Disclaimer: I do not own Ben 10 or its sequels, spin-off and related characters. All is the property of Man of Action and Cartoon Network. I'm just borrowing them for some non-profit entertainment.
Gwevin Week 2020, Day 4 – "Deception"
Hard Boiled Scotch
In Greek tragedies, they fall from the clouds. In Bellwood, they fell from the curb.
Kevin Levin, private Investigator, picked himself up from the curb and staggered up to his office. Flopping down in his chair and sagging behind the desk, Levin pulled open the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch.
The whole case was just a little too pat. It had the austere simplicity of fiction, rather than the tangles woof of fact. Levin sipped his scotch as he went over the events in his mind. Who would have thought when that dame walked into his office, she'd bring with her a whole pack of trouble.
…
She walked in on a cold rainy night, the weather beating against the windows so loud Levin didn't hear her knock beating against the office door. The door opened and she walked in without so much as a 'how do ya do?'
Long legs that ran up to a tiny waist that was more corset than woman. Wearing a shirt-waisted flair dress under her soaked coat. A wide-brimmed cartwheel hat covering her hair, with a lace fascinator.
She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks, and then slowly raised them again. Like a theater curtain. Levin would get to know that trick. It was the kinda thing a dame did that was supposed to make any gullible mook roll over on their back with all four paws up in the air.
"You lost, toots?" Levin asked.
"You a private dick?" She asked.
"That's what it says on the door." He nodded. "Leastways, long as I stay paid up every week."
She crossed the office, skirts rustling around her knees, and pulled out the chair in front of his desk. "I'm afraid I need some help." She announced. "You see, there's been a robbery."
"That's a job for the cops, toots." Levin informed her.
"The police have already done all they can do." She informed him. "I'm afraid if the stolen items are ever to be found, I need a special Investigator."
"My fees ain't cheap, darlin'." Levin told her. "I work hard for thems that can pay, that is, assuming you can pay."
She reached into her rain soaked coat and pulled out a small ladies change purse. Unsnapping it, she counted out seven greenbacks and set them down on Levin's desk. They were all tens, totally $70 American in total. No small fortune! That was a lot of bread!
"There'll be another seventy dollars upon delivery of the stolen merchandise." She announced.
"A hundred and forty clams ain't no small sum, darlin'. Must be some property." Levin made no move to collect the bills laid out on his desk. "You ain't mixed up with no Incursians, are ya?"
The Incursians were the biggest mob operation this side of the Atlantic, and were a crate of sauce you didn't wanna snap your cap at!
"Nothing to do with the Incursionas at all." She assured him. The dame took her hat off and a curtain of silver hair fell down around her shoulders. "Allow me to tell you my story. You may call me Charmcaster, and this is what I need you to recover."
From that same tiny purse, she withdrew a folded up piece of paper and passed it across the desk to Levin.
The paper turned out to be of a photograch. The corners dog-ears, the edges curling, and the photopaper peeling and flaking off where it was folded. But the photo showed what might have been an archeological dig. Diggin' up them old ruins was all the rage before the war. Levin remembered they even used to sell a catch-all cure-what-ails-ya made from mummy powder down at the drug store.
Ain't no one diggin' up ruins now.
It was hard to see what the actual archeologists looked like, one of the fold lines just so happened to run across both their eyes. But they looked to be up there in years, if this photo was taken before then war, then they would have to be very, very old today. But the archeologists were not the focus of the photo.
The focal point of the frame was a series of stones, each about the size of the palm of a person's hand. Six in total, each scratched with a different archaic looking symbol.
"You want me to find you some rocks?" Levin leaned back in his hair. He wasn't buying it.
"Not just any rocks." Charmcaster insisted. "These rocks!"
"And for finding these rocks, I get a hundred and forty dollars." Levin pressed, just for clarification. With a hundred and forty dollars he could get himself out of this gutter-fallen town.
She nodded.
Levin swept up the greenbacks up in one quick and smooth motions, pocketing them in an inside pocket of his vest. "Well, darlin', looks like you got yourself a PI. Now let's find them rocks. Where do we start."
…
Levin looked at the bottom of his glass, and contemplated pouring himself a second.
In a case that involved one dame, there was inevitably a second.
…
The rocks Charmcaster wanted him to find were part of a set called the 'Charms of Bezel', which were dug up by archeologist Dr. Green and Dr. Tennyson. Dr. Green had moved to the other side of the country. But Dr. Tennyson still maintained an office in the university.
Levin knocked on the door frame before entering, then stopped short.
That was no old geezer behind the desk.
That was a broad standing behind the desk, packing books into a box. She was a redhead, and when she looked up at Levin, he saw green eyes. Red hair and green eyes, the kind that would make a bishop kick a hole through a stained glass window.
"May I help you?" She asked, sounding annoyed.
She seemed like a dame with the kind of moxie that could convince a guy to sign up to have and to hold.
Levin wasn't in the market for a dame with moxie just yet. "Sorry, toots, I was lookin' for Dr. Tennyson. He gonna be back soon?"
"He's retired, unfortunately." The redhead informed him. "I'm just helping clear out his office. I'm his granddaughter, Gwendolyn. You can call me Ms. Tennyson. Not 'Toots', or 'Broad', or 'Dame', or 'Babe'. It's 'Ms. Tennyson'."
There was that bold and authoritative moxie. Levin would be lying if he didn't admit that he responded to it. He liked women with that kind of no-nonsense 'this is the way it's gonna be' attitude. He tipped his hat to her. "Ma'am. If you'll just tell me where I can find Max Tennyson I'll be out of your hair."
"Like I said, Grandpa's retired." She repeated, setting another book in the box. Gwendolyn brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and came around the desk. "But maybe I can help you. I'm familiar with all my grandfather's research. What did you need?"
Without even waiting for a response from him, Gwendolyn snatched his notebook from him and scanned over his chicken scratch writing. Noted the 'Charms of Bezel', then handed the notebook back to him.
"That exhibit was stolen." She told him.
"Exhibit? What from a museum?" Levin asked, confused.
"No. From the research department." Gwendolyn clarified. "Here at the university."
Levin returned his notebook to the pocket of his coat. "Can I see the crime scene?"
Gwendolyn lead him out of the office and across campus to a different building altogether. Down into a musty smelling basement. The tubing in the walls hummed when Gwendolyn flipped the switch to turn the lights on, and they came of slowly, illuminating shelves packed with artifacts from across the planet. Statues, and skulls, and orbs, arrow heads and axes, and lot and lot and lots of broken pottery.
Leading him between the rows, Gwendolyn showed him an empty shelf that was labeled 'Charms of Bezel', but was otherwise empty. Not even a scrap of police tape.
"The police came and dusted for prints." Gwendolyn explained. "They interviewed me, Professor Hex, and his niece who works in the typing pool. Then decided the thief was uncatchable and gave up."
"Professor Hex." Levin made a note. "Ya got a name for the niece, from the typing pool."
"Hope." Gwendolyn supplied. "But I donno her last name."
"It's not Hope Hex?" He asked.
"Buddy, I'm not even sure Hex is the professor's real name." She snorted. Gwendolyn brushed a strand of that sinfully red hair behind her ear again. "Not to disparage you, I don't wanna be that kinda cockeyed yuck that tell you how to do your job, but I don't think you can catch the thief either."
He tipped his hat to her again. "Then it's a good thing I wasn't hired to catch the thief. Just find the rocks."
…
Levin gave up on his pretense of sobriety and poured himself a second glass of scotch.
Flipping through his notebook, he skimmed over interviewing Professor Hex, meeting Hope in the typing pool who ended up being the same 'Charmcaster' that hired him in the first place, and wasn't he a little shocked by that deception! Why give him a fake name in the first palce? A chance break that lead him to a suspect.
A date with Gwendolyn Tennyson that wasn't relevant to the case. But he spent the whole time talking about the case.
Then a cat and mouse game in the dark. Then cornering the thief.
…
"Freeze, dirt bag!" Levin shouted, pointing his revolver at the culprit's back.
A skinny little mook wearing a black suit, almost skin-tight, like the kind them boys in the sea, air, and land teams in the Navy. Redder than red hair, all piled on top of their head. Raising their hands, the thief turned around. Their face covered by a stylized cat-mask, complete with whiskers and ears. They sure were taking the 'cat burglar' moniker a little too far.
Keeping his gun up, Kevin crossed the space between them. He reached one hand out and pulled the mask off the thief's face. Then paused.
"Ms. Tennyson!" Levin gasped.
"Well, ya caught me." She scoffed. "That's something even the coppers couldn't do. You're not half dumb for a private dick."
Unflappable even with the barrel of a .38 Cal Special pointed at her face. There was that bold moxie he liked about her. Damn. He liked her a lot. It wasn't every day you ran into a crazy dame that was cool under pressure and smart to boot.
"So, how's this song and dance gonna end?" Gwendolyn asked. "Are you gonna shoot me and take the goods? Am I gonna overpower you, take your gun and leave you to come up with a story that involves me being six hoodlums with clubs so you don't have to admit to getting your fanny dusted by a girl?"
His answer was to pull back the hammer. "I don't wanna hurt you, Ms. Tennyson. –Gwendolyn. Please."
She offered him another smirk. "There is a third option here, dicky. Instead of you killing me, or me tossing you six ways from Sunday, we could ditch the gloomy grayscale burg, go someplace with color and split the money fifty-fifty!"
The idea of running away with Gwendolyn Tennyson and rucksack full of money did sound very nice. Levin liked her, and he liked her a lot. And he liked the idea of never having to worry about money another day in his life even more. But he wouldn't be a PI worth his ticket if he let any pretty face get the better of him. Money could buy a private dick's services, but there was no amount of money that could buy his good name. No pretty broad was gonna schnook outta him!
"You know I can't do that Ms. Tennyson."
…
Levin pressed the cold glass of scotch to his eye, hoping it might help lower the swelling.
In the morning, he would say it was eleven guys with brass knuckles that roughed him up good. Tonight, was just for wallowing.
He should have known when that dame walked into his office, she'd bring with her a whole pack of trouble. Charmcaster was deceiving him from the get go. And Gwendolyn was deceiving him. The whole case was nothing but bunco and hooey!
Gwendolyn's deception hit him harder than Charmcaster's. He really liked her.
He should have taken her up on her offer.
They should have just taken the money and ran.
…
END