I might not be a famous sleuthing Lothario, but if Manne does the wisecrack about being a lethargio one more time, I’m going to have to stop fixing up his Vespa.

I could feel her approaching.  I didn’t need to turn around.  I could see her form reflected in the “DA – for those Special Moments” painted poster screwed to the pub-yellow tiles.  She had the kind of figure that not even the Romans had a numeral for[1].  They’re always blonde.  This one was sometimes blonde too.  Like now.  She was blonde now.  She had the kind of eyes that sold a million bedroom blinds and they were focused on me.  The eyes.  Not the blinds.  The blinds, with any luck, might come later.

Right now, I had enough trouble on my plate.  And experience was having quite a lot more than a quiet whisper in my shell-like that this one was way more fish than I had tackle to land.

She stopped comfortably within my personal space and steadying on her heels, formed a shapely exclamation point.  I’m looking for a Foodge, she announced to no-one in particular.  The no-one in question was Manne, who was returning to the bar with a stack of dirty glasses.

That’s him, right there, Miss, Manne obliged, narrowly avoiding stepping on his own tongue.

She proffered her hand.  It looked more like a vague indication than a long-term commitment.  I hesitated for a moment and gestured towards a vacant table in the opposite corner of the bar to the other blonde.  “Can I get you a drink ?”  “Please”.  Merv poured an iced pink and Manne delivered it as though he had a regal appointment.

I have a tiny problem, Mr Foodge.  I’m told that you’re a useful person when it comes to solving problems.  My alarm bells began to ring up a storm.  No wait, I think the aspirin might have been wearing off.  Either way, time to slip on the asbestos gloves and take out the barbecue tongs .  This one looked suddenly way too hot to handle.

I’m a little busy just now, Miss, I lied.  Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie.  I had a dead copper in a tenement room with a tattoo on his arse cheek that matched a fresh one on mine.  And I had a headache that had previously belonged to Keith Richards.  What I lacked was actual paid work.  I hesitated just long enough to hand her the initiative.

“I’m offering a grand a day plus expenses.” I started to feel far less busy.  But I’m no cheap gumshoe.  Usually top dollar work comes with a hefty slice of risk.  I handed her my card.  Noon tomorrow.  My office.  “I’m not chaining myself to your problem just yet, Miss ~”. ”Anthropy”, she rejoined. “ We have a few details to discuss first”.  She placed the card in her purse, closed the hasp, clasped my hand like I’d just cured her brother’s leprosy, rose and evaporated in a processional exit from the bar.  Without touching a drop of the pink drink.  If my nose had been working, I’d have said that she smelt nice.  It was a fair bet that it was the smell of anticipation, danger and folding money.

The other blonde fidgeted and looked expectantly out of the door as Miss Anthropy made her departure.

I motioned to Merv that a JW chaser was the order of the day.

There was a crunching and a small shower of gravel as a burbling V8 propped and ground to a halt in the car park.

[1] OK, I admit I couldn’t resist, I stole this one from a Carter Brown novella “The Hoodlum Was a Honey”, Cumberland Press, Parramatta – A Railway Publication, sorry I haven’t got the date, but you’ll be really hard up to find a copy if another one still exists….