Dave the Little Detective: The Case of the Velvet Lie
The rain was coming down in sheets the night she walked into my office behind the Rusty Nail. She was all legs and trouble wrapped in a red dress that cost more than my last three cases combined. Her name was Lola Diamond — at least that’s what she told me. In this town, names are as reliable as a politician’s promise.
She dropped into the chair across from my desk (a stack of coasters on top of a phone book so I could see over the rim). Her perfume hit me like a cheap shot to the whiskers.
“Mr. Dave,” she purred, voice like smoke and honey, “I need your help. My husband, Victor, has been acting strange. I think he’s stepping out on me… and I think he’s mixed up in something dangerous. I need you to follow him. Discreetly.”
She slid an envelope across the desk. It was thick with cash. Too thick. That should have been my first clue.
I lit my plastic-straw cigar and leaned back. “Lady, in this town everybody’s stepping out on somebody, and everybody’s mixed up in something dangerous. What makes your husband special?”
She gave me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “He’s been meeting people at the Velvet Club after hours. And he’s been carrying a little black book. I want to know who’s in it.”
I took the case. I always take the case when the money’s good and the dame looks like she’s lying through her perfect teeth.
The next three days were a masterclass in misdirection.
First lead: Victor Diamond was seen leaving the Velvet with a tall brunette who definitely wasn’t his wife. I followed them to a warehouse near the railyard. Inside, I found crates of glowing corn kernels — the same super-corn that had been causing trouble all over town. Victor was arguing with a couple of thick-necked thugs. One of them mentioned “the Weasel” and “delivery schedules.”
I slipped out before they spotted me, but not before I heard the brunette say, “Tell Lola the book is safe.”
Lola. My client.
Second lead: I tailed Victor to a quiet diner where he met a nervous little man who handed over an envelope. I managed to get a look inside later — it was full of photos. Photos of Lola with another man. Different man. Not Victor.
Third lead: I broke into Victor’s office (easy when you’re small enough to fit through the mail slot). The little black book wasn’t a list of names. It was a ledger. Payments. Dates. Amounts. Every entry tied back to shipments of super-corn moving through the Velvet’s kitchen and into half the restaurants in Southie.
I was starting to put it together when the dame showed up again — this time at my office with tears in her eyes and a new story.
“Victor found out I hired you,” she sobbed. “He’s going to kill me. You have to help me disappear.”
Too many lies. Too many people ready to stab each other in the back.
I decided it was time to stop following and start stirring the pot.
That night I called in a favor from Marmalade. The big orange cat caused a distraction at the Velvet by “accidentally” knocking over a tray of tainted chicken wings near the stage. While the place erupted in chaos, I slipped into the back office.
Victor was there. So was Lola. And so was the nervous little man from the diner.
They were arguing over the ledger.
“You were supposed to keep her out of it!” Victor snarled at the little man.
Lola laughed coldly. “You really thought I’d let you cut me out of the corn money? I’ve been running the supply chain through the club for months. You were just the front.”
The little man pulled a gun. “Nobody cuts me out.”
I chose that moment to drop from the ceiling vent right onto the desk lamp, knocking it over and plunging the room into darkness.
Chaos.
Shots were fired. Someone screamed. I darted between legs, dodging feet the size of freight trains, and managed to snatch the ledger from the table while everyone was busy trying not to kill each other.
When the lights came back on (courtesy of Marmalade knocking the breaker back into place), the cops were already arriving — tipped off anonymously, of course.
Victor, Lola, and the little man were all arrested. Turns out the ledger wasn’t just about corn. It was the key to a whole network of blackmail, protection rackets, and super-corn distribution that reached all the way to the Iron Horsemen’s old routes.
The next morning I delivered the ledger to Major Rush, who made sure the right people saw the right pages. The network took another hit. Not a killing blow, but enough to slow it down.
Lola tried to hire me again from jail — said she’d make it worth my while. I told her the only thing worth my while was the truth, and she’d run out of that a long time ago.
I collected my fee from Victor’s lawyer (he was surprisingly grateful his wife was behind bars instead of cleaning him out). Then I went back to the Rusty Nail, climbed onto my usual stack of coasters, and lit my plastic-straw cigar.
Brogan raised his beer in my direction. “Another one in the books, Detective?”
I exhaled a tiny puff of smoke. “Just another night in the city. Too many dames who never tell the truth. Too many thugs ready to stab each other in the back. Too many misdirects. But in the end…”
I adjusted my tiny fedora.
“…Dave always sorts it out.”
Marmalade flicked an ear from his stool. “Don’t let it go to your head, mouse. You still owe me for the distraction.”
I grinned. “Put it on my tab, Your Highness.”
Another case closed. Another reward collected. Another night where the little guy came out on top.
Because no matter how many lies they throw at me, no matter how many knives come out in the dark…
Dave the Little Detective always sorts it out.
