Stacy kicks back, lying on his fold-away couch bed, smoking a cigarette, having a drink, reading about his first solved case in the Washington Post. Tamika is sitting on Stacy’s desk, painting her nails, chewing gum. Stacy said, “Tamika, here, put this case file in the file cabinet.”
Tamika walks over to the file cabinet, opens it and says, “Ooh Stacy, now I know you got some black in you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because all you have in here are dirty books, a bottle of vodka, and lots of unpaid bills. That’s what most black people do. We don’t pay bills either, just put them away, that’s what I do.”
Stacy grins and says, “Tamika, close it. Isn’t there something you could be doing?”
“Yea, yea, I could be finishing my nails.”
Stacy then gets back to it. The phone rings and Tamika answers it, smacking her gum and saying, “Stacy Investigations.”
“My name is Mrs. Fine Taylor. I would like to know if Mr. Stacy is available.”
“One moment,” Tamika replies.
“Stacy here, how may I help you?”
“I have a matter to discuss with you, but not over the phone. Would you come to my home? The address is 1313 Maywood, overlooking the Potomac River. I’ll be expecting you.”
Stacy says, “I’ll be there by noon.” Stacy smiles at Tamika and says, “Tamika, it looks like you still got a job.”
Tamika stands up and puts her hands on her hips, moving her head around, back and forth like a bobble doll, and says, smiling, “Stop playing, Stacy.”
“Tamika, I’m going to see Mrs. Fine Taylor,” says Stacy, putting on his shoulder holster, his Colt and his blue coat and hat while walking out the door.
Tamika says, “Stacy, you forgot to put on your bulletproof vest. You know people are always shooting at you. Mrs. Fine Taylor’s voice sounded like another tramp to me.”
Stacy looks at Tamika, grins and says, “If you leave nail polish on my desk, you’re fired,” closing the door behind him.
Stacy catches a cab to Reagan National Airport to rent a car. Walking through the airport, Stacy sees a big-breasted redhead in an airline uniform that’s so tight it looks like it has been painted on. She walks up to Stacy, smacks him on the jaw and says, “You left me in a hotel room in San Francisco after you got what you wanted, you womanizing bastard.” As she walks off, swinging herself back and forth, Stacy strokes his jaw from left to right with his left hand and says to himself, “I was coming back. There go my frequent flyer miles.”
An old couple, waiting on their flight, sees the whole thing. The old man smiles at Stacy, while the woman looks at him as if to say, you dog. Stacy walks away, still moving his jaw.
Stacy drives up to Mrs. Fine Taylor’s estate and sees a black 1930 Rolls Royce parked out front. He gets out and rings the door bell. The door opens and someone who looks like he might be a body guard asks, “Can I help you?”
Stacy says, “I’m Stacy, here to see Mrs. Fine Taylor.”
The big man says, “Follow me,” and they walk up the stairs, Stacy looking at all the expensive furniture and paintings on the wall.
They stop at a door, and when the big man knocks, a soft, sexy voice says, “Come in, the door’s open.” Mrs. Taylor, blonde hair, green eyes, is standing in front of a big mirror, getting her portrait painted in her birthday suit.
Mr. Stacy says “My, my, you are handsome.”
Mrs. Taylor asks Stacy, ”Do you care for a drink?” Stacy says, “No, I don’t drink.” Then she offers a cigarette. Stacy says “No, I don’t smoke.”
Mrs. Fine Taylor looks at the big man and says, “That will be all, Mitch.”
Mitch says, “Yes, Madam,” and turns and walks out of the door, closing it behind him. Mrs. Fine Taylor looks at her painter and said, “That will be all for today, Mario.”
Mario gets up and says, ”Yes, Madam” as he walks out of the door, closing it behind him, leaving all of his paint and brushes there. Mrs. Fine Taylor turns and looks at herself in the mirror and puts her hands on her peaches, holding them up. She asks Stacy, “Do you think they need lifting?” She slowly walks up to Stacy, still holding them. She looks him in the eyes and asks, “May I see your hands, Mr. Stacy?” Stacy holds out his hands and she puts them on her waist, slowly moving them down her thigh to her rumble seat, squeezing his hands, asking, “Is my seat still firm?”
Stacy moves his hands up slowly to her peaches, squeezing his hands and rotating them. Stacy’s thoughts were: not bad for an old broad. Before Stacy can answer, the door opens. Mrs. Fine Taylor’s daughter walks in, looking at them and says, “Mother!”
Mrs. Taylor walks away from Stacy to a chair that has her robe on it and puts it on. She looks at her daughter and says, “I wish you would learn to knock.”
To be continued …
Ivory has been a vendor for two and a half years and was raised on a ranch in Texas where he learned to break horses. He is working on publishing his next fiction book.
