Ficlet: The Redhead
Jan. 20th, 2010 10:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanTitle: The Redhead
Fandom/original: Original
Rating: PG
A/N: Prompted by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rougen, "the guilty party." 15 minute fic.
“Well, well.” Betsy was a redhead, and her legs were long and nicely shaped. She made sure I noticed both of these facts as I walked into my outer office, standing slowly with a shake of her head. Even her pout was calculated to the last purse of her lips. The dame was a professional. “I was beginning to think your office hours were from 4:45 to five pm, with a fifteen minute lunch break, Mr. Sloane.”
“I try to keep people waiting whenever possible,” I said, turning the key to unlock the inner door. “It maintains the impression that I’m always busy.”
The frail was not amused. “And here I was told that you could use a bit of business.”
Annoyed, I said, “This ain’t the charity ward, lady. If you can afford a better private dick, I suggest you go dig one up. The crooked ones tend to have nicer art on the walls and a secretary out front to make you coffee.” My hat returned to its rack, and I loosened my tie a bit. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, if I took it, which I would. Cause I’m a sucker.
Miss Betsy Franklin, niece of Mr. Eddie Franklin, bootlegger extraordinaire, crossed her arms, displaying herself from another angle. Nice, but not as nice as her legs. “I don’t want a crooked one. I want you.”
I sat down and leaned back in my chair. “I’ll bite. Why?”
“Because,” she said. “You’ve got a reputation.”
“Doll,” I said with a sigh, “half the city’s got a reputation for something.”
She sat on the edge of my desk. “You,” she said lower, “have a reputation for giving a damn, Mr. Arthur Sloane.”
I stubbed out my cigarette, admiring her red lacquered nails idly as I did. Nice hands, had Miss Betsy Franklin. I wondered if she assumed I didn’t know who she was, or assumed that I did. “Angel… don’t believe everything you hear.”
She trotted out the canned pout again. “Are you saying you won’t help me?”
“I’m saying you can hire me to give whatever sort of damn you want, sweetheart.” She was after something, of that I was sure, but not exactly what.
“Very crass, Mr. Sloane.” She withdrew a stack of twenties from her purse. “Will that be enough to start?”
“That all depends, Miss Franklin.” Her eyes widened just slightly; one question answered, at least. “What exactly are you paying me to do?”
Fandom/original: Original
Rating: PG
A/N: Prompted by
rougen, "the guilty party." 15 minute fic.“Well, well.” Betsy was a redhead, and her legs were long and nicely shaped. She made sure I noticed both of these facts as I walked into my outer office, standing slowly with a shake of her head. Even her pout was calculated to the last purse of her lips. The dame was a professional. “I was beginning to think your office hours were from 4:45 to five pm, with a fifteen minute lunch break, Mr. Sloane.”
“I try to keep people waiting whenever possible,” I said, turning the key to unlock the inner door. “It maintains the impression that I’m always busy.”
The frail was not amused. “And here I was told that you could use a bit of business.”
Annoyed, I said, “This ain’t the charity ward, lady. If you can afford a better private dick, I suggest you go dig one up. The crooked ones tend to have nicer art on the walls and a secretary out front to make you coffee.” My hat returned to its rack, and I loosened my tie a bit. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, if I took it, which I would. Cause I’m a sucker.
Miss Betsy Franklin, niece of Mr. Eddie Franklin, bootlegger extraordinaire, crossed her arms, displaying herself from another angle. Nice, but not as nice as her legs. “I don’t want a crooked one. I want you.”
I sat down and leaned back in my chair. “I’ll bite. Why?”
“Because,” she said. “You’ve got a reputation.”
“Doll,” I said with a sigh, “half the city’s got a reputation for something.”
She sat on the edge of my desk. “You,” she said lower, “have a reputation for giving a damn, Mr. Arthur Sloane.”
I stubbed out my cigarette, admiring her red lacquered nails idly as I did. Nice hands, had Miss Betsy Franklin. I wondered if she assumed I didn’t know who she was, or assumed that I did. “Angel… don’t believe everything you hear.”
She trotted out the canned pout again. “Are you saying you won’t help me?”
“I’m saying you can hire me to give whatever sort of damn you want, sweetheart.” She was after something, of that I was sure, but not exactly what.
“Very crass, Mr. Sloane.” She withdrew a stack of twenties from her purse. “Will that be enough to start?”
“That all depends, Miss Franklin.” Her eyes widened just slightly; one question answered, at least. “What exactly are you paying me to do?”
