In Sintropolis, you don’t need to go looking for trouble; it walks right through your office door. The day began like most, the timid sun barely peeking out from behind the morose clouds to shed a few watts of luminance onto the concrete and steel spires. Sitting at my scarred, wooden office desk, the cracks in the plaster walls a bas-relief road map of some mythical place I’d never visit, the soulful sax playing on the radio mixed well with the distant sirens--the police attempting to take back the streets from the previous night, or at least get their cut. I was nursing my breakfast, bourbon on the rocks with a bit of honey. Some might claim that flapjacks would be more appropriate for the hour, but it had to be Happy Hour someplace. That’s when trouble found me. It started with a girl; it always starts with a girl.

Hearing my door creak open, I didn’t even need to look up. The clacking of stiletto heels on the hardwood floors told me more about my potential client than a dossier. My mental cogs were already evaluating her by the sounds. She was young, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, if that. She was light of build and walked with a self-assured gait that bespoke of high-class, high-society. Not only that, but she was also in the wrong part of town. A sophisticated dame belonged uptown, where the champagne poured, not in the thick of it, where the mud flows.

Glancing up from my breakfast, I knew, at first sight, that she was trouble, major trouble. She was definitely built for sin. From her head down to her lethal shoes, she was sex in high heels, built to fuck, built to destroy, a lethal weapon wrapped in sultry, velvety enticement.

Long blond hair, the color of the sun on the Fourth of July, fell in gentle waves past her shoulders. That sun-kissed hair set off blood-red, pouting lips that were plump and moist, perfect for sucking on something. Cold, sensual eyes, the color of the sky after a thunderstorm, stabbed out with powerful, sensual fury; her orbs were so hypnotic that it was almost impossible to focus on her perfect, alabaster skin.

The danger didn’t stop there; it just kept getting more and more treacherous. Her buxom body, all swelling curves and lithe angles, was poured into a low cut, dual slit black dress. High, firm, round breasts, juicily swollen to the point of bursting, were only partially covered by the thin straps of her dress, those straps slanting down into a point just above her navel. The skirt of her dress was slit from hem to hip on either side, revealing a pair of long, luxurious legs, as well as the complete lack of undergarments beneath her dress.

Had it not been for the red-rimmed eyes, either from crying or drinking, and the sheer, black veil covering her head and otherwise mostly-bare shoulders, I would have thought her to be a high-class call-girl, maybe arm-candy for some rich, elite high-roller. A quick evaluation gave me the hunch that she was in mourning.

“Dirk Paladin?” her soft, throaty voice questioned. Her words oozed sex appeal. There was something about her tone, her huskiness, that stirred my loins. I pondered my breakfast, took a swallow, as she continued. “Private investigator?”

“That’s what the gold lettering on the door says.” The surliness in my voice was evident; nobody likes having their breakfast interrupted, not even from every man’s wet dream.

“Take a seat, Miss,” I paused, gesturing to the rickety, ancient wooden chair on the far side of my desk.

“Ginnis, Gwen Ginnis.” she finished for me. Her voice dripped with sexuality. “Mrs. Bradley Ginnis, until recently.”

My nodding shrug showed recognition. Tilting my head quizzically, I turned my bottle of ninety-proof breakfast and pointed at the label, “Ginnis Distilleries Bourbon.”

“The same.”

I knew the name, Bradley Ginnis. He was one of the richest and most influential men in the city and had bagged himself a trophy wife, some singer, according to the tabloids. Rumor had it that he had his hooks into everything, not just booze and sexpots. The crime bosses were said to be his bosom buddies. Crime, prostitution, and vices of every kind were associated with the name, not just his fine whiskey. The papers also recently reported his suicide by pills. I assumed Gwen Ginnis was the now-rich widow. I didn’t quite smell a rat, just her enticing perfume.

In my line of work, it’s better to not voice one’s suspicions. I played it safe. “What’s the booze queen of Sintropolis doing on this side of town?”

She didn’t respond immediately, choosing to pull a black, laced kerchief, from parts unknown, beneath her hardly-there dress, and dab her eyes while doing a fine impression of sobbing. To me, it sounded like the moans of passion.

Ignoring the semi-clean, empty tumbler I’d placed before her, she launched into her job offer. “It’s…it’s my husband.”

Tears softly ran down her smooth cheeks, somehow making her seem vulnerable and desirable at once. I’m a sucker for a dame in need. My suspicions remained close to my chest; better to feel her out than to tip my hand.

“If you want to find out where his money is going, or get some dirty pictures to use in court, I’m your man.”

“He was murdered.”

Her pretty little tears became an ugly out pour of emotion. Wordlessly, I poured her a strong, tall glass of alcohol. When her sobs subsided, she chugged it down like a man, slammed the glass on my desk, and proceeded to sputter and cough.

“Not top shelf,” she gagged. I smiled.

“Nah, look around you. I can’t afford the luxury you’re used to.” I paused. “Look, lady, murder isn’t something I do. If you want that case cracked, try the police.”

“They’re no help. That’s why I came to you. I heard you’re an upright guy.”

She was half-correct. Sintropolis had the best police money could buy, anybody’s money. Law and order were open to the highest bidder. No case would ever be solved without permission from up on high.

“I see your point. However, I don’t do murders, gotta have some standards. If you want references, I know a few guys that can help you…”

“I don’t want you to solve his murder, Mr. Paladin.” Her voice soothed me and stopped my mental train right in its tracks.

It was my turn to drink and stare, no caterwauling, though.

She sighed, which caused her firm breasts to jiggle. That jiggle caused my eyes to focus on her charms. She continued. “The night he was, the night he was killed, “ she paused to blubber some more. “He had the final version of the distillery’s new formula on him.”

“Let me guess, the only copy?”

“Yes, he was quite secretive about such things. I need it. The future of our company depends on it. I can’t trust the police, can’t count on our security. I need somebody willing to get deep and dirty. Will you take the job and recover the stolen formula?”

“What makes you think it was stolen?”

“It wasn’t on his body after he was poisoned.”

“Poisoned? The papers said it was a suicide, no foul play involved.”

“Of course, they would. Who do you think controls the media?”

“My fee is three-hundred per day, paid in advance, reasonable expenses, plus six-hundred for the retainer. Sure, you can get cheaper, but you can’t get better. I’ll find your booze recipe for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Paladin, this is why I came to you.”

“Now, about my retainer.”

Her expression changed from sorrow and remorse to predatory. An evil smile broke across her tear-stained face. On her, it looked inviting; she had the look that would make a man willingly crawl to his death.

“I didn’t bring any money, Mr. Paladin. Take off your pants.”

“What?” I quickly downed another shot of bourbon.

“Your pants, remove them, so I can get to your cock.”

“I’m sure it’s the best sex, ever, but I only work for cash. I’ll need the retainer.”

“I’ll pay you the retainer fee, plus two weeks up front, tonight. This is just so you trust me enough to show up to collect.”

“But, your husband.”

“He’s dead, Detective Dirk. I’m not.”

She wasn’t the type of woman used to the word, “no.” I’m not the kind of man to let a lady down, so I went along with it, just for her, you know. Scraping her bare knees on the floor as she knelt, her provocative dress falling open to show me a tuft of golden hair between her legs, she crawled over to me. Her hands deftly unbuckled my belt and pulled my pants down over my knees, my boxers along with them.

Her mouth clamped onto my cock, already swollen just from her sensual voice and overpowering sexuality. Lots of dames that look like pure sex rely solely on their looks, not this one, though. She gulped down the entire length without reservation. Her mouth engulfed me and pumped up and down on my cock, her tongue swirling in all the right places, suction so powerful it made my toes curl.

More impressive than her deep-throating skill was the fact that she obviously loved what she was doing. Her hand disappeared under her barely-there dress, quickly causing wet, slurping sounds as she fucked herself with her hand. She began moaning on my cock, drowning out the sounds of her fingers plunging into her sopping-wet pussy.

I was determined to hold off, really make her work for her reward, but, as soon as those eyes of hers locked with mine, and she shoved those pouting lips of hers down until they contacted my stomach, I couldn’t hold back and released my hot, sticky cum into her mouth.

Gwen may be used to the finer things in life, but she definitely had a taste for cum. Refusing to stop, sucking and swirling over my shaft as I spewed spurt after spurt down her eager throat, she kept on sucking and moaning. Not yet sated, she frigged herself to orgasm as she drank down my lust, still sucking and pumping her mouth up and down on my shaft. In the throes of passion, she gobbled and sucked until I felt thoroughly deflated.

After moaning her head off, she smiled, straightened her dress, and wiped her lips clean with her delicate hand, smearing her blood-red lipstick as she licked my cum off her fingers. I sat there like a deflated sap, pants still around my ankles, my normally impressive cock deflated, covered with smudges of lipstick.

“Tonight, eight PM, Mr. Paladin. Club Infidel. I’ll have you on the guest list.”

With that, she turned on her stiletto heel and strode out. The view of her backside was just as lust-inducing as her front. Even drained, my cock twitched at the sight. She stopped at my office door, the dim light from the hallway caressing her curves as she turned.

“Wear a good suit, so you’ll fit in, and change that ugly tie. It looks like a baby threw up on it.”

She left, her black, stiletto heels clicking with the sway of her curvy hips. Gwen Ginnis was trouble, alright, but I needed the money. I finished my breakfast, my limp cock smiling up at me, and tried to recall everything I knew about the Ginnis empire. A nice suit wasn’t a problem; I had one in the closet in my sleeping room, adjacent to the office. Think what you will about your office doubling as your home; it saved me on rent. The suit was a classy affair, hanging next to my old police uniform.

Bradley Ginnis was an old rum-runner from way back when. His recipes helped him go legit, initially supplying gin joints and speakeasies in the area. When the county went wet, he opened a real distillery. A millionaire with a penchant for young socialites, he grew older, but his wives stayed the same age. Every few years, he’d divorce one and marry a newer model. His ties to the criminal element and the movers and shakers in town were an open secret. Ginnis Whiskey might be the public face, but he was known for utilizing nefarious tactics if need be. Gwen must be his most recent trophy. I wondered what was in it for her?

Some calls were made to my contacts downtown, including some insurance companies, some tax auditors that would spill confidential information for a price, and similar ilk. The first rule of being a Private Dick is to follow the money. Bradley Ginnis’ finances weren’t all wine and roses, or whiskey and blondes, in this case. My buddies in the newsroom informed me that there had been some recent talk about him selling out to Cumberbatch, his main rival in the region. That’s an odd twist, considering that the two big-wigs despised each other.

Gwen Ginnis was another story, grew up poor, became a lounge singer with some horizontal action on the side. Her record was typical for a street urchin. Her arrests and tribulations painted a common picture in Sintropolis. She grew up poor, with a single mother; petty larceny and sexual deviancy were common themes, my kind of girl. Dropping out of school, she began singing in the lowest-class joints in town, my kind of places. Her voice got her only so far; her body and latching onto a rich man got her the rest of the way.

Of enemies, Mr. Ginnis had more than enough. However, those that have, seem to get, a form of Karmic compound interest. He had previous entanglements with the authorities, the city, the politicians, crime syndicates, you name it. So much for narrowing down a list of potential suspects. But I wasn’t looking for his purported killer; I was looking for his missing booze formula.

Widow Ginnis should be able to tell me who he was meeting, where he was, and why he had the formula on him, rather than locked up someplace safe. That thought reminded me that I had a date to keep, hopefully getting paid rather than a blowjob.