"Bart Lasiter: Private Dick" (A Bulwer-Lytton inspired interlude) by Souvie copyright September 2006 /~Souvie/lasiter.html Author's Note: The first sentence is a Bulwer-Lytton contest winner. Denny challenged me to write a story around it. Well, it's part of a story at least. I'm just not much of a detective writer. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean. He tossed the burrito in the trash. Before he could say a word, she bent down and lifted her skirt to adjust her garter; you know, the kind that holds up stockings, not the green slithering kind that inhabits lawns and gardens. "Can I help you?" he asked in his smoothest voice, the kind that enabled him to pass for Cary Grant over the phone and Jerry Lewis in person. The dame smoothed down her skirt and graced him with a smile brighter than a bug-zapper light. When she spoke, her voice was so pure it would have made his mother weep, just like she'd done last Saturday when she found out his youngest sister Alice ran off to Vegas to become a showgirl at the Flamingo. "I'm looking for a Dick." He thought of several replies to that line, most of them fit to say in front of his best friend Eddie, but not a classy broad, so he simply pointed to his name stenciled on the outer door and then to himself. She put both hands on his desk. "I've lost a valuable heirloom, Mr. Lasiter. I think it was stolen." He took out a pen and prepared to take notes. He wrote 'C sharp' at the top of the page. "What exactly is this heirloom, Miss...?" "Oh sorry, it's Miss LaRue. Betty LaRue." "Go on, Miss LaRue." "It's the Venetian Vibrator. It's been in my family for ages, passed down from mother to daughter. And it doesn't really vibrate, not unless you move your hand really really fast." He felt parched, like a man who'd just crossed the Sahara desert on camel without once coming across a watering hole. He reached for his coffee cup but it was emptier than a donut shop during a police strike. He cleared his throat. "Where do you think you lost it? Or more importantly, who do you think stole it?" "I'm a teacher at the Farmingdale School for Young Ladies. I teach health and hygiene. I'm pretty sure one of the girls at the school stole it. I kept it in my lingerie drawer, and I noticed it missing after last weekend's pajama party and pillow fight." Her eyes pleaded with him like a woman at the butcher's wanting filet mignon for the ground beef price. "Please say you'll help me!" He looked at his notes. He'd added 'B flat'. "Let me get this straight: you've lost a valuable heirloom called the Venetian Vibrator and you think it was lost or stolen at a school for girls, by one of the girls, after a weekend pajama party and pillow fight?" She nodded eagerly. A dame with gams like hers and a story like that, how could he *not* take the case? "I'm your Dick," he said with a grin. THE END