Spellbound Beauty My Manager Part 2
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Spellbound - Part One free porn video
[Note: This is another story written long ago, and forwarded to my by my
French friend Avaro. For those who remember, C.C. created the world of
Clinton Crayle. He asked me to write a story in a Raymond Chandler hard-
bitten detective style, and this is it. So enjoy. And if you want to
read another story by C.C. (one of his best), take a look at "The
Circus". She-Devil posted it; she just forgot to mention that she didn't
write it - C.C. did. TOXIS.]
SPELLBOUND
PART 1
by
TOXIS
My name is Clinton Crayle and I' m a private detective. I know that
you've heard about me but don't let that stump you. I'm not very good at
watching the clock or pleasing the boss unless the boss is me. What
happened and how it happened and all the things, embarrassing things,
that were done to me, I passed on to C.C. Stump down the hall. . He gets
all caught up with Spade and Marlowe stories and keeps telling me to get
clients like that. But no. one has asked me to find a worthless plaster
falcon and the only lady in the lake I dealt with was myself, full of M-X
and blonde fun in a string .bikini. But C.C.says he wants to be my Dr.
Watson. Sometimes, I wish he was Miles Archer. It would be quieter.
By now, you know that I make my living by springing the kinky rich from
embarrassing and sometimes dangerous situations. They get themselves in
and I pull them out.
Usually, I have to put up with a lot to get the job done. Believe that I
take it all out in my fee.
But there was one case where no amount of money was enough. C.C. has been
after me to let him tell this the way he does it, all breathless and
blushing, M-X boobs and buns bouncing, letting the world know how bad
this one got. Frankly, the hell with the world and everyone in it and
why does it or them deserve to know.
When you read some of the kinky accounts on the internet, you'd think I
was anxious to get female and hampered. What I was, if anyone wants to
know, was hampered being female. So when it comes to the case that made
me seriously consider becoming a bartender on a military base in Thule, I
wanted to tell the story so you'd understand. And it hasn't been easy to
tell it. But more of that at the end.
I think that if Joan Dalton walked into my office offering me a million
dollars I'd jump out the window - ten stories up. It would be quicker.
I've learned a few things in the last few months and few things have been
worse than this sordid, simpering affair.
I was recovering from an enforced stay on a remote tropical island where
being a bridesmaid and never a bride had kept me every male's favorite
bound bimbo. Some fun, huh? It had been more embarrassing than most and I
needed an easy one.
I had my fill of divorce, theft, blackmail, greed and human filth. I just
wanted to find a missing dog. Or serve subpoenas. Locate the missing
link. Or Amelia Earheart? Why not Judge Crater? Anything but saving the
deservedly well-soiled reputation of some well-to-do kinkoid.
Frankly, that wouldn't pay the bills on the office space let alone keep a
sexy, sweet thing out there answering my phone. And scratching my back
when it itches. And she has to have long nails.
Give mommy and daddy the sculpture prize. Mrs. Lawrence Dalton walked in,
five foot, fourteen of blonde Nordic statuary. I stood up to greet her.
Mrs. Dalton had smoky-grey eyes that had little black dots floating in
them. She thought she looked marvelous, was marvelous. Her eyes reminded
me of factory smoke.
I steered her to the chair that has the view of the Pacific. For June you
could even see some water. Usually at this time of year all you see is
grease brown haze.
Mrs. Dalton held out a pink- papered, custom wrapped cigarette to be lit.
She expected me to light it, not because it was the nice thing to do. But
because she was rich and I wasn't and that's the sort of thing rich
people think people who have to balance the checkbook for themselves
should do.
I contemplated letting her wait. I thought about Catalina Island. Nice
day for a sail. Did I really want to cope with this spoiled woman-child
whose idea of social grace was to make me her butler? Where was the easy
one I ordered? I could work on my chess. There-was a new computer that
played, they said, like Kasparov. The ad in Chess Today claimed it beats
a master in fifty moves. I could beat it. I had a secret move I had been
working on. Why not sit in the sun and play Sicilian defenses?
She inhaled deeply as I lighted her cigarette. Choke, bitch. I gave her
my "B" smile.
The wealthy Mrs. Dalton had the tall, bland, chiseled looks you might see
in an beauty shop magazine advertisement for Swedish soap products. She'd
look about the same at fifty-four but, if you know where to look, you'd
find the little lines from the tucks and nips. And at any age it would be
hard to say you knew her.
I knew who she was when she walked in. Rather, I knew who her money was.
Trent Fontaine Productions. Daddy had been one of the boys when Westwood
was a sleepy, little village of red-tiled bungalows, Burbank was an
orange grove, Century City was a studio back lot and you could shoot a
western anywhere the occasional putting green didn't show.
Daddy wasn't very good but he was very fast. No script, make it up as you
go and put the prints in the theaters by Wednesday . Sam Trent was famous
in the industry as a prick. A screamer and a liar and a prick .I wondered
what he had been like as father.
By Hollywood standards, that was a hard reputation to earn. He had
married maybe six times and dumped all six in the days before palimony
and the parade of sometime actresses and left-footed dancers, who had
abandoned their "careers" for the pasha's life, turned divorce into an
alternative for unemployment insurance.
"They tell me that you are good at finding people, Mr. Crayle," she said
casually. She sounded like she was inquiring about my stamp collection,
knowing I didn't have one. And knowing she didn't give a damn about
stamps. "I hear that you are willing to go to a lot of trouble to find
someone." She took another long drag on that pink cigarette and let the
smoke drift out of her mouth. I had seen better.
"Do my friends tell me the truth? Or are you just another picture taker
for the divorce lawyers?" Tough lady. But then again, toughness isn't all
it used to be.
"Is your husband still missing? Last, I heard he was enjoying the
hospitality of the suck and swish set."
"I don't know what you could be talking about," she replied hurriedly.
Much too much hurry to be telling the truth. Maybe a little more
toughness was in order. "The way I hear, it, Larry was last seen about a
week ago, in full drag, in a West Hollywood sweetie bar. They say he did
a boffo rendition of "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" and "I Love
Being A Girl". Crowd loved it. A real big hit."
I could have poured myself a drink. It was late enough in the morning but
I didn't want to give the wrong impression. Why should I explain that it
wasn't my need for a drink but rather my need to wash the bad taste of my
visitor out of my mouth?
"Must be awful hard on a devoted wife like you." I walked across the
room and picked up the genuine American League baseball, autographed by
somebody who must have done pretty good. Better than I was doing now,
anyway. The ink was too faded to read. I was bored when I bought it. But
it was something to throw and catch when you wanted to catch and throw a
client out the window.
"Must be real hard to face up to the girls at the Club. Tough to explain
to Rudy, the tennis pro. Isn't that who you're sleeping with?"
"I don't have to stand for your rude behavior or your impertinent
comments." The charming Mrs. Dalton started for the door.
I held the door open for her. As she passed me, I thought a few words of
consolation in order. "No, you don't. But if you want to find your
husband without every tongue in town tattling the whole silly sordid
tale, I respectfully suggest you shut up and sit down."
"I'm not nice to you. I don't want to be nice to you because you are not
a very nice person. You pick on people and grind them up. I bet little
Larry has spent most of his time being ground to dust under those pretty
pumps of yours." I didn't care. I knew I was going to get the case. She
was definitely daddy's little girl.
I didn't want it. But I would charge her more than I could make in a year
doing anything respectable and, once I took her money, all this would be
harder to say. Besides, I had to take the money. We little people have
checkbooks to balance.
"So, if I take this case, I'll light your cigarette ... if I want to. And
maybe I'll hold open a few doors. When we eat in a restaurant, I'll order
for you, if you want. And I'll certainly pick up the check because I'll
bill it right back to you."
"But because you pay me, don't think you own me or know me or even have
more to say to me than answer my questions and ask for another cup of
coffee. Please be prompt in your payment and I do not entertain any
questions about to my billing. Those are my rules.
"So do what you want. Leave or go but try not to drop any ashes on the
carpet." Real tough, huh! I thought about the bill on my desk to have
the new computers installed. I had to pay that bill in six weeks. And all
that time no cash came in while I was trying to get off the island. A
Dalton-Trent payday would be most welcome to Sarabeth, my bookkeeper and
secretary and receptionist and keeper of the flame when I was lost in
lovely laceland. What a shame a client had to be attached to the money.
"I see", Mrs. Dalton said quietly. Quietly, she returned to her seat. She
looked at her hands, long thin hands that probably played the piano well,
now folded in her lap. I watched her face as she looked out at the water.
Lots of strength there and something else. I admit that I'm not very good
at reading emotions, especially women's feelings, but then I'm not so
good at reading myself. That's why I have a well stocked cabinet of
medicinal whiskeys.
Softly she started speaking. "You're not like the other private
detectives I've interviewed. They promise to find Larry. They promise to
do anything I ask. Anything! But they never made a fuss like you." She
gave me a little smile. I could see what little Larry had seen in her.
She might have been a bitch to her hubbie but at that moment I had no
bitch with her. "Maybe you could be as rude with the people who seem to
be holding Larry against his will."
Daddy put in his will that Joan Trent Dalton had to marry by age twenty-
one and still be living with the same man when she turned twenty- five, a
date two months off. No Larry, no money. No money, no pasha's life style.
No Spago, no sailboat, no tennis pros for a quickie after mixed doubles.
I was back to work on behalf of a lonely and dedicated wife, searching
tearfully for her lost husband. But I got her check, payment in full plus
a 150 percent against estimated expenses, in advance, and my first stop
was the bank.
Maris
- 01.03.2022
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