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Fantasy in Florida
by John Mahon
Chapter One
Summertime, but the livin’ wasn’t easy. No matter that the fish were jumpin’ an’ the cotton was high. A third of our population had gone back to Cleveland or Detroit or Toronto. The cost of shelter and sustenance did not decline proportionately, but my chance of landing a commission-paying job did. So I was glad when this just a tad overweight but still attractive lady came in and sat down in the only chair in my office, save that which was behind my desk — sat down like she owned the place. The way she was dressed, she could have owned the place, or a building even more upscale. The pleated skirt and frilly blouse, and the stylish shoes obviously did not come from WalMart.
She didn’t bother with pleasantries or chit-chat, or even her name. “I want you to buy me a bra.” That’s what she said.
“Buy you a bra?” I said. I guess the tone revealed my surprise.
“I could have made book you would reply in just those words, in just that tone of voice.”
“You must admit it is a somewhat surprising request. I usually get something like ‘My husband (or wife) is cheating on me’, or ‘My son has been arrested for murder’.
“Your business history does not concern me. You may find it really surprising that I want not just any bra, but a very special kind of bra. One with the centers cut out so the nipples show. You can find it at Euroteaque, a little shop at the corner of Blue Heron and Military Trail. Can you do that, or shall I try the next P.I. listed in the yellow pages?”
“Of course,” I said. “My usual charge is $200 a day minimum, plus expenses. This looks like a half-day job, so I’ll waive $100 if you will elucidate. I admit I am intrigued.”
“You are only 200 miles from Key West. What do you know about their Fantasy Fest celebration, on Halloween weekend?”
“Not much,” I said. “I have never been there, but I’ve seen some of the web pages. I would say that any bra, even with the nipples showing, is quite superfluous. A splash of paint seems to suffice.”
“You’re a man. That’s all you would see. To the mob, it’s just show all you dare. To aficionados, like me, it is much more refined. You must show a lot but be restrained. You must — oh, you would not understand in a thousand years. Gerry Milliston won first prize last year. A prize that the hoi polloi doesn’t even know about. I must win this year. The nipple-showing bra, and the imaginative use to which I will put it, will outclass her. I will win. I must win. But Gerry owns Euroteaque, so of course I can’t go there. You can. Go. Today.”
“No problem,” I said. “If they have it in stock I should be back with it by late this afternoon.”
“Ten o’clock Monday morning will be soon enough.”
“Ten Monday then,” I said, and I went, but not until she had written me a check for $100. That meant she was serious. In the P.I. business there are those not above concocting a practical joke of this sort, and the thought that I was about to become the object of much laughter whenever a few of us got together had crossed my mind. The hundred dispelled that notion. A century for a practical joke was not even close to possible in my circle of P.I. acquaintances.
The check was drawn on a local Wells Fargo Bank, on the business account, Bourndarro Enterprises. I presumed it was legitimate. Some things you can take on faith, providing you are not actually out even pocket change if you are wrong. The signature was quite legible, Kathleen Taragano. Neither name meant anything to me. I was sure I had never heard of either of them.
Euroteaque was a small shop in a strip mall with a Shell station on one end and a transmission repair shop on the other. It was not ashamed of its wares, though they were not the merchandise you would offer to your mother, your preacher, or a serious girl friend. Love toys, Party wear and Sensuous costumes were boldly advertised in large print and vivid color, with illustrations to match. At shortly before noon on a Friday it did not appear to be doing a land-office business, judging from the few cars in the parking spaces. I parked the convertible, with the top down — no rain clouds in sight — close to the transmission shop, and hoped no one would recognize it. I didn’t want anyone concluding that T. J. was reduced to using the blow-up doll with the bright red lips, open in a perfect circle.
It was quiet inside, comfortably cool and a bit crowded with merchandise. It was a small shop. The toys were displayed tastefully inside closed showcases, with two rows of costumes racked on hangars stretching toward the back of the store, spike-heel shoes, thongs and blow-up dolls and other stuff in boxes on shelves at one side.
“Good morning,” said a tall blond guy behind the show-case. He looked at his wrist watch. “Yes, it is still morning, May I help you?”
I told him what I wanted. He was not in the least surprised.
“The shelves on the left, toward the back,” he said, “I’ll show you if you like.”
“Maybe I can find it,” I said.
“In the boxes. The color and size are shown on the box.”
That sounded easy enough. Little did I know. There was a distraction, of considerable magnitude. I entered the aisle between the shelves on the wall and the stuff on hangars on the racks. There was a person already there, at the far end, in a flowing red gown that went from neck to toe. That was of little importance. The gown was red, but the fabric was just not quite totally transparent. There was nothing under the gown. That was obvious. She (it was also obvious that it was a she) looked my way and said, “What do you think? Too bold? Too blatant? Too tame?”
I found it hard to think of a witty answer. The unexpected sight of an almost nude, well formed woman will do that to a man. “Depends,” I said. “A bit bold for church, a bit tame for Haulover Beach. That’s just my opinion, of course.”
“Your opinion is valuable because it’s quick, unstudied, and from a neutral source. I’ll take it. It’s for the Party in Red at Fantasy Fest.” She bent and grabbed the bottom hem and lifted it over her head. She was naked. Totally. She nonchalantly folded the dress neatly and walked past me to the counter, where the blond guy rang up the sale, put the dress in a bag and handed it to her. Normal routine, obviously. She went to a chair by the north wall and quickly donned a dark, sleeveless blouse and blinding white short shorts that were lying there, and stepped into a pair of flipflops. White shorts and long, smoothly-tanned legs. One of the pictures that keeps us calling our little corner of the world Paradise.
On the way out the door she waved at me. “Thanks for the appraisal. Of the dress, also. See you in Key West.” and she left.
