Here’s the start of this Paula Mitchell, PI, short story:
He was short, skinny, had a gray flat-top, and he wanted me to find his girlfriend. I figured she ran away and found some other guy with some style. One who wouldn’t wear a T-shirt proclaiming I Just Wanna to Get Laid.
“How much you charge?” he asked first thing after he sat down opposite me at one of the bar’s side tables. He’d wanted to meet me here. I’m obliging, especially when it comes to getting hired, but this was the worst bar in town. Like my new client, it lacked style, and it didn’t make up for it in atmosphere. The only decorative thing in the place was the bartender. I pulled my glance away from him when a waitress appeared and took our orders. A ginger ale for me, and a beer for him, no surprise. Probably why he wanted to meet here instead of at my office.
I told him my fee. He produced a real serious look and nodded. Nonchalantly leaned back in the chair as if he paid that amount hourly for other services. Hey, maybe he did. But frankly, I was surprised he wanted to hire a woman.
“Ms. Mitchell, I’m hiring you ’cause you’re a woman, and I figure you can find my Cindi better than some guy. I mean, you think like a woman, right?”
I hoped so. “Yes,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
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