It was late, dark, and I hadn't locked the door. She came in without knocking andclosed the door, leaning against it for a moment before swishing over to the client's chair in front of my desk and sitting. She was no Clair Trevor or Lana Turner, but not many were. Still, the way she blew into the office and took a seat across from my desk without asking, plopping a chocolate coloured, leather tote on my desk, crossing long legs and pegging me with a challenging look, won her a seven and a half for an excellent impression.

I gave back my best, seen it all, interested but busy face, folding my hands and leaning forward on the desk.

"What can I do for you Ms...?" I could sense she was scanning my digs. The beat up desk with the banker's lamp, a pull chain relic with a green glass shade that only lit the top of the desk. The office was a two storey walkup near the downtown and furnished with a dash of Spade, Marlow and Diamond right down to the wooden four drawer filing cabinet and the half bottle of scotch with a dirty glass on top. The restricted glow from the lamp left her in shadow from the waist up where she was sitting but it didn't take a George Petty to know this was some ritzy broad.

"Glenda DuBois."

The voice was medium emery on a satin pillow. I held the cool grey eyes a beat, enjoying the voice and rocked back in my creaking chair, tilting the fedora to the back of my head and giving her my own, Mitchum, slow-eye.

She took a silver case from her tote and, held out a cigarette for a light. I picked out a wooden match from the shot glass on my desk and snapped it on my thumbnail, watching her eyes glisten in the flare. A pair of rose petal lips blew a blue cloud of smoke back in my face and she smiled, sitting back in the shadow, re-crossing a pair of gams that would put a lot of dance hall hoofers to shame. I watched the smoke stream from her nose as she leaned forward again and squashed the cigarette in my Players flat fifty tin that served as an ashtray.

"I wanted to meet the man that ended my security prospects."

"Sorry, sweetheart, afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

She reached into the tote again and withdrew an envelope, dropping it on my side of the desk; a sleek nail tapped the envelope. I opened the envelope and pulled the set of pictures out, spreading them on the desk under the lamp. They were pictures I had taken and they showed a guy I was hired to follow locked in some faceless babe's arms and legs.

"How'd you get these?"

"From his wife." The rustle of silk punctuated the statement, and she leaned forward out of the shadow once more. "Before she died giving me your name." The snub nose of the little gun beside the lamp leveled on me and I stared into her grey eyes.

"You pull that trigger and those prospects ain't gonna improve, sweetheart."

"They ended when I killed his wife."

The gun jerked and made a sharp noise as a small hint of gunpowder filled the space between us. I slammed back in my chair, my fedora sailing off onto the floor and my fingers scrabbling at the wet hole in my chest. I started to stand, one hand reaching for the dame, and felt the blackness wash over me as I toppled forward onto the lamp, smashing the shade.

"CUT! CUT! CUT!" Harvey Wellman waddled angrily from behind the camera, his trademark beret slipping to the side along with his Dollar Store hairpiece. "Jesus, Ralph, what the hell was that? That lamp cost a hundred and fifty bucks! You were supposed to just slump in your chair."

"I thought it added to the scene, gave it a bit of oomph."

"I don't pay you to think or give oomph, I pay you to follow the damn script."

"Well what about her and her dramatic pauses between her lines?"

"That's called acting, Ralph." Moira snapped. "Unlike your beady little eyes orgling me all the time." The emery voice replace with an un-oiled hinge.

Beady eyes! My Mitchum stare is beady eyed! "I wouldn't orgle you with a hundred eyes, Moira, you dim twit."

"What the hell is orgling?" Harvey yanked off his beret and the hairpiece slipped over one ear. "Never mind!" He waved to the crew. "Thirty minutes then get right back here."

Another case of loss of direction (no pun intended) just dropped the thread I thought I had.