A Danté's Dilemma
by Shirly J Walker
Inspired by James Ellroy
The name's Donny. Donny Danté. Owner of Danté's Detective Agency on Delaware Drive. Deep in the Downtown section. Some call it Dirty Downtown 'cause of the low-down dirty-dishing that reeks like dumped diapers. 
I sat staring at the soiled soles of my shopworn shoes, propped up on my paper-strewn desk, when the phone shrilly sounded. 
"Donny?'' 
Right away, I recognized the coarse voice. It was Cal Covington. Editor of the crude rag, SOME BITS. Cal's callous gossip rag cracked hearts like a bad cement job. He had more enemies than a junkyard dog has fleas. I'd done a few jobs for him, too minor to mention. 
"Cal. What's up?" 
"Window's busted, man. Bloodstained brick barreled through, a nasty note attached. Shit! Someone's out to kill me!" 
"You've been threatened before. Why panic? You at the office? 
"Nah. I'm home, Donny. The note says death waits for me. Jeez, I wonder where they got all the blood? It's all over the carpet by the window. My beautiful white carpet, ruined. Jeez!" 
Cal lived in luxury's lap on LeValle Landing. The perfect parties there rivaled the Queen's Court. 
"What of the note, Cal?" 
"Oh, man. It's scary. I'm really nervous about this!" 
He cleared his coarse throat, and chanted out the note. 
"Death darts for you - from within walls so true -- lies you'll tell no more -- you're at death's door." 
"Hmmm. I do see a threat in that cheesy poem, Cal. Call the cops." 
"Nah. I don't want them snooping. Not yet. I'm not one of their fave people. Besides, I trust you can figure this out better than they ever could. And, you don't eat smelly doughnuts." 
Cal laughed nervously. I could see him, sweating in a $2,000 suit, thin hair hugging hard head, surrounded by whiteness of a handsome home. All obtained from dishing rat-dirt on decent denizens. Slimy slugs like him swept my patient practice poorly. But, hell, it's a living. 
"Any suspicions, Cal?" 
"Lemme see. Last week, I spilled beans about Rachel Renton's boobs blooper. 
Then there was ditsy Darla's story. The cuckold ViceEarl's indiscretions. 
And ...oh, yea, Wilma's cushy couch capers. Hard hussy, she is. There's the illegal immigrants over at Joey's, and ..." 
"Cal. Is there enough rat-dirt to seriously threaten your life?" 
"In this business, embellished news with negative nitro could crumple a career. One could kill 'cause of it." 
"Just curious, Cal. What about ViceEarl? 
"He's got more women than Miss America pageant. His red-haired, two-timing Duchess tossed him out on his dubious duffel. ViceEarl swore he'd bloody the nose that sniffed in his biz." 
"And Rachel?" 
"No biggie. She had an unfortunate, shall we say, breast break. Kept under wraps a few years 'til my source ... er ... uncovered the two. After that issue hit the stands, we got a man's mutilated boot in the mail - every week." 
He paused a second, clearing that coarse, irritating voice of his. 
"And, Joey's place always smells like beans. That arresting article happened to release when some top New York Food Critic was in town." 
"Dare I ask about Darla and Wilma?" 
"Ah. Those two. I love to see wild cats scratch each other's throat. Raging rivals, those two. I called them Sunshine & Raisin, 'cause of their hair color. I've thrown smoke screens at them for years. You know, the old, 'she said, she said,' stuff. Listen, man. Get over here. Maybe we can sort this thing out. I need your help, Donny." 
"Give me an hour." 
I gathered up my wits, grabbed my gray attaché case, comb, half a sandwich, couple quarters, and proceeded to drive the three or so dozen miles to the Delicacy Delights domain. 
* * * * * 
The first thing I noticed at the mansion, was the front double door was slightly opened. I cautiously crept, calling out Cal's name. No answer. I pushed my way inside, and shocked my sight seeing Cal crumpled up like old newspaper on the entrance floor. Blood pooled haphazardly about his head. I wanted to heave. 
"Hello, Donny." 
I jerked around and saw a full figure to my far right. 
It was Darla Daring. The action packed, plump, platinum haired actress. A dippy dame which dirt was dished on more often than dark on dread. A red dress rode her curves like skid marks on hot asphalt. 
"What are you doing here?" I said. 
"Dig it, Donny. Cal called," she cooed, "said he had a case of crude dirt on Wilma." 
She slinked snakelike towards me. I felt fire flare-up my face. 
"I came right over," she hissed. 
Wilma. Wilma Washington, Darla's comely competition had insulted her at every opportunity. And Cal had fueled the potshots, tossed like salad, in SOME BITS. I suspected Wilma was jealous of Darla's fame. 
Darla sobbed, slung her arms around my neck, and shook. Her body blended with mine like butter on baking biscuits. My morals threatened to melt. 
I handed her my hanky. She honked hard, and handed it back. 
"And?" I asked this angel in my arms. 
"I wanted that wretched witch walloped with wads of scandal she watered on me. She tried to steal away the lead part in, THE RED BIKINI. Now the prop bikini is missing!" 
Her luscious lips lifted at the corners, creating a cute crease in her quivering cheeks. 
"Go on." 
"Well, when I rushed in, I found Cal barely clinging to life. Then, his mouth moved momentarily." 
She looked longingly in my eyes, long lashes lilting, and lips pouting. "I kneeled closer to catch his ceasing breath, Donny. He said she...!" 
At that moment, Darla suddenly dropped to the floor, blood bursting from her buxom breasts. 
"What the...!" I barely blurted before being bonked badly on the noggin. But, before the lights fainted, I could faintly see a raging, red-clad, racing mist. 
The End




Shirley J. Walker is a married, native Californian Pisces. She enjoys writing a diverse array of short stories, poems, and devouring banana pudding. Two cats currently own her and won't allow for any pets. Her work has been published in ZuZu's Petals Literary, TimBookTu, A Writer's Choice, All Mixed Up, Papyrus Magazine, FrightNet, A Rose & Thorn, AnotherRealm, The Harrow, several other online and print literary journals. She stated, "My busy inner child keeps me young, and my creative juices drip on occasion."