To Have and Have Not: A Weight Noir

It was a dark and stormy night...er, I mean it was a bright and early morning. Trepidatiously, I entered the bathroom. You see, I'm an LCer, and I've entered enough bathrooms to know that if you're not prepared, you never know what's going to jump out at you.

The room smelled of spilled whiskey and last night's cigarette smo...no wait, that's another story.

The room smelled of disinfectant and almond soap, just as I suspected. This wasn't going to be an easy case, I thought. Nothing out of the ordinary. No clues, not even a used ketostick.

I looked for the scale. There it was. Right in the corner where I'd left it, not very dusty, well used like a ten-cent paperback that had been around half a dozen tag sales and used book stores.

I relaxed a bit, figuring I wouldn't see anything remarkable here. Of course, that meant the real mystery was somewhere else, somewhere in this godforsaken house. I steeled myself as I realized I might have to go to the kitchen district and dig around there. Sure, a kitchen's got lots of clues. Dirty dishes. Half-empty containers. A drip of grease down the hard-to-reach side of a stove. I knew I could find something there, but I didn't have to like it.

But that was for later. For now, my client wanted me in the bathroom. And if I expected to get paid, I'd have to deliver.

As I turned back to the scale, I caught a whiff of Chanel No. 5. And there she was. A tall blonde with American beauty legs and curves that could send a man over the edge of insanity. Long luxurious hair that would look breathtakingly sexy on a pillow. Heartshaped lips redder than the rash I had last week. And deep blue eyes a man could lose himself in.

Of course, I am not a man, so her beauty had no effect on me. But she was there...and beautiful, nonetheless.

I started to ask her who she was, but she pressed a long, perfectly manicured finger against my lips and whispered, "You know how to weigh in, don't you? You just put your feet on the scale...and look."

And so I did. I found what I was looking for ... in spades. Two and a half pounds, gone overnight. My client would be happy, and I wouldn't have to go to the kitchen district...not for work, anyway.

But still one question lingered.

I looked up at her and saw a smug smile on her face. "You're the whoosh fairy, aren't you?" I asked.

She didn't say a word. She just slid off the counter, her red stiletto heels clattering on the tile floor. She sashayed out of the bathroom without looking back.
But as she left, I swear --in the din of the bathroom fan, the radio, and the shouting from neighbors upstairs -- I heard a "whoosh."

I went back to my office, pulled a bottle of water out of my desk, and propped up my feet.

I gotta get a life, I thought.

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