It had been a slow day. Well, it had been a slow week. Okay, okay, it had been a slow month. Crime was down. That may sound like a dream come true for a politician, but for a Private Investigator such as myself, it was bad news. If no one needed crimes solved, I didn't get paid.
I hated when I didn't get paid.
I sat back in my chair, propping my feet up on my desk, as I read the daily paper. These days, though, I could recite the stories in my sleep. Talkies were invading movie theaters. Women's rising hemlines were shocking the nation. Hoover was in the White House and he predicted smooth sailing for the rest of the 1920's. I hoped he would be right. I needed some smooth sailing right about now.
"McGee, we've got a client."
I looked up, unsure if Abby was on the level or not. Abby had been my receptionist since the incarnation of my business. She was quick witted and had a biting sense of humor, both of which I liked in a receptionist. However, it made it hard to tell when she was being serious and when she was pulling my leg for a laugh.
"Who is it?" I asked, removing my feet from their place atop my desk. If we really did have a client, I hoped to appear as professional as possible.
"My name is Ziva David," said a sultry voice.
The woman who appeared in the doorway was what many men would consider an exotic beauty. She had slim legs which disappeared beneath a dark green skirt. Her dress clung to her frame, though the top dipped down a bit more than most necklines did. Her beautiful brunette hair was long—not like the bobbed hairstyles of the so-called modern women you might see walking about nowadays—though it was pulled back into an elegant bun. Her deep, brown eyes peeked out beneath the veil of her hat. She was a knockout in every sense of the word.
"Mrs. David," I greeted as I led her to the chair across from my desk. "How can I help you?"
"It's Miss," she corrected as she sat. She pulled out a cigarette case and extracted one. She placed it between her red-painted lips and looked at me expectantly.
"Allow me," I said as I struck a match. I held it against the cigarette, watching the tip light up and began to smolder.
She sucked in the cigarette and then removed it, exhaling a long stream of smoke. "Thank you."
While I was enjoying the company of this woman, I was eager to get to the job. "Now, Miss David, what can I do for you?"
She took another long drag on the cigarette before saying, "I have reason to believe that someone is trying to kill me."
"Kill you?" I repeated. Who would want to kill this beautiful woman? "Why do you think that?"
She opened her handbag and removed a folded piece of paper. "I found this," she said, handing the paper over to me, "in my dressing room."
I unfolded the paper and saw what she meant. Scrawled in messy writing was Watch your back. Your time is running out.
I looked up at her. "Do you have any idea who may have written this?"
"No," she said. "I was not aware that I had made any enemies."
"You said it was in your dressing room?"
"I am a singer at the Lily Pad. It was in my backstage dressing area when I finished my set."
The Lily Pad was a club located in a bad area of town. I didn't frequent it, but I knew enough about it to stay away when possible. The owner—a broad by the name of Jenny Shepherd—claimed they were dry, but anyone with a brain knew they were bootlegging to their customers. The cops were always trying to bust them, but Shepherd always stayed one step ahead. Word on the street was that she had a hold on Captain Gibbs', and I mean that in both figuratively and sexually.
"I want to hire you, McGee," Ziva said. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs tantalizingly. "I want you to find out who wants me out of the picture."
It was my first real job in weeks and I was ready to pounce. However, I didn't want to seem desperate. "My fee runs a bit steep," I warned. It wasn't a lie, but at this point I was willing to knock off a few dollars.
"Money is not an issue. After all, you cannot put a price on your life."
I leaned back in my chair, resting my chin upon my clasped hands. "I suppose I could take the case," I said slowly. "Nothing else has come along that is quite so imminent."
She breathed a soft sigh of relief, placing a hand over her chest. "You do not know how much a weight has been lifted from my shoulders."
"Don't rest easy yet," I warned, "I still haven't found the person." I stood and walked around to the other side of my desk, sitting back against it. "Now, you haven't given me any leads, so I don't have a place to start."
"The club," she suggested. "It's really the only place I go on a regular basis."
"I'll be there tonight to scope out the place."
Her ruby painted lips twitched into a smirk. "I look forward to it."
I escorted her to the door, promising to push all of my other cases to the side and get right to work on hers, and I was rewarded with a soft kiss on my cheek. Her lips pulled slowly away from my skin with a puckering sound and she looked me down with a smile. And then she left.
"She works at the Lily Pad?" Abby asked incredulously when I walked out behind Ziva.
I gave her a sharp look. "How do you know? Were you listening?"
"Of course! What receptionist doesn't?"
With a roll of my eyes, I said, "It's not a big deal. Besides, she has a case, and I need to take it."
"And the fact that she has those tiny, slim legs had nothing to do with it?"
"I'm not like that, Abby."
"Mm-hm," she said in a tone that indicated she didn't believe me. "Here," she added as she handed me a handkerchief.
I took it, and looked at her with a furrowed brow. "What? For the lipstick smudge on my cheek?"
She grinned cheekily. "No, for the drool on your chin."
AN: Yes! I finally combined two of my favorite things intow one story: NCIS and early 20th Century history! Now I just need to figure out a way to have our NCIS characters in a WWII setting and I'm golden!
This is already written. As per usual, one chapter per day!
