A Chance Meeting - Part I (Allison Quick, the Assassin Chic)
Allison Quick, the Assassin Chic
A Chance Meeting - Part I
"They never see it coming," Allison muttered from underneath her fedora as she casually cleaned her fingernails with a large hunting knife. Her unshod left ankle crossed over her right one as she pushed her feet against the edge of the desk to lean back in her chair. This movement caused her black trench coat to V open about midway up her thigh, revealing two creamy white legs and nothing covering them.
“Wha’ do ya mean?” Con asked, as his sleepless eyes flickered across her legs in their skittish journey around the room. He couldn't quite find a safe place to rest his gaze. The desk was bare mahogany, but other than the black antique rotary phone, only her shapely feet adorned its surface. The walls were painted the same gray as the filing cabinets that flanked her with only two items hanging from each side of the cramped office. One was a black poster which read, “That which does not kill me, at least makes my life more interesting.” He assumed it was suppose to be one of those motivational type messages, but he wasn’t quite sure how it could motivate anyone. Plus, it was lacking one of those cute pictures of kittens in a basket or some such nonsense. The other was a framed certificate that was probably her private investigators license, but without his glasses, he couldn’t read it. The fan above his head made a hypnotic whoosh-whoosh sound, but he didn’t think it would do for him to lean back in his rickety chair and stare up at the orangy glow of the light suspended from the fan. Behind her head was a wall sized window that gave a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. Or at least he thought it would be a spectacular view of the lake since the blinds were partially closed and it was already dark outside. But whenever he looked at the window, his chocolate eyes would slide into the blackness of her fedora, through the shadow it cast on the upper portion of her face, slip down her aristocratic nose to the red bow of her perfect lips, then cascade over her round chin to find themselves once again plunging into dark recesses of her cleavage.
She looked up, revealing the startling lake color of her anime eyes. His own eyes hopped - poster, phone, whoosh-whoosh, feet, certificate, whoosh-whoosh, window, hat, whoosh-whoosh, eyes, cleavage, whoosh - as he shifted the large bulk of his frame uncomfortably in his chair. “Do I make you nervous?”
Startled, his bloodshot eyes stared into her searching gaze. “Uh, I-I’m, oh...” Con felt his dark cheeks flush as he fiddled unconsciously with his skinny black tie.
Satisfied that her question had been answered, Allison dropped her feet and placed the knife on the desk with a smile. She raised an eyebrow and leaned across the desk. “I said that, because I want you to rest easy. Whenever I take care of a client, they never see it coming. I don’t believe in making things worse by prolonging their suffering. Unless that’s part of the gig. Of course, that costs extra.”
“What does?” Con’s eyes widened to saucers. He still wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with his wife’s death. Just the thought of his wife brought tears. He inhaled deeply, determined not to cry anymore; at least not in front of this stranger.
It had been just over a month since her funeral and less than a week since the police closed the investigation. They decided that it was a suicide. Con, being a rather peaceful kind of guy despite the impression given by his bulk, had accepted the news stoically. But after a few days of no sleep, he had gotten drunk, tracked down the officer in charge of the investigation and tried to start a fight. He actually only threw one punch, which missed its mark, before breaking down into tears. Being sympathetic to his situation, the officer refused to press charges. Con only spent the rest of that night and half of the next day in jail, moaning through his hangover. Then, that evening, they had him talk to the counselor on staff at the station. After a five hour session, Con promised the little man with the miniature handlebar mustache that he would seek professional help. Of course, the assumption was that he meant psychiatric help, but he intended to seek the kind of help that would actually find the bastard that killed his beloved wife.
He had been surprised to find anyone around at such a late hour, but in his desperate state, he had climbed the three flights to the office that had the outline of an eye next to the button he pushed. Allison had said nothing over the intercom when he asked, “private eye?” She simply buzzed him up then told him to come in and sit down when he opened the door. So startled was he to see a woman, and such a striking one at that, Con numbly obeyed.
Shaking his head, he rubbed his palms along his dress pants. “Listen, maybe I should explain what brought me here.”
“Mr. Jones, I know why you’re here. We don’t need to go through it all again. Honestly, I don’t think you should have come here, but I understand that you’re nervous. Who wouldn’t be? So since you did come all the way down here instead of calling as we planned, let me assure you, everything is ready. I have prepared for every eventuality. Even in the event that...” A soft trilled, “d-rrrrrrrrrrrrinnnnng,” that echoed through the small room cut her off. “Excuse me,” she said, picking up the phone, “I should take this. Quick Investigations, Allison Quick speaking.” With each, “uh-huh,” her smile fell further from bemusedly pleasant until it became nonexistent and her entire face was serious. Con thought about bolting from the room, but her eyes held him in his chair. “I see,” she said, her right eyebrow creeping up her forehead, “well, these things do happen. I appreciate you calling. If you do change your mind, you know how to reach me. Good-bye.” Slowly she hung up the phone then steepled her fingers against her lips. “Well,” she said, a slow smirk glinting in her eye, “I guess you should explain what brought you here.”
A Chance Meeting - Part I
"They never see it coming," Allison muttered from underneath her fedora as she casually cleaned her fingernails with a large hunting knife. Her unshod left ankle crossed over her right one as she pushed her feet against the edge of the desk to lean back in her chair. This movement caused her black trench coat to V open about midway up her thigh, revealing two creamy white legs and nothing covering them.
“Wha’ do ya mean?” Con asked, as his sleepless eyes flickered across her legs in their skittish journey around the room. He couldn't quite find a safe place to rest his gaze. The desk was bare mahogany, but other than the black antique rotary phone, only her shapely feet adorned its surface. The walls were painted the same gray as the filing cabinets that flanked her with only two items hanging from each side of the cramped office. One was a black poster which read, “That which does not kill me, at least makes my life more interesting.” He assumed it was suppose to be one of those motivational type messages, but he wasn’t quite sure how it could motivate anyone. Plus, it was lacking one of those cute pictures of kittens in a basket or some such nonsense. The other was a framed certificate that was probably her private investigators license, but without his glasses, he couldn’t read it. The fan above his head made a hypnotic whoosh-whoosh sound, but he didn’t think it would do for him to lean back in his rickety chair and stare up at the orangy glow of the light suspended from the fan. Behind her head was a wall sized window that gave a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. Or at least he thought it would be a spectacular view of the lake since the blinds were partially closed and it was already dark outside. But whenever he looked at the window, his chocolate eyes would slide into the blackness of her fedora, through the shadow it cast on the upper portion of her face, slip down her aristocratic nose to the red bow of her perfect lips, then cascade over her round chin to find themselves once again plunging into dark recesses of her cleavage.
She looked up, revealing the startling lake color of her anime eyes. His own eyes hopped - poster, phone, whoosh-whoosh, feet, certificate, whoosh-whoosh, window, hat, whoosh-whoosh, eyes, cleavage, whoosh - as he shifted the large bulk of his frame uncomfortably in his chair. “Do I make you nervous?”
Startled, his bloodshot eyes stared into her searching gaze. “Uh, I-I’m, oh...” Con felt his dark cheeks flush as he fiddled unconsciously with his skinny black tie.
Satisfied that her question had been answered, Allison dropped her feet and placed the knife on the desk with a smile. She raised an eyebrow and leaned across the desk. “I said that, because I want you to rest easy. Whenever I take care of a client, they never see it coming. I don’t believe in making things worse by prolonging their suffering. Unless that’s part of the gig. Of course, that costs extra.”
“What does?” Con’s eyes widened to saucers. He still wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with his wife’s death. Just the thought of his wife brought tears. He inhaled deeply, determined not to cry anymore; at least not in front of this stranger.
It had been just over a month since her funeral and less than a week since the police closed the investigation. They decided that it was a suicide. Con, being a rather peaceful kind of guy despite the impression given by his bulk, had accepted the news stoically. But after a few days of no sleep, he had gotten drunk, tracked down the officer in charge of the investigation and tried to start a fight. He actually only threw one punch, which missed its mark, before breaking down into tears. Being sympathetic to his situation, the officer refused to press charges. Con only spent the rest of that night and half of the next day in jail, moaning through his hangover. Then, that evening, they had him talk to the counselor on staff at the station. After a five hour session, Con promised the little man with the miniature handlebar mustache that he would seek professional help. Of course, the assumption was that he meant psychiatric help, but he intended to seek the kind of help that would actually find the bastard that killed his beloved wife.
He had been surprised to find anyone around at such a late hour, but in his desperate state, he had climbed the three flights to the office that had the outline of an eye next to the button he pushed. Allison had said nothing over the intercom when he asked, “private eye?” She simply buzzed him up then told him to come in and sit down when he opened the door. So startled was he to see a woman, and such a striking one at that, Con numbly obeyed.
Shaking his head, he rubbed his palms along his dress pants. “Listen, maybe I should explain what brought me here.”
“Mr. Jones, I know why you’re here. We don’t need to go through it all again. Honestly, I don’t think you should have come here, but I understand that you’re nervous. Who wouldn’t be? So since you did come all the way down here instead of calling as we planned, let me assure you, everything is ready. I have prepared for every eventuality. Even in the event that...” A soft trilled, “d-rrrrrrrrrrrrinnnnng,” that echoed through the small room cut her off. “Excuse me,” she said, picking up the phone, “I should take this. Quick Investigations, Allison Quick speaking.” With each, “uh-huh,” her smile fell further from bemusedly pleasant until it became nonexistent and her entire face was serious. Con thought about bolting from the room, but her eyes held him in his chair. “I see,” she said, her right eyebrow creeping up her forehead, “well, these things do happen. I appreciate you calling. If you do change your mind, you know how to reach me. Good-bye.” Slowly she hung up the phone then steepled her fingers against her lips. “Well,” she said, a slow smirk glinting in her eye, “I guess you should explain what brought you here.”
posted by Ninian at 11:04 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home