Grit on the Gumshoe's Heel I
Wed 23 Nov 40 PY
Dear Diary,
At 8:30 AM, Carris stopped by to give me a small potted spider plant. She quickly looked over my place as if committing it to memory. Carrie hurried to work as abruptly as she had come.
At 10:00 AM, I received a call back from Mz. Rocko's office to see her. I took the bus.
At 10:45 AM, I arrived at her mansion. Her secretary and butler, Yeats, who directed me to her office. Yeats was a plain man in his late twenties. He patted me down for weapons. He apologized for it and did it professionally. I was still offended by his touch.
Chairwoman Rocko sat behind a monument of polished oak. The bureau to end all bureaus was raised on a dais. The visitor's chair was not on the dais. From my side of the desk, the sun glared through the slatted white curtain to shine directly at my eyes. On the manicured lawn, metal sundials and other seemingly innocuous sculptures were positioned to beam the afternoon light into her office.
She was at least six feet tall. Her face was angular, more handsome than pretty. She was scented with a light musk. Her dress suit was austere in color. It was tailored to square her shoulders and show off the spare curves of her body. Her shoe-polish black hair was pulled back into a bun. Black eyes stood out from a flawless fair face. The timbre of her voice matched the command of her posture.
"I have called you here today, because a woman would be more discreet. I offer the rate of one thousand dollars for this job. Not negotiable. Expenses are your own. No advance. I give nothing in advance."
I nodded.
"The job is to investigate the dealings of one of my associates," the Chairwoman of Standard Industries said. She pulled a packet from her desk. "This is information on him. If you accept, please take the envelope. Either way, that will be all."
I took the mustard yellow packet.
I looked through the information and took notes. Mr. Paul Jennings was a well kept man. The black and white photograph captured a bored blond in his mid twenties. His features were sculpted by an artist, though his expression marred his face. He did not live at the mansion, but was kept in a ritzy penthouse suite at the top of the Wellington Hotel in one of the better parts of Queens. The dossier listed his stipend and his expenses. He paid by cheque at a different restaurant each day of the month. He played the horses at Monmouth six days of the week.
My job was to make a report on his habits and any suspicious activity.
I returned home to get my camera and a few tools, which all fit into my rivet reinforced purse. I memorized the information. I changed into less conspicusous clothes.
It is 3:00 PM, and I am situated at a cafe across the street and sip coffee that I cannot taste. My target should make his evening move soon.
R. Dorothy Wayneright
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A/N: I am going on sabbatical. Typing has become too painful for me to ignore. I will return once I deal with this. It will take at least several months. Thanks for reading. Mea culpa.