SERIES: William T. Bloody, P.I.

TITLE: Private Dancer
RATING: NC-17
DISTRIBUTION: Ask and ye shall receive. Take without asking and I'll sic my dog on you. DISCLAIMER: Joss is my type-monkey; I keep him chained under my desk. Naughty, Joss, no touching! Oh, and this whole story is a flagrant rip-off of my favorite mystery authors, Rex Stout and John McDonald.

NOTE: Record temperatures, too much Gin, and a shameful weakness for Bogie movies have conspired to cause me to have a complete meltdown.

FEEDBACK: Oh, yes, please. And Little Spike-sicles for everyone who has fed the beast before. mintwitch@yahoo.com

ONE

Seated behind the cheap desk in the tiny outer room, Buffy snapped her gum at me and grinned impudently.

"I'm gonna troll for clients, get the word out, pet. Be a luv and mind the store." My office isn't much bigger than the reception area, and between the heat and the boredom, I was about to go off my rocker.

Buffy snickered and blew a flamboyant bubble, her pink tongue manipulating the wad of chicle brazenly. The Victorian in me is constantly appalled at how vulgar the Slayer can be, but the demon was getting a stiffy.

"Sure thing, boss." SNAP. "But I gotta motor at five sharp. Get home to my old man." She's cherry-pie wicked in tight skirt, seamed stockings, and improbably high heels, but the sadistic bitch wouldn't let me in. Shoulda twigged right off, her offering to play receptionist without even being asked. Her little Moll get-up makes me wanna fight and fuck, not necessarily in that order, and she knows it. Cock-tease. If she'd whipped out the lipstick and compact one more time, she would have had her first employee review right there, faux wood-grain be damned.

I pushed off of the desk, grinning at Buffy's disappointed moue. Not this time, Slayer, Spike's gotta bring home the bacon, or at least a reasonable simulacrum. Although, to be perfectly honest, it's Buffy's bacon that's paying the lease on this place, just yet. Thus, the "& Associates" on the door. Still, it's good to know she cares.

I gave her my best leer and promised, "I'll be there, baby. Wanna see just how vintage that outfit is," as I leaned over and slid quick fingers under her skirt, nuzzling at her neck. She slapped my hand away, but not quite fast enough: Slayer's wearing garters. Rmrmrmmrrm. Buffy and her outfits are gonna be the dust of me.

It started as a joke, snarking on the giant poof after yet another phone call to make sure I hadn't sucked Buffy dry and turned all her friends. Or vice versa. The poof wasn't all too clear on that point, the one time I answered the phone. I thought he was having an aneurysm. The periodic check- ins have become routine. Annoyingly routine, when they fall in the middle of a Scooby movie night. Extremely annoying routine when it's a Bogie film- fest. Wanker always did have rotten timing.

The joke rapidly spiraled out of control, culminating in last night's office warming party. Warmed the cockles of my heart, is what it did. Gifts and toasts and all the Scoobies pitching in. Xander even gave me a fedora. Right thoughtful of him, in my opinion. Slayer liked it, too. Anyanka's not the only bird in the gang that likes to play dress-up.

I donned the hat for the second time and with my best Sam Spade impersonation, ran my fingers around the brim to press out any creases lingering from last night's revelry. Flashing Buffy one final leer, I let myself out. Three flights down, a quick jog through the basement, and I'm in the sewers, heading for the docks. There's gotta be somebody in this town who could use the services of William T. Bloody & Associates, Confidential Inquiry Agents. It's not like I don't have experience in the business: Dru and I once ate a Pinkerton's office.



TWO

That was Monday. Tuesday was much the same, except Buffy started bringing her homework and C. of W. reports to the office with her. Wednesday and Thursday were exactly like Tuesday, with interesting Buffy-shaped variations on the concept of lunch-hour. My desk was turning out to be the gift that keeps on giving.

Friday we had our first phone call not involving a lost cat that turned found before Buffy even got the caller's name. I donned the fedora yet again, and set out for The Succubus Club, Sunnydale's premier demon strip joint, dire warnings of future dustiness ringing in my ears if I "so much as peep at." But you get the idea.

The owner of Succubus is a dapper little chap who looks as if both his suit and his office would be more comfortable on the top floor of an insurance agency. Instead, they are wrapped around a squat green demon with several too many eyestalks, sulking in a nudie bar. Still and all, his desk wasn't nearly so nice as mine.

"Can you help me?" he pressed.

"I'll need to take a look, see what's what." I patted my pocket. "Your fee will pay for our initial analysis. If I decide to take on the investigation, we'll send you a contract: retainer up front plus expenses billed weekly." And Anyanka's commission for drawing it all up, but no need to mention details to the client.

Jorge, the owner, nodded. "I'll give you a pass, you'll be able to look around freely. Fifi had the first dressing room to the right of the stage, but you can examine all of them. The other dancers won't be in until about seven. Sorry I can't take you around personally, but the damage control for this mess is incredible, not to mention I've lost my biggest act."

I made reassuring noises and took my leave. Demons don't generally interact much with Sunnydale's finest, so Fifi's dressing room lacked the accouterment one would expect at a crime scene. There wasn't even yellow tape across the door. I was vaguely disappointed.

I memorized the topography, carefully noting the placement of chair, mirror, lights, and the make-up bench with it's scattering of cosmetics. The scent of blood could be traced to a small spot on the rug. That was what had prompted Jorge to call me.

The room was little more than a closet. The three others matched it, two stage left, and one right next to Fifi's. There was a larger, group dressing room along the hall to the left of the stage, with room for 10 or a dozen human-sized females to get ready before performances. Restrooms were snugged into a corner to the right of the stage, next to the owner's office, some utility closets, and a tiny kitchenette.

Out front was a large, mirrored stage, poles placed appropriately. A small sea of tables washed up against the dais, held at bay by a low brass rail. A bar swept along the wall to my left, from where I stood on the stage, facing the audience. That had been my right when I was mapping the back rooms, and I entertained myself briefly by turning back and forth, playing right-left-right-left, until one of the security goons started giving me the eye.

I leapt off the stage and sauntered past him. "Tell Jorge I'll take it, but I may need to come back," I instructed the goon, and found my own way to the basement tunnel entrance.



THREE

It was almost noon when I came up into Willy's. The bar was nearly deserted; a scant handful of future Demon W.'s were pickling their livers at this early hour. The original Willy was long gone and best forgotten, but the current version was near enough a clone. So much for genetic diversity.

"Hey, Spike, what can I do you for?"

That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of playing Willy or to just beat the crap out of him. Bloody hell.

"Fifi La French. You heard?"

"Fifi," he repeated.

"That's right, Fifi."

"Well, sure, Spike, old buddy, old pal, what about Fifi?" Willy wiped the bar, grinned maniacally, and looked petrified. Which is funny, because as it turned out he didn't know a damned thing. I left an hour later with nothing to show for it but a bad taste in my mouth from the horse-piss Willy calls bourbon. Well, that, six take-out baggies of O-Neg. and two packs of Camels. Still, I hadn't gone to see Willy for what he could tell me, but for what he would say about me.



FOUR

The last stop proved to be the most challenging. A quick pay phone call to Anyanka, in her incarnation as newly elected president of the Sunnydale Chamber of Commerce, greased the wheels considerably, and at two in the afternoon I was playing tag with Senor Sol to get to the front entrance of El Paseo Condominiums. The bird holding the door was pleasantly female shaped, but unfortunately had liquid nitrogen circulating in her veins. The bloke who tried to butter her up would find himself making ice cream.

The lobby was posh to the nth degree. California plush driven to excesses the Victorians never dreamed of, rugs and upholstery padding every square inch of the relentlessly pastel swath. Her Royal Frostiness conducted me to an equally squishy office, to meet with the co-op President.

Phoebe Price reigned supreme in her domain, and apparently never let anyone forget it. Tidy and efficient, she greeted me with hand outstretched, a single firm shake easing the introductions as she beckoned me to a comfy chair.

"To what do I owe the pleasure? Ms. D'Hoffryn's call was rather cryptic." Her smile was professionally warm, urging candor. I had no reason to disoblige her.

"I would like to examine Fifi La French's residence, on behalf of Jorge Esterhazy, her employer. She disappeared from work, and he is concerned that something might have happened to her. Is she, by any chance, in? And if she is not, may I take a look around? Just to assure my client that she has not met an unfortunate accident and been trapped in her home, all unwitting." I attempted to ooze trustworthiness, despite my rap sheet on the trust half of the worthiness seesaw.

Ms. Price smiled, her white teeth bared in a predatory grin. "You must understand, the privacy of our residents is paramount. I'm afraid that I cannot let just anyone, no matter what his references, trespass on an owner's property. Of course, if something has happened to Ms. La French, something tragic, we would be happy to accommodate an official investigation."

"Why would there be an official investigation? Mr. Esterhazy is merely concerned about the well being of one of his employees. Surely it does no harm to check in, make sure that something. tragic, hasn't befallen the poor lass?" I blinked at her, cranking up the innocence and charm.

She blinked, "But-" and shook her head, looking tired for a brief second, before rising and offering me her hand again. "I'm terribly sorry, but I don't think I can accommodate you. If you come back with a warrant, then of course we'll be happy to co-operate."

I shook my head and stood in turn. Her hand was warm and tense. "Tell you what? If you, or whomever, change your mind, give me a call. My secretary," I lingered over the word, savoring Buffy's interpretation of the role before recalling myself to the present tense, "can set up an appointment."

I made it back to the office to find that Buffy had already locked up. The sewer crawl to Chez Summers passed quickly, thoughts of honest dosh and Slayer outfits speeding the journey. I let myself in through the basement, informing an inert Dawn on my way through the living room that her business cards (another gift) had caught us our first actual client. Her grunt may have been pleased, or just a snore, accompanying me up the stairs to Buffy's and my room.

The Slayer was in bed, napping before patrol. She stirred not a whit as I entered and shucked my clothes. Crawling beneath the blankets, I snuggled against her, replete with my newly acquired status as the World's Greatest Private Investigator. She snorted softly in her sleep and snuggled back, warm and fragrant. Checking the bedside clock, I determined that there was more than enough time to wake my princess in the very best way, and still get in a decent night's slaying.



FIVE

Willow dubbed it Operation Private Dancer. Buffy's entry, The Case of the Missing Skank, while accurate, lacked a certain flow. In the interests of brevity, I voted in favor of Witch-girl's offering and vowed to make it up to the Pouting One later.

It was Monday morning before any of our fish bit. All that happened over the weekend was the usual Scooby socialization. I wrote up what we knew of the case, fighting for elbow space at the dining room table with a round robin of females made up of Dawn, Buffy, Willow, Anyanka with contract in hand, and a slightly unsettling Tara. Her demon aspect had manifested in a startling post-mortem fooforaw, and I still had the occasional urge to poke at her to make sure she was real. I stopped following through after she hissed at me.

Fifi La French, nee Frances Gunderson, The Succubus Club's headlining dancer and only actual full succubus, had arrived at her place of employment around ten to seven on Thursday evening. The club was mostly empty, dancers trickling in to prepare for the eight o'clock show time. Fifi went directly to her dressing room, as per usual. Zeran, her boyfriend cum driver, who had arrived with her, stayed in the bar. Fifi's dresser, Nina, accompanied the dancer backstage.

At 7:30 PM, Mathilda Gunderson entered. Tilde was Fifi's half-sister, secretary, and manager. She and her paperwork went directly to the dressing room, evicting Nina, who sailed straight for the bar and parked herself next to Mr. Zeran. Ms. Gunderson remained with Fifi for a few minutes, then joined the others at the bar. She reported that Fifi had said she wanted to be left alone for a while. A moment or several later, the party decamped to their usual table at the back of the nightclub.

The doors of The Succubus Club opened promptly at 8:00 PM, ushering the first customers in to find places below the stage. At about 8:15 PM, Mr. Clayton Smith, a devoted admirer of La French, arrived, armed with roses for his idol. He was led backstage by one of Jorge's goons, and pointed toward the star's dressing room. He exited the room almost immediately, and went in search of the manager, in this case the manager-owner, Jorge, complaining that Ms. La French was not available. Jorge then sent his goons all over the club, searching for the missing succubus, but they didn't find her. The show limped on; Jorge made appropriate apologies at 9:00 PM, 11:00 PM, and 1:00 AM, informing the audience on each occasion that Fifi was ill and unable to perform.

At 10:00 AM on Friday morning he remembered a card given to him by a patron and called me.



SIX

Monday we got our first nibble. Since Buffy was in my office, reviewing the facts of the case with me, I let her answer the phone at my desk. Stretching out an arm, she yanked the phone close enough to answer and made appropriate secretarial noises.

"Bloody and Associates, Ms. Su-OH! -mmers speaking." She's so cute when she does that. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Bloody isn't available at the mooooo-ment. Would you care to make an appointment?"

I stopped dictating for a moment to focus on the conversation, which devolved into "No, I'm sorry"'s for a few minutes, before the Slayer lost her temper. "Mr. Bloody will be available to meet with you at," she canted her eyes at the wall clock and I took the opportunity to begin dictating again, "thrreeeee thirty. Will that suffice? Yes? YES! Mr. Bloody will. will be expecting you! Thankyouverymuch!" The receiver clanged back down into its saddle with a sharp dissonant ring.

Buffy grinned up at me and announced, "I want a raise!"

"Oh really? What is three percent of nothing, pet?" I dictated a little faster to distract Ms. Summers from incipient renegotiations of her contract. "How about this." pulling out and rolling her over, I reached into the desk drawer for Anyanka's extremely practical office warming gift. The bottle of lube rolled into my hand, eager to get in on the action. I greased us both up good and proper and slid right in my lady's back door, offering a compromise, "How about I improve your benefits package?"

Thumping her fists on the nice solid walnut desk she bought me, the Slayer howled, "Yes! Oh god, yes, yes, YES!"

Once again, management triumphs over labor.

SERIES: William T. Bloody, P.I.

TITLE: Private Dancer

AUTHOR: Mint Witch
RATING: NC-17
DISTRIBUTION: Ask and ye shall receive. Take without asking and I'll sic my dog on you. DISCLAIMER: Joss is my type-monkey; I keep him chained under my desk. Naughty, Joss, no touching! Oh, and this whole story is a flagrant rip-off of my favorite mystery authors, Rex Stout and John McDonald.

NOTE: Thanks for all the live sexy feedback, it gets me warm. Oh, and Bombay Sapphire or Plymouth Gin, for those who asked ;-).
FEEDBACK: Bring it on home! mintwitch@yahoo.com


SEVEN

At three thirty sharp, Buffy sailed through my office door, head held so high that she was nearly levitating. She eased the door closed behind her and leaned against the wood, a look of muted panic on her face.

"There are four, count 'em four, people out there. Your appointment brought backup and there is no way they are all gonna fit in here. I barely fit in here!" Buffy's chest heaved decoratively as her voice spiraled into a range that only dogs can hear. Well, dogs and vampires. "Where're we going to put them?"

The first rule of thumb for the World's Greatest Private Detective is Don't Panic. Thus far, I've found that the second rule is Shag Buffy, but we'd done that already, so I moved on to rule three: Call Anyanka. Which is what I did.

"Anyanka, pet, are you busy? Brilliant! Can you be here? Right now would be good." I didn't bother to say good-bye. Even as I hung up the phone, demon- girl arrived with the soft 'pop' of displaced air.

Anyanka looked around. "This room appeared much larger when I was intoxicated. Interesting."

"This room was much larger when you were drunk, pet. Can you do it again, is the question? With extra chairs." She's a good egg, but her memory tends to be a trifle undependable in the vicinity of alcohol. I suspect it's a defense mechanism.

Anyanka bit her lip, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Do either of you remember what the wish was?" she asked.

Buffy shook her head. "It was something Willow and Tara cooked up to be side-effect free, so that we could have the party here. I don't think it was meant to last."

Unaccountably, Anyanka brightened. "Well, that's okay then. Let's see." She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, looking as happy as it was possible for her to be when not actually handling money. "Okay, Buffy, if you wished, oh say, for the office to be roomy enough to accommodate however many clients in a cramped and humiliating fashion, with uncomfortable seating options, not that I'm prompting you or anything, then I might be able to see my way clear to granting said wish. Solely in the interest of Justice, of course. Oooooh! Is this about The Case of the Missing Skank?"

Buffy shot me triumphant look, which I piously ignored.

"Fifi La French, yeah. We've got a whole herd of her cronies out there and we need to pack them in here."

"That gives me much more leeway." Anyanka looked pleased. "And it serves both Justice and Vengeance, quite elegantly." Turning to Buffy, she instructed the Slayer, "say what I just told you to say, but start with 'on behalf of' what's her name. Then wish. Got it?"

For once, the Slayer had no trouble following instructions. When she had finished, the office was not so subtly transformed. My desk was the same, as was the slightly worn leather chair Clem and Sophie had given me. The ratty chair from my crypt that we'd crammed into the space and covered with a fuzzy blue afghan, was now a fuzzy blue sofa that could seat two comfortably or three uncomfortably. It had also spawned two over-bred chairs in matching upholstery. The walls had conveniently moved to accommodate the extra furniture, but not by much. The effect was still cramped, but no longer claustrophobic.

"It's perfect, Anyanka. You're a marvel. We won't all be sucked into a Hell dimension, will we?" Never hurts to check the fine print.

"Absolutely not. It would be counter-productive for me to place my investment at risk. I expect to receive many years of discretionary income as an associate. I hope you have a very profitable meeting." With another 'pop,' Anyanka was gone, leaving me with a Buffy who was avoiding my eye.

"Slayer. When did Anyanka become an associate?"

"Er." Buffy looked trapped for a moment, then sly. "We'll have to talk about it later, we have visitors," she sang, and swept back out into the reception area. Slayer's a right pansy, sometimes.

I moved one of the new chairs over beside the desk and had just settled back into my own seat when the door opened, admitting the small riot that was my three-thirty appointment. Buffy introduced our guests and, at my gesture, left the door open, taking the seat beside me, steno-pad and pen in hand. The Slayer was hopeless at taking notes but there was no need for our visitors to know that. By the end of the meeting, Buffy would have filled two pages with fanged smiley faces and obscene haikus. She was actually good at the latter; unfortunately her smiley faces were distinctly unflattering to certain vampire significant others. My ears most certainly do not stick out like that.

Phoebe Price led the parade into my office. She seated herself stiffly on the far end of the settee and folded her hands in her lap. Three women, whom she introduced as each entered, followed the co-op president into the too-snug chamber. These were Fifi's coworkers; the occupants of the other private dressing rooms at The Succubus Club, according to the list Jorge had given me.

Chantilly Lace was tall, a cross-dressing part-incubus with ebony skin and silver hair. S/he wore an impeccably tailored gray silk skirt suit that made Buffy's eyes glaze over in sartorial lust. If she started drooling, I might have to kick her. Discreetly, of course.

Next up was Honey Sweet, a plump little milkmaid with chaos demon somewhere in her ancestry, if the small, delicate antlers gracing her corn-silk hair were any indication.

The improbably named Betty Blow completed the line-up. Average from the waist up, her hips tapered to brown-furred legs that ended in glossy cloven hooves. She stamped sullenly and snorted when introduced, glaring indiscriminately around the room, and remained standing.

I stared at the oddly assembled group before me and tried to suss out the connection that had brought them here together under the mantle of Ms. Price. It made no sense unless they all lived in the El Paseo building. I made a mental note to have Willow check on it and regarded our guests with raised brows. Ms. Price lobbed the opening sally with characteristic efficiency. "I apologize for descending upon you in force, Mr.-er-Bloody, but we," her gesture included the three dancers, "wish to know if you have made any progress in locating Ms. La French."

I opened my hands in a gesture I hoped conveyed sincere regret and lobbed the ball back. "Unfortunately, Madame, that information is reserved for the client who engages me to investigate it." How clever are you, Madame President? "I'm sure you understand."

Price narrowed her eyes and gave a tight-lipped nod. She had opened her mouth to continue, when the sulky Ms. Blow burst out, "But he killed her! I know he did, everybody knows it!" Price cut her off with a sharp gesture, and addressed me coolly.

"I apologize again, for my- for Betty's outburst. I'm afraid we're all concerned and upset. Ms. La French has not returned to her home, nor did she show up for work on Friday or Saturday."

A light and pleasant contralto interrupted. Chantilly Lace spoke for the first time; in contrast to the other three, she seemed relaxed, almost amused. "Although, to be perfectly honest, it wouldn't be the first time Frances has headed for the hills without telling a single soul. Only difference now, we don't know who her fellow is."

Ms. Blow disagreed shrilly, "I'm telling you, he's killed her! He's Done.Her.In! He's a big, fat murderer-er-er, and he's hired this- this _human-lover_ to cover it up!" Now that was uncalled for. Our relationship may be bizarre and unnatural but the Slayer is no human. I slanted a glance at her in time catch her startled look turn introspective. Bloody hell. Nothing good ever comes of Buffy having deep thoughts.

The instigator of this scene, Ms. Price, broke character and finally shouted down her companions, "Betty, put a cork in it! Lacey, quit egging her on!" Turning to me, she asked with renewed cool, "Could we retain your agency to locate Ms. La French? If it's not a conflict of interest for you, of course."

That was a pretty way of determining whether I'd been hired to stash the corpse; definitely would've been a conflict of interest there, all right. But the question opened a world of economic opportunity that I hadn't previously considered. It was all I could do not rub my hands together and laugh maniacally.

"Hmmm." I pretended to ponder her offer with the seriousness such a suggestion undoubtedly deserved. "Fortunately, I don't see anything would cause such a conflict." I pursed my lips and made more thoughtful faces for the benefit of my audience. Buffy was trying to use one of the spiral loops of her pad to clean out from under her fingernails. The very picture of administrative effectiveness is my princess. I gave up trying to catch her eye, and continued, "it's no secret that we've been hired by Mr. Esterhazy on a related matter, but there is no reason for me to refuse to take on another client." Here little fishy, fishy.

They bit. We settled on $250 a day plus expenses, a private homage to an old acquaintance, adjusted for inflation. Now there was a detective. Miss the bugger: always had a drink for a fellow demon.

Buffy accepted the check for a week's retainer and stood to escort our visitors out. "We'll messenger a contract to your office this afternoon, Ms. Price. Please make yourself available to sign immediately, so that we may begin work as soon as possible." Nicely done that. She's not so bad at the talking bits.

The four of them nodded as one and rose in a wave. Before they turned to file out, I injected one final request. "We will need to meet with each of you again for questions; please do your best to accommodate any associate who contacts you. You can leave your phone numbers," this could save Red some work, "and address information with my secretary on the way out. And," at this I addressed their fearless leader, "I will definitely need access to Fifi's residence." I was rather chuffed at myself when they all nodded agreement as they left.

Buffy escorted the group out and closed my door behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Things were moving faster but in no particular direction that I could identify. I was pleased that things were happening, but frustrated at the lack of progress in all this movement. It wasn't as linear as it looked in the movies. I could ask myself 'What would Bogie do?' but the tosser had a script, didn't he. Which did me a fuck-all lot of good.

Buffy eventually slipped back into my office and leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest. "Did we or did we not just accept money to do what we're doing anyway?"

Her disapproval bounced of my bubble of self-satisfaction at that particular detail, and I grinned. "Not quite, pet. Jorge is paying us to find out what happened to his star. La Price and company are coughing up the cabbage for us to actually find her. Not the same that at all, but since achieving one will accomplish the other, we're sitting pretty, either way." Not to mention I'd just made enough to pay next month's rent on this place. Let the Poof make another crack about me sponging off Buffy, and I'd give him something to think about.

Judging by the sudden wicked gleam in her eye, Buffy had just had a thought. She sashayed over to me and planted herself in my lap, twining her silky arms around my neck. Leaning close, she whispered silkily into my ear, "Now, about my raise." and wiggled.

I ran my hand up her thigh, and up more, until I could do some wiggling myself. I smirked at her sigh and murmured back, "thought we had this discussion already, pet?"

She slid and turned, doing impossibly agile things until she straddled me, her legs draped over the arms of my chair. Reaching down between us, Buffy freed me from my suddenly uncomfortable trousers. She raised herself just far enough to envelop me in her heat with a single firm flex of her hips. The Slayer grinned at me and breathlessly retorted, "but we never came to an agreement."

I grinned back and grabbed her hips, pulling her against me harder. "Good thing we have a mediator on staff, then," I said, as I raised her off me slightly before slamming her back down.

Buffy arched back and took over the rhythm, bracing her hands on the back of the armchair. Negotiations proceeded satisfactorily: we didn't come to an agreement, but labor agreed to further talks before striking.