Analysis of John Malloy-Private Dick

+*John Malloy-Private Dick*+
*My friends call me Ace*

(the Blackmailed Beauty)
                         *chapter 1*

I was minding my own business, kicking back in my squeaky chair. Had my size ten dogs, crosslegged on my desk, with a half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker staring back at me, when this fly started dive-bombing my unshaven pan, over and over again.

"It's too damned hot to be puttin'up with your buzz-bomb shenanigans, Mister Fly," I groused.  I swatted for all I was worth until he got bored and flew off to gripe the cookies of some other starving gumshoe.

I picked up the full shot glass of  amber forgetfulness and tossed it down my thirsty gullet. "That takes care of my morning project," I said to my empty office. "How do I fill the lonely hours until sundown?"

1947, so far, has seen the forming of something Truman calls the Department of Defence, whatever that means. The War Department fought the Nazis, with my help as an ace bomber pilot, I might add.

That was war! Do we just defend ourselves from now on? What happens if another war breaks out in Europe?  We can't defend anything from here, it seems to this struggling private dick.

Then there that weird U. F. O. crash in Roswell, New Mexico. Was it little green men or a damned weather balloon? You can't get a straight answer from Uncle Sap on anything, these days! Those high-hat big-shots are keeping that mess under their bonnets, as best they can.

I reached over and snatched the morning rag off my cluttered desk and turned to the sports page.

"Well, looky here, ladies ,and germs," I whistled. "Jackie Robinson just joined the Brooklyn Dodgers! That'll curdle the milk for some good old southern boys!"

I heard a soft knock on the door.

"Advance and be recognized," said I, in my best captain's voice. "Dive on in! The whisky's fine!"

The door squeaked open, and this brunette lollapalooza of a hot, smoldering tomato waltzed in on a pair of dainty, red spiked heels. She got this killer diller smile on her beautiful, painted full lips and said, "Am I in the right office?"

I bolted to my pins and shuffled my wingtips around my table to stand close to the vision standing before me.

I took a long gander at the yummy dish in the skin-tight red dress, with matching small-brimmed fedora, standing achingly close to me. The felt hat was smartly cocked at a sexy forty-five.

"Anyone ever mention that you look a whole lot like Hedy Lamar?" I asked.

"Now that you mention it, quite often," she smiled, again. "You never answered me. There is no sign on the door. Am I in the right office for Detective Malloy?"

"Baby sister," I grinned, "you are so very, very much in the right office!"