The Case of the Maltese Dildo
Chapter 1
Bea Gentelier
It was a quiet day. I’d just had an hour with Mrs. Schlegal, and was mopping up my office after her most recent breakthrough. She’d had ten breakthroughs that session and my couch was a federal disaster area. I was running a squeegee over my throw pillows when the blonde walked into the room. She was tall. Tall and willowy. She was so willowy it would make weeping willows weep.
“Dirk? Dirk Dick-tell?” she inquired. She had the kind of French accent you’d want to slather on your toast in the morning: buttery soft, and as sweet as Tupelo honey.
“The name’s DickWELL. And that’s me, sweetheart.”
She extended her hand. “Bea Gentelier.”
I took her supple, lightly powdered hand in mine and replied, “For fifty buck an hour, I’ll be as gentle as you want. Now lie down on the sofa, doll, and tell me how you get off.”
“No, no!” She threw that million-dollar head of blonde tresses back and laughed. “That’s my name. Beatrice. Beatrice Gentelier.”
“What can I do for you, Ms. Gentelier?” I said, eyeing her body. She had legs that would race you to bed in five-inch heels and get there first every time.
“I need your help on a most delicate matter.”
“Delicate matters are my stock in trade, ma’am.”
“I know they are. That’s why I’ve come to you. This … this is a bit difficult …” She took a hanky out of a little red purse and dabbed her juicy lips. I’ve always been a sucker for botox, and she looked like she’d just had a quart pumped into her with state-of-the-art hydraulics. My heart was like a flaming hunk of meat and I was getting those primal stirrings I frequently have to beat back with a goodly length of garden hose.
“Take your time, doll,” I said, glancing at my Chinatown Rolex. “I get paid by the hour.”
She sat on the couch and snapped her purse shut. “How can I say this? It’s about my friend. He’s … he’s been, um, stolen?”
“Stolen? Don’t you mean kidnapped? And what does that have to do with me? I’m a sex therapist, not an FBI agent; though many of those bastards sneak in here and pilfer my brochures.”
“He’s a … a special friend.”
I eyed her with dawning comprehension. “Describe this friend to me. You know, height, weight.”
She flushed crimson, took a deep breath, and blurted, “He’s chartreuse plastic, about ten inches long, a five-speed dial, rechargeable batteries, and a purple racing stripe.”
“Five speeds! Rats! My Cuisinart only has three.”
“It was specially cast for me in the most exquisite Corinthian plastic by Henri Pervers du Malta.”
“A Maltese dildo,” I mused, nodding my head. “Very rare.”
“Oh, Mr. Dick-swell!” she sobbed.
“That’s DickWELL to you, doll.”
“What am I to do? Little Pierre is my friend and consoler.” She dabbed her moist eyes gingerly with her hanky so as not to smear her beauty-salon makeup.
“How do you know someone stole, um, Little Pierre? Perhaps you misplaced it—him?”
“No, no. Little Pierre has a built-in homing device. I only need to say the words, ‘Come, mon cher, make me a complete woman,’ and it makes a chirping noise like a little bird.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last night. I had a few girlfriends over for drinks and cocktail wieners.”
“How many?”
“About two dozen or so, wrapped in pastry. I counted the toothpicks after they left.”
“Not the wieners, doll, the girls. How many?”
“Oh, sorry. There were three. Betty, Jeanette, and Louise. I took Pierre out of my nightstand to show the girls. We had great fun playing Spin the Sex Toy.”
This was a picture that would stay in my mind till they found Jimmy Hoffa. “Then what did you do?” I said, swallowing hard.
“And then I put Little Pierre away in the nightstand drawer in my bedroom.”
“Did any of the girls leave the room long enough to get into your bedroom and steal your Pierre?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes. All of them. The bathroom is near my bedroom, so all of them would have gone past it. Oh, Mr. Dick-me! Please find my Pierre. I will give you whatever you want!”
“DickWELL, damn it,” I said, although I appreciated the request. “Yeah, okay. Give me the girls’ addresses and I’ll see if I can find your Pierre.”
She threw her arms around me and we kissed, but even as I lowered her onto my clammy therapeutic couch, something told me this case would be no walk in the park.
Here’s a scene from the next show…
I knew that Miss Gentelier’s girlfriend Louise had mailed the sex toy to her pen pal—that’s pen for penitentiary—at Riker’s Island, maximum-security wing. As I walked the cell blocks and cried out “Come, mon cher, make me a complete woman,” waiting for the chirp in response, I heard the heckling and guttural noises of the inhabitants from behind the iron bars. Suddenly, the weaselly guard in the bulletproof booth flipped the switch and the cell doors flew open.
“Here I am, mon cher,” said a seven-foot hairy inmate with a jailhouse tattoo of Michael Jackson on his bicep…
Tune in next time as Dirk Dickwell solves the harrowing case of the Maltese Dildo…