Write me a Letter

grown men wasting their time on silly games. She handed me the following, hot off her typewriter, then paced around nervously as I scanned it. Writers can be such a pain sometimes, if not usually.

    April 5.
    Confidential Report No. 17.
    From: Special Agent SS.
    To: VD. (ha-ha)
    Homeward I bound
    Suitable gear I found
    Trousers top low heels and granny glasses
    (Men seldom make passes
    At grannies in glasses
    And hair that’s rinsed bright blue
    Except maybe old farts
    With lonely cold hearts
    Who have to wear glasses too)
    Called a cab Stow the gab
    I sed to the loquacious driver
    And there’s an extra fiver
    If you hang around for me
    The driver he say sí
    With worried look on face
    White lies all in place
    Buzzed le buzzer of le family
    Explained my needs most humbly
    Was told direct my feet
    Back out into the street
    No not back into the cab
    T’were so the girls could grab
    A look at me through a third-floor pane
    Then the buzzer buzzed again
    The front door ope’d to let me in
    In went the erstwhile heroine
    Up went the plucky Sybiline
    Pumpin’ lotsa adrenaline
    If ’tis St. Elmo who protects the tars
    If ’tis St. Christopher those in motor cars
    St. Veronica the gallant matadors
    Who
    Watches
    Over
    Those who go a-tap-tap-tapping
    At locked unfriendly doors question mark

    ”I like that bit,” I said to the twerp, who was by then reading it with me over my shoulder. ”About the doors.” She went pink with delight. What the hell. My mother always used to say a lie isn’t really a lie if it gives someone (other than the liar) pleasure. With a concealed sigh, I resumed:

    Mother and sister awaiting I
    Mother and sister awaiting by
    Their open porte inside I go
    Inside I spin my tale of woe
    Of the end of innocence
    Pluckéd by that dastard Gince
    At the garage where I cashiered
    And where toiled he and how I feared
    A girl alone what’s she to do
    Does not the père have duties too
    They are surprised They look askance
    Could their Willy have led me such a dance
    And now he’s gone suddenly
    Without a word suddenly
    Without farewell without a final kiss
    Surely surely it would not be amiss
    For the ladies to put me in touch
    Would that really be asking so much
    An address, phone number, PO box would do
    Somewhere I could send him a tear-stained billet doux
    Sorry, sed the ladies
    Sorry, sed the girls
    Lying through their twin sets
    And their imitation pearls
    No way Nada Forget it Blow
    Don’t get up I sed I’ll go
    Exactly where I do not know
    So out I went into the snow

    The time she was precisely 4:22.
    Their phone number is 477-2063.
    The cab cost $44.50—receipt available.
    $44.50 (cab)
    — $40.00 (advance)
    $ 4.50
    + $75.00 (wages)
    $79-50 (balance owed me)

    Luv,
    Sara

    ”Well?” she demanded as soon as I was done.
    ”It won’t do, Sara,” I said. ”It just won’t do. You can’t leave out all the punctuation in the desperate hope it’ll make it appear more poetical.”
    ”That’s not what I meant by ‘Well,’” she said.
    ”Ah,” I said. ”Well, it was a commendable piece of investigatory work.”
    ”Not that ‘Well,’ either,” she said. ”Well, what about my bread?”
    I extracted the required sum from my wallet and handed it over without further comment, although I did remark to her that I happened to be extremely familiar with the old cab receipt ploy—you got the cabby to give you a receipt for ten bucks more than it cost, and split it with him—and she’d better not even think of trying it on me.
    ”And fifty cents,” she said.
    I gave her fifty cents, mostly in nickels. Then and only then did the suspicious, grasping creature hand over the receipt.
    ”What were the ladies like?” I asked her.
    ”Ordinary,” she said. ”Not a lot of life to them. They looked and dressed alike, they could almost have been sisters.”
    ”Were they relaxed, were they frightened, what?”
    ”They sure weren’t relaxed,” she said. ”As for frightened, maybe.”
    ”Good,” I said. ”Any pictures of William around?”
    ”Yeah,” she said. ”A big one of him and his sister. Only trouble is, it was taken when they were like two.”
    ”Ah well,” I said philosophically. ”You can’t win ’em all.” I gave the twerp’s curls an affectionate rub. ”But you did pretty good, pal.” She looked pleased. ”Now watch a real pro in action.”
    I retrieved an innocuous-looking scrap of paper from one of my desk drawers, the one under the one where my firepower