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Chin squarely on chest, feet up, fedora
pulled down over eyes. The telephone
hasn't rung in a month. An acrid aura
of cigarettes and residual gloom
turns everything dingy: desk and chair,
the windows and walls and the very air.
He could do with a solid client, and soon.
Beneath a pint bottle, bottom drawer,
a bundle of unopened bills attests
to the tide of ruin that laps his door.
He dozes, half-hearing the traffic's drone.
The insolent bluebottle fly that rests
like an ex-wife's taunt beside the blotter
bestirs him at last. He lifts the swatter.
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A jangling ring like a detonation
snaps him awake with a violent start.
He lunges, sending the ashtray tumbling
to the tiles... Cramer Investigations,
he snarls into the mouth-piece, scrambling
to rid himself of the fiery spark
that chews a smoldering hole in his pants.
What's that? . . I doubt it . . couldn't say Bub . .
no, no . . depends on the circumstances . .
forty-five dollars a day plus expenses,
with a small retainer paid in advance . .
Yeah, likewise . . He slams the receiver, snubs
the butt to a pulp and, with crossed feet up,
fedora pulled down, returns to his nap.
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He can see at once she is pure trouble,
leaning sinuously in the open frame
of the office door with that indefinable
feline essence that some women have.
She raises a thin cigarette to lips
that bring to mind a fresh-bitten apple,
scarlet and moist with a poisonous nip.
He rises and flicks a match into flame,
extending it over the desk. She moves
like something they ought to keep behind bars
or let loose in a jungle, crossing the floor
with a smile so slight it is almost grave.
She draws at the flame till her cigarette flares
then with one cool glance she is out the door.
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It's sure been a while since a gal of her
indisputably lethal caliber
displayed any interest . . . What is her game?
No seedy down-at-the-heels private eye
as disheveled as he could hope to vie
for the favor of such a dishy dame --
He takes out a Lucky and taps it twice,
then absently shoves it between his teeth
and forgets about it -- sure was a nice
little set of attributes underneath
all that shimmer and silk . . . A man passing by
in the hallway just then hears Cramer sigh,
and then the jangling of a telephone
at which Cramer's sighing becomes a groan.
. . . to be continued
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