Was going thru some old .doc files, found a bit of humor I wrote to
cheer myself up while feeling bummy about 3rd week of December 1996.

Anyone who has ever read Mickey Spillane will recognize the style I
was aping tongue-in-cheek for fun.

Sidenote: in 1996 I owned no handguns, hadn't fired or even held one
in my hand for 30 years and was quite sure I never would.

-----

Winter in New York. Christmas is near. I look out of my grimy
windows, see the people on the street below huddled against the
freezing rain and hustling home with their brightly-wrapped parcels.
Why am I not cheerful?*
*
I’m Mike Clamor, a private eye. My secretary Velva shows me the
unpaid bills. I tell her to stamp them “return to sender" and drop
them in the mailbox. Things have been slow.*
*
The intercom buzzes. “Visitor for you, Mike”, says Velva, concealing
the surprise in her voice. I feign frantic activity. “Oh, all right,
send them in.”*
*
She was beautiful, a knockout. 5’9”, glistening black hair, violet
eyes that burned into my soul. Fair skin, plum-colored lipstick,
classy earrings that stretched her earlobes -- must have weighed a
couple of pounds each. Nice quartz. Aristocratic nose, impeccably
groomed. Her conservative designer wrap couldn’t begin to conceal
the lushness of her body.
***
I took out my nickel-plated Colt .45 automatic and started cleaning
it. I like to put my clients at ease. I occupy myself cleaning the
weapon while they gather themselves to tell me more. It’s comfy.
The brass cartridges gleam against the dark wood of my battered old
desk. I polish them every day. The aroma of Hoppe’s #9 nitro
solvent is soothing. I gently run a patch thru the rifled bore of the
pistol. She crosses her legs with a great display of nylon. I jam
the patch in the receiver. Damn!
**
*“What can I do for you, Ma’am?”*

She was wringing a handkerchief in her lap. Saks Fifth Avenue.
Looked like she’d wiped her dipstick with it. I’m used to that --
many of my clients are distraught. I pretended not to notice. She
should really think about visiting Jiffy Lube real soon -- that looks
like very dirty oil.
*
“I’ve got a virus!”, she said. I was nonplussed. “Ma’am, I’m a
private detective, not a doctor!” “Yes, yes, I know. I don’t mean my
body is infected.” My heart skipped a beat.
*
*“I’m a writer of books for children. I create psychodrama, cloak
it in Dr. Seuss verse. I want to teach children genuine cynicism at
an early age. I do it on a PC, using MicroSoft Word and Corel Draw
under Windows 95. I create beguiling words, combine them with
frightening imagery to teach the little darlings that life ain’t a
lollypop.”*

She clearly needs help. Windows 95, she says. At least she didn’t say
MacIntosh.
**
This lovely warm woman is getting to me. But I’m a pro. I manage
to raise my eyes from her bosom to the *nature prints on the wall
I’ve collected from BassMaster magazine.
***
“How can I help you?”, I asked.
**
“The mob has infected my computer with a virus. I write my stories
for children, forward them to my publisher. But what he receives is
not what I wrote. The virus changes my files after I’ve written
them. My publisher asks me about why I encourage children to play
the numbers game and consult the dealer in fourth grade for really
cool trips. It’s terrible!”*

This sounds serious. “Maybe I can help you -- but I’ll need a
retainer. I am, after all, a sought-after professional.”

I could hear Velva gagging -- I’d forgotten to turn off the intercom.
Damn!
*
She parted her overcoat, took a deep breath, and said “I have five
bucks.” I scoff at five bucks -- I’m a professional. Fifteen
minimum. But this woman needs help.** I had her fill out the little
form. Gave her name as “Kidlove.” For some reason, I think it’s an
alias.
***
“OK, Kidlove”, I said. We shook hands. I wanted desperately to do
more than shake hands, but she is a client. I’m a professional.
**
“I’ll need to scan your hard drive with a Norton Utility, when would
that be convenient for you?” She fluttered her eyes and parted her
overcoat further. “How about right now, Mike?”, she said.
*
I put the gleaming cartridges back into the clip, slapped the clip
into my nickel-plated Colt .45, shoved it into my shoulder holster,
and we left. I ducked into the bathroom on the way out and spritzed
my hair with a couple of shots of Hoppe’s #9. It's a more masculine
scent than anything they sell at Bloomingdale's.
******
We went down to the street and tried to get a cab.*
*
Freezing rain in the city, Christmas shoppers are thinning out. Taxis
didn’t want to stop. I took out my nickle-plated Colt .45 and shot
out the traffic lights. A taxi hesitated in the confusion and we got
in.*
*
We went to Kidlove’s office. It was dark in the building. She
carded us thru security. I scanned her hard disk with Norton
Utilities, did a McAfee virus scan. Nothing seems amiss. But I’m
just a private dick, not a computer genius.
***
Her computer was connected to a network. I noted that the little
LED on the ethernet box kept blinking. “Kidlove, do you have
scheduled backups for your computer?” “No, I use tape.” Hmmm. It’s
late, there shouldn’t be any network activity.
**
“Look at this”, I said. She came over and looked at the little
blinking light. Her breast brushed against my cheek. I tried not to
notice. It was hard. But I’m a professional.
**
Someone on the network has broken into her computer. They’re in there
right now.** “Kidlove, you don’t have a virus. You’re being hacked.”

“Damn right I’m hacked, that’s why I came to you!” “No no.....” I
explained it to her.**

I asked her for a phone list of her office. Noted that the system
administrator was a guy named Gagliano. Hmmmm. Checked the clipboard
of the guard at the security desk down in the lobby.** Gagliano is
in the building. Gotcha! Now, how do I trap this guy?*
*
I create a new document. I cut and paste excerpts from several old
documents. It makes no sense at all. It’s a Trojan Horse. I hope it
will keep the intruder busy for a while trying to figure it out. I
save it. The little red light on the ethernet box glows steadily.
He’s found it already. This guy is good.
**
“Kidlove, where does the system administrator work?” “Second floor”
Kidlove’s office is on four. So I ran for the fire stairs, no time
for the elevator. Got to two in 20 seconds, nickle-plated .45 in hand.
Security door -- need an access card. Swell! No time to waste. One
round to the doorjamb where the latch plate must be, then a flying
kick to the door. I'm hoping for a fifty-cent latchplate engaging the
hundred-dollar lock. Bingo! The door is breached and I’m thru it.
My heart is pumping, and it ain’t just from Kidlove’s perfume.

I see Gagliano tapping away at his keyboard. Sure enough, the
nonsense document I’d created was already on his screen. He sees
me, his cursor zooms for the X. I whirl into a two-handed stance
with my nickel-plated Colt .45 aimed steadily at his computer. I know
how to hurt a geek.
*
I snarl “Drop the mouse, Gagliano!”*

He does. He’s not going to put up a fight. Sys ads are vile
creatures, but they’re not stupid. I’m glad. Five bucks doesn’t buy
much ammo these days.
*
I look at the other windows he has open on his screen. Kidlove’s
files, all right. I’ve got a wrap here. But something doesn’t feel
right. I struggle -- I’m just a P.I.
***
“Spill it, Gagliano. What’s your game here? If I even think you’re
lying I’ll punch your Pentium.”*

“Unghhh, the Don doesn’t like what this woman Kidlove is doing. It’s
bad for the kids.”*
**
“Bad for the kids?, I said. “Your stuff is good for the kids?”

“Read some of her stuff!”, he whined. His hand twitched toward the
mouse. I shot out the left mouse button.* He froze.
**
Kidlove’s poetry and imagery is insidiously brilliant. I can see how
young minds would find it appealing. She’s writing kiddie porn. The
mob is mad because she’s giving good clean crime a bad rep.**
I saw his point. He’s trying to keep crime clean in the city.

I tied him up with the cord from his mouse and left. “Sorry about the
mouse, Gagliano.” “Ahhhhh, it was a MicroSoft mouse, no loss.”*
*
I ran back up to four. Kidlove was restoring documents that
Gagliano had edited. She had shed her conservative designer wrap.
Nothing under it but a “Kids ‘R Us” tee shirt. She was stunning.*
She smiled at me. “Oh, Mike! The LAN light has quit blinking! Did
you catch the criminal?”
***
“Yeah, Kidlove, I did. Your kiddie porn career *is history.”
**
Kidlove came after me like a tigress. I'd been so enchanted with her
nipples I hadn’t noticed her nails. They were purple-painted razors.
My arms were lead. I couldn’t reach my nickel-plated Colt .45.**
I fended off her attack as well as I could using a phone book for the
city as a shield. She’d slashed all the way to Rosenbloom when the
cops showed up and subdued her. Gagliano had punched up 911 with his
nose. The cops cuffed Kidlove and took her away.*

The aroma of her perfume lingered faintly. She was a lovely woman.*
*
I kept the five bucks.
*
It’s Christmastime in the city. I’m alone in my darkened office,
thinking about Kidlove. Her violet eyes haunt me. I wonder how
she’ll look in prison gray. I’ll remember her in her “Kids ‘R Us” tee
shirt.
**
I lean back in my old oak office chair for another reading of “Dr.
Seuss and The Masseuse”.*

Thanks, Don!
That was terrific!

--Winston