "She said you were the best Private Dick she'd ever met. Finding you here, today, is just a happy coincidence... fate."

Becky reached out and ran her fingers over my lapel. Her touch made me quiver.

"She didn't say you were into cosplay."

"Cosplay?" I'd never heard that term before. But because I'm involved with society's criminal element, the first thing that popped into my head was the allegations against Bill Cosby. "What's Cosplay?"

"It's short for costume play. Dress up play acting for adults." She sighed, and added. "I love costumes. I wanted to be an actress. Costumes are a part of who I am, on and off the stage."

I felt conflicted. I didn't want to mix business with pleasure... again. I just wanted the pleasure half. The fate I wanted with Becky had nothing to do with work.

Becky misread my expression, and said, "I can pay. I have money."

Keeping it professional, I said, "Good to know. What can I do for you?"

Attractive women are used to getting their way. So my pretend indifference to her obvious flirtation blunted her pretense.

She became serious, and said, "I'm being stalked. I have a stalker. I thought about a restraining order, but I know how ineffective they are. Once you're dead, they work great." She laughed without humor. "I don't want my brother's family involved. So, I'm looking for another place to stay... temporarily."

"I see."

Dick Tracy completed his toilet.

To stall for time, I said, "Just a minute," and cleaned up my Dick's mess, dropping the bag in the Catholic trash can while thinking, 'Holy shit, Becky wants to stay at my house.'

I returned to find her squatting down and petting Dick's colossal head, her magnificent cleavage on display beneath the parted robe.

"You can stay with me, until I convince your stalker to take a hike."

"Really? I appreciate it. I feel safer already." She stood; looking relieved, if smiling and gorgeous is a relieved look.

"Where are your things? At your brother's?"

"No. I've been staying at different motels. All my stuff is in my van."

"Good. I'll drive you to it. You can follow me home, and you can tell your brother you've found a place to stay, but don't say where. It's safer if no one knows where you are."

"How can I tell anyone where I'm staying when I don't even know where you live?" Looking ill at ease, she added, "Tell no one?"

"Good point. You can tell your brother, and call him later with an address if you want. Make sure he knows it's for your safety."

"Okay. Thank you. I'll be right back."

I returned to my Fordor Deluxe, put my Dick in the backseat, and started the engine. Becky returned a few minutes later with her suspicious, big brother. It took some convincing, but he finally agreed his little sister needed a bodyguard for a while.

We drove in silence back to where the parade began and retrieved her vehicle, a Honda Odyssey. Apparently, we had vehicle preferences in common, as well as what she called cosplay. The back was filled to the ceiling with cardboard boxes.

I pulled up next to it, and said, "Follow me. It'll be easy. I live outside the city. You won't get lost in traffic."

"It would be easy to follow you anywhere," she said, laughing, "I doubt there's another car that looks like yours outside of a museum."

"That's true," I agreed, feeling foolish.

Maybe Becky picked up on my discomfort. She touched my sleeve, and said, "It's a cool car. I love it."

I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home, keeping an eye on her van in the tiny rearview mirror. Planning ahead, I would call Samantha. I needed to know the rest of the story. God, I miss Paul Harvey. Sam would fill me in on the details, plus I wanted to thank her for the referral.

Taking a circuitous route, we arrived safely. No evidence of a tail. After unloading her personal items into the guest room, I replaced my van with hers inside the garage. When I returned to the house, much to my dismay, Becky had made a quick change from her sexy movie costume to red shorts and a loose fitting white blouse. Still, there was no hiding her curves completely.

"Nice place, very secluded." she said, standing in front of the picture window that overlooked the backyard. She watched Dick Tracy sniff along the fence. "I like dogs, too."

"Good. Dick is my best friend. I'd hate to banish him from the house," I said, taking in the enticing view she presented. In profile, the sunshine made her thin blouse semitransparent. Noticeably absent was any means of undergarment support. I thought it would be rude to mention it and embarrass her. Then I wondered if she posed purposely for effect.

"How much are you going to charge me for 24 hour protection?"

Okay, time to get down to business. "Here, look this over, but remember, everything is negotiable." I handed her a contract with a list of my rates.

She looked it over, while I looked her over.

"Hmm, seems fair", Becky said, turning to face me. The blouse jostled provocatively. "Although, if this situation drags on, I may want to renegotiate the deal."

Holding out a pen, I said, "Just sign on the bottom line, and then we'll discuss your case in detail."

Becky walked over to the dining room table, all the way around to the far side, and bent over to sign - ample cleavage with pokies on display. Nice. Intentional? Gotta think so. Maybe we were already renegotiating the deal. I may have to read one of Trump's books. I wonder if there's a chapter on carnal capital investment. Probably not, because he respects women so much. If you're wondering... yes, that's sarcasm.

I sat across the table with pad and pen, and said, "Okay, Becky. Tell me what's going on. I'll listen, and ask questions as needed."

"Okay," she said, and then after a brief pause began, "When I was in L.A. trying to become an actress, I became acquainted with a number of men in the movie industry. It turned out my resemblance to a dead film star made it difficult for me to find legitimate work. No one wanted to hire a look-a-like, unless it was for some low budget porn movie."

Becky paused, frowned, and took a moment to compose her thoughts before continuing. "I began doing mall openings, charity events, and private parties posing as Jane, just to pay the rent."

"Jane?" I said, acting oblivious.

She sighed, and said, "Jane Russell. She was a sex symbol in the 30's and 40's. Few people remember her outside of Hollywood. I think I could've been a good actress if given a chance."

"I see. Go on."

"One of the men I met, Lloyd Fairweather, became infatuated with my 'Jane Russell'. He kept asking me out, and wouldn't take no for answer. When he finally broke into my apartment, I had him arrested, and now he's angry. Last week, I found an anonymous note pinned to my door. It read, 'You'll never see it coming.'

"Fairweather, is that his real name?"

"Legally yes. He changed it from Boyd Schlitzmiester to sound more appealing."

Do you think he really wants to hurt you?"

"I do. You see, he was a celebrity impersonator, as well. We'd work the same jobs occasionally. He would dress up as Bela Lugosi's Dracula, but once whispered to me he always wanted to play Jack the Ripper. That comment didn't leave me warm and fuzzy."

"So, I should be on the lookout for Bela's doppelganger?"

"Lloyd worked part time as a makeup artist. He could change his appearance like a chameleon, and that's what makes the threat so scary. I won't see him coming."

"Do you think he knows where you are now?"

"I'm not sure. I once told him where my family lived."

I wrote down on my pad, 'Google search - how do I find the invisible man?', and said to Becky, "I think you should lay low for a few days. With Fairweather friends like that who needs enemies. If he does check out your brother's place, he'll probably give up and go home if he doesn't see you."

Standing, I said, "That's enough for now. I need to get out of this suit. Cosplay time is over for another year."

Becky stood, and pulled her blouse down tight to straight it. "Too bad. You look badass as a gangster."

I swallowed hard, raised my eyes from breasts to brow, and said, "This isn't a gangster costume. I was impersonating FBI agent Melvin Purvis. But I am badass no matter how I look."

"My mistake," and then grinning, she added, "Melvin Purvis, I've heard of him. Didn't they call him pervy for short?"

"I doubt it," I said, feeling peeved. No one mocks my hero. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Make yourself at home."

In my room, I stripped off the zoot suit and hung it in the cedar closet until next year. Sitting on my bed, I picked up my cellphone and dialed Samantha Watson. It had been months since we spoke. Would she even answer?

After four rings, she did. "Hello?"

"Hi, Sam, it's John."

Silence.

"John Smith, Dirk Saber PI?"

Oh! John! How are you?"

Disappointed. "I'm good. Can't complain. How are you?"

It took her three minutes of nonstop yacking to inform me of all the life changing things she'd experienced since leaving me.

Finally I worked in the reason for my call. "What can you tell me about my new client Rebecca Renaldi?"

"Who?"

This wasn't going as well as expected. "Rebecca Renaldi. Your law firm represented her, and you recommended my services to resolve her stalker problem."

"I don't think so. What does she look like?"

The easiest way to describe her was, "She impersonates Jane Russell."

"Okay, that rings a bell. When I first came to L.A. the firm was representing several prostitutes who agreed to a plea bargain in exchange for testimony against their high society Madam. I stayed with the girls in a hotel room for protection until they testified."

"I see." Dammit. My stomach sank. "How did she get my name?"

"I probably dropped your name in conversation on one of those long, boring nights of girl talk. You were a lot of fun, John. I'll never forget you."

"Thanks, Sam. We had some good times together."

"Anything else I can do for you?"

"Nope, that helps a lot. Thanks."

"Call anytime. Don't be a stranger. Buh bye!"

"Nice talking..." too slow, she'd already hung up.

I lay back, pondering what I should do next. Rebecca Renaldi was a prostitute, and she lied about Sam recommending me. Was this some kind of scam, or did she really need protection? Why would she want to con me? My detective work would have to begin with finding out the truth. After putting on shorts and a tee shirt, I went in search of my house guest.

Walking by the living room window, I spotted her in the backyard, playing tug of war with Dick Tracy. Turned out that Becky was no match for my Dick. He shook his mighty head back and forth, making her arms and chest bounce in response. He pulled and jerked backwards, as she held on tight to the rope and pulled in the opposite direction. Her constantly oscillating breasts put tremendous strain on the blouse, which suddenly caused a catastrophic buttonhole failure, opening the garment for full and fabulous exposure.

Becky let go and stood with her hands on her knees laughing. In a winded voice, she said, "I give up. You win!"

Dick moved closer to her, shook the rope for her to grab, suggesting he wanted more, that the fun ended too soon. My Dick and I were in sync as usual. But Becky had enough. She straightened up, while buttoning up.

I moved to the dining room table and brooded over my next move. Anyone who likes dogs can't be all bad. Becky definitely had a couple of redeeming, voluptuous qualities. The bigger question remained. Why did she lie? Now all I had to do was figure out what she wanted from me. I already knew what I wanted from her.

"Hey," she said, interrupting my lecherous thoughts. "I've had an idea."

"About what?" I asked, taking in her tousled hair and flushed cheeks, the consequences of playing with Dick.

"I don't have a lot of savings, so I was wondering if I could work off some of your security bill."

Intrigued, and jumping to erotic conclusions, I asked, "What do you have in mind?"

"I could cook and clean. Be your maid while I'm here. This place could use a thorough dusting and vacuuming."

Not quite what I'd hoped for, I said, "Really? You'd want to do that?"

"Sure, why not? I need to keep busy. I hate just sitting around, and it would save me money."

"Okay. I accept."

Why not? I wasn't hurting for money, and it was an offer I could accept without guilt, unlike some other services I secretly hoped she'd provide.

We agreed on an hourly rate and guessed at the amount of time needed. We sealed the deal with a handshake.

Letting go, I said, "I have some ideas I'd like to run by you."

"Okay," she said, a little apprehensively. "About what?"

"Have a seat."

Watching her face closely for any sign of distress, I said, "I'm thinking about calling Samantha Watson in L.A. and asking her to look into Lloyd Fairweather. See if he has a record. You had him arrested, so he should be in the system."

She frowned, and looked unsure, but then recovered, saying, "I never pressed charges, so there is no record of him breaking in. I just wanted to scare him off. I'd just finished with my court case and didn't want to go through that ordeal again."

"Do you mind telling me what that court case was about?"

Becky suddenly became angry. "Yes, I do mind! It had nothing to do with Mr. Fairweather. It's personal and none of your business."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you," I said, but her anger put new doubt in my mind. "Samantha would check on Mr. Fairweather's whereabouts if I asked."

"No. I don't want to involve any more people with my problem. I'm paying you for protection just for a little while," she said, standing and turning to go. "That's all I want."

I watched her ass sashay out of the room while thinking, that's not all I want. A few seconds later, her bedroom door closed sharply.