With Apologies to Dashell Hammett

She wafted into my office, like the smoke from a cheap cigar. She sat down and crossed her legs, and uncrossed her eyes. She was built like one of those little brick houses you see in nice neighborhoods. Lifting the veil from her hat, I saw that she had the kind of face that would make a good man leave home. I found out later that’s what happened.
Her husband woke up, saw her face, and left home. She reminded me of Zelda, the hat check girl at the Blue Moon, so, I slapped her.
Her fragrance filled the room as I stared at her, and I noticed a smile creep across her lips, then I realized, it was only gas. She heaved a sigh and our eyes locked for a moment. They were like two twin pools, a soft blue color, that reminded me of the house dressing at Antonio’s, but that’s another story.
She said her husband had attacked her with an antique fiddle the night before, so I knew it was going to be a case of domestic ­violins. She asked me to find him and bring him in. “How will I know where to find him?” I asked. “He entertains nightly at the Black Kitty, down by the harbor,” she replied. “He’s a one armed banjo player,” she said. “But he plays with a trio,” she added.
“He’s an old bald headed guy, with an eye patch, no teeth, and a wooden leg, who goes by the name of Lucky,” she said. I told her I never heard of a wooden leg named “Lucky” before, and she just looked at me with those blue cheese eyes. “How will I know which one is Lucky?” I asked. “He’s the cute one,” she said, demurely.
“Ok, I’ll do the job for you, but I’ll need a retainer.” She turned her head, coughed and spit out her upper plate, and handed it to me. “That wasn’t what I meant,” I said dryly as I blotted her uppers with my tie. She promised to buy ‘em back, and only eat soft foods, so I kept them as a souvenir. “Where can I find you later?” I asked. “I’ll be staying at the Waldorf, under the name Gideon,” she replied. I figured as much. “And be careful,” she said, “sometimes he carries a cat.” “Don’t you mean a ‘Gat’ I asked?” “No,” she said, “a cat, a real mean Siamese, inside his overcoat.”
I pocketed her plate, and showed her out the back way. I grabbed my hat and heavy trenchcoat, then I hustled down three flights and caught Mack the cabbie setting in his Phaeton at the taxi stand. “The Black Kitty, Mack, and step on it.” I always wanted to say that.  Twenty minutes, 75 cents and a sticky set of uppers later we pulled into the seedy gin joint called the Black Kitty. Mack said the uppers fit a little loose, but at least he could chew now. I pulled my fedora down tight against the cold, evening ocean breeze as it slapped the Black Kitty sign back and forth. I opened the door to the dingy saloon and stepped inside.
I knew the pair that owned the place, a short Chinese guy named Wong Ho, and his girlfriend Heidi. They were behind the bar, so I walked up and said “Hi, Ho.” “Howdy Heidi.” I knew Heidi from years ago when she was married to a mobster named Jack Duty. Back then I knew her as Heidi Duty. I looked at Heidi and said “I’m her to get Lucky.” She said “It’ll cost you 5 bucks for 5 minutes.” “No,” I said, “ I’m looking for ‘Lucky’.” She looked at me real funny and kind of glanced towards the backroom where a lone hanging light bulb swung from the ceiling, like a pendulum, in time to the banjo music coming from the other side of the door.
I patted my .45, “Old Slab­sides,” in my shoulder holster as I listened to the last few mournful strains of Foggy Mountain Break­down and waited for the chorus before turning the knob and throwing open the door. There he sat, like he’d just come from Alabama, with his banjo on his knee.
Just then, he lunged for his overcoat and stuffed his only hand deep inside the pocket, pulling a scratching, hissing kitty out of the leather lined pocket. I waited ­until I knew he was serious about using the feral feline before I drew down on him, and gave him a right cross to the jaw with old slabsides, and finished with an uppercut that severed his G string. I stepped over his limp, toothless, singled eyed, wooden legged body, and mangled banjo and walked back outside, put a nickel in the joint’s pay phone and called downtown, asking for my old friend O’Malley in Homicide. “Yea,” I said, “I got him O’Malley.” “And by the way,” I added, “he tried to pull a Siamese mouser on me.”