by Tee Morris
“What’s done is done,” I said gently, trying not to sound like I was some kind of know-it-all Elvish holy man. “From what I’ve found out on this case, Tony got himself killed over an over-decorated letter-opener. His choice.”
“I suppose.” I picked up a slight tremble in her voice.
We were nearing the city limits now, the trees now registering as momentary interruptions of the Chicago skyline. Once again, I caught the faint apparition of Julia Lesinger lost in contemplating the skyscrapers now surrounding us like the towering bluewoods of Sorcerer’s Grove. For a moment, I wanted a quick peek into this girl’s soul, to find out what truth resided there. She was searching for something. Damned if I knew what it was, but it wasn’t beyond Julia Lesinger to come out and tell me. This girl was far from dancing around her desires, even if the drum circle did lay down a heavy beat.
City traffic was still steady, even though it was nearing the witching hour between Saturday night and Sunday morning. My flop was now only a few blocks away. Whatever she wanted to ask of me, her time was running out. After this, it would be a Monday-morning formality of closing the case and settling the final invoice.
At last, she turned to me with an odd smile that conjured up more images of those pain-in-the-ass mountain dragons I had mentioned earlier, sunning themselves in a glen after devouring a herd or two. (I’d swear they’d smile in contentment at times like that.)
I don’t think Julie would have appreciated the analogy between herself and a dragon, but both beauty and beast had their poetic grace about them. Apart from the obvious differences (Julie was scale-free, as far as I could tell), both shared the look in the eyes: A desire to always stay in a moment of bliss and comfort.
In the dim light that filtered into the car from the streetlamps, Julie took my hand and began studying it, perhaps wondering what kind of life had roughened my skin. As she turned my hand over and opened it, gently stroking it, letting her long, tapered fingers run the length of my short, stubby ones, I was reminded of just how long it had been since I had known the fun and the physical gratification of a good grunde’malking.
Honestly, I didn’t think I was her type. What was that human saying about curiosity and a cat? Kitty here was daring to go where few in this world would even think to tread.
The driver slowed down the car in front of my building, hazarding a nervous glance in the rear-view mirror. He seemed to know this pattern of Julie’s. I pulled my eyes away from the back of his head to meet her gaze.
“James,” she spoke up to the driver, not taking her eyes off me, “Mr. Baddings and I have some business to discuss tonight. I will give you a ring tomorrow morning.”
“Miss?” he asked nervously. “What should I tell Mr. Lesinger?”
“Tell him whatever you like.”
For a suggestion, it sounded awfully like a warning.
Poor dink. What was he going to tell Daddy Lesinger? I’m sorry, Mr. Lesinger, but your daughter Julia is currently getting the hardest, wildest tavern tickle by a four-foot-one dwarf from an alternative universe. Nah, I didn’t think that would go over too well, and I didn’t relish the idea of taking on his hired muscle outside my flop at four in the morning, wearing only a bath towel and wielding the axe kept under my pillow. (That was sure to get the neighbors talking.)
I got out of the limo and turned to offer Julie a hand. When she stepped out into the streetlamp’s harsh glare, it was the first time I had ever seen her drained of color and emotion—a fleeting moment but a sobering one, nonetheless.
I looked over at the driver, who was still trying to figure out what to tell Daddy Lesinger. “You heard the girl,” I said before closing the car door, locking it with a lift of its handle. “Home, James.”
*****
I remember hearing my keyring hitting the small table by the door, the same table where I keep a yardstick so I can reach light switches. However, I didn’t get the chance to grab the ruler this time. Julie had already kicked off her high heels and reached over me to shut the door.
Feeling the softness of the tiny area rug underneath her feet, she dropped to her knees (I know, this would be a dream come true for humans, but Julie would have to be a gifted contortionist to give me such a delight) to kiss me. Her tongue was soft, and I savored the sweetness of her mouth as I would a fine stout aged and brewed by masters of the masters. She gripped my shoulders tightly, and only the sound of her taking a deep breath filled the room. Once she got her fill of air, a sigh escaped through her nose, accompanied by the gentlest of moans.
Perhaps you’re thinking that grundle’malking between dwarves and other races is an acquired taste. Ah, but ask another race about the experience, and all they can do is smile at the memory. Yeah, we’re short. We’re fat. We’ve got hair that remains total strangers to combs, and beards so thick that you could lose wood sprites in them. So why was she doing this? Perhaps it was my attitude. We’re the bad boys of the good guys, and I don’t doubt there was a curiosity factor working here. For her, anyway.
As for me, I wasn’t going to turn down a night between the sheets with Julia Lesinger. Are you kidding? Our professional relationship is over. We’re consenting adults. No problem.
Dwarves are underestimated for a lot of things because of their height, one of the biggest myths being that we don’t know our way around a woman. The average Dwarven family—and let me stress that, average—is ten dwarvlings. There is a reason why Dwarven families are so large, and it is not because we love to procreate. Well, we love to procreate, obviously, but that’s just it. We look at grundle’malking not as a duty nor a chore, but a passionate, full-contact indoor sport.
And I’m here to tell you: I am the Big Bambino of Grundle’malking.
Julie pulled me closer, refusing to let this lip service cease as she shimmied her way out of that fine evening dress. It became ever clearer that the “kiss at the door” was merely me “swinging two in the batter’s circle” before taking the plate. The frantic stripping of our clothes brought back a lot of memories of grundle’malking in this world that had been hasty, impulsive, and fleeting. Tonight was a step closer to home, where we dwarves took our time in making these intimate moments last.
Still, I had to be careful. I kept wanting to lose myself in her arms, to try and grasp some kind of belief that she wanted me. I couldn’t deny wondering about her intentions, her real reason for tonight. The more I lingered on this, the harder I kissed her. The harder I kissed her, the harder other parts of me became.
Julie stepped back, gasping for air. The blinds of my apartment cast horizontal shadows across that beautiful face of hers, and in her eyes dwelled a blind fury of emotions. She had to be wondering what was turning her on, but by the way she had just ripped open my shirt, I don’t think she cared. Her hands brushed along the bushy auburn hair covering my chest and followed the curves of my belly with a fairy’s touch. That was when she gave a slight gasp—whether from the size of my beer gut, or the reality that she was molesting a Highlands Dwarf, I couldn’t say.
Julie stared at my body with morbid fascination. “I don’t normally like hairy chests,” she whispered.
I slipped off the suspenders, letting them hang from my waistband as I removed the rest of the dress shirt. “Just wait until you see my back.”
She finally stood up and looked over her shoulder at the modest bed silently calling to us both. It was big enough for two. Not because of the frequency of my nocturnal guests, mind you. I tend to roll around a lot in my sleep. (Not tonight, though. Not tonight.)
Julie took a few steps further from me and quickly slipped out of her camisole. Even in the medley of light and shadow, I could tell her body lived up to everything I had imagined. Her toned legs seemed to have no end, but where they finally did was a destination that promised sweet pleasures that would last well into the morning. The same horizontal shadows that touched her face also adhered to her stomach, curved and tight in all the right places. Her breasts were now in th
e open air and from the looks of her tight, hard nipples, they were all the happier to be free of concealment. Plus, my earlier assumption was confirmed: Julia Lesinger’s body was indeed devoid of dragon scales.
I must’ve been eyeing her like a gourmet meal, because when I finally made eye contact with her again, she was smiling. A strange form of flattery, but I could see she enjoyed being fawned over. Most of the guys at Daddy’s party—Daddy’s party that was leagues away from us now—played that game of disinterest, of ennui in the presence of undeniable beauty.
From the upper-crust pretty boys to a dwarf detective, huh? All right, Julie, I’ll play your game tonight. She needed some education anyway, and class was most assuredly in session.
I took her by the hips and pushed her past the bed, not stopping until we hit the wall. The impact earned me a delighted cry from my new pupil. In the moments that slipped by after I parted her legs, she discovered one of the reasons why I loved being a dwarf. By the sound of her moans—moans that grew into louder and louder wails of excitement as I continued to savor her—she couldn’t help but love that I was a dwarf.
Julie nearly collapsed on top of me as her body shuddered from waves of erotic spasms that hit her hard, again and again. Her harpy imitation now subsided into gasps and sighs of relief, pleasure, and expectation for what was to come.
Taking another deep breath, she pulled herself free of the wall and staggered to the bed where she crawled on top of the covers, turning to face me. (Not that I would have minded if she faced in the other direction. Even walking away from me, the view was lovely. A reminder of the rolling moors and breathtaking valleys of Gryfennos.) She gave a purr while on all fours, her hair falling like a veil across half of her face. She looked at me and sighed as another aftershock passed through her body.
“Billi,” she whispered.
She wanted me to drop the boxers and let loose, but first, I wanted to make sure she knew what was heading her way: “Billi’s Battle-Axe,” I called it when scouring the taverns with my drinking pals in search of a quick grundle’malk. Slipping my hands inside the waistband, I pulled the boxers down just low enough for them to be loose, and then let them fall.
The light from outside was hitting me just right, and I watched Julie’s jaw drop slowly at the heat I was packing.
She blinked, and then finally swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat.
“Billi!” she exclaimed.
This was the worst assumption that human women always made about dwarves. There’s no real way to prepare a woman outside of my race for the hard reality. It is a truth that so many races are oblivious to, and this ignorance continues in this world to mislead the opposite sex. Tonight, Julie Lesinger would discover the third advantage in being a dwarf…
There is a difference between being short and being small.
*****
My eyes opened slowly, the sunlight streaming through the blinds rudely reminding me that it was time to get my ass out of bed and get a head start on the final paperwork for the Lesinger case. I was sore. Last night, my Lady Trouble performed contortions and acrobatics that would make a court jester green with envy. I couldn’t recall the last time a woman had given me a workout like that. I know it was back in Acryonis and she might have been a Crossblood, but Julie had outshone them all. As I stretched like a mountain lion after enjoying its prey, a single thought repeated again and again in my head:
Worth the wait.
A cursory glance at the surrounding walls reassured me that the paint was still there. The worry that her screams were going to remove it off the walls crossed my mind several times last night. I moved to get up, but my muscles let me know just how stupid of an idea that was. Guess Julie Lesinger wouldn’t be the only one walking funny today.
Eventually, I rolled over to the edge of the bed and gave another good stretch, locking my fingers and reaching above me with a hearty groan. I tipped my head as far to the left as I could, and a very satisfying pop-pop-pop-pop-pop resounded in my head. Nothing like a good night’s grundle’malking to rejuvenate the spirit and ease the brain. I felt like a new dwarf, ready to receive the last payment from Miss “Now I Know The Truth About Dwarves” Lesinger and then find the Sword of Arannahs before Capone or the Feds. Yeah, Sunday was going to be a good day, provided I didn’t get thrown out by the landlord for making too much noise the night before.
I opened the window slightly. An advantage to where my flop was located in this modest building was that I could usually catch the breeze off the lake, and on a day like this, it would freshen up the place.
I then noticed another pleasant scent tickling my nose, that fresh-ground scent that greeted me on the mornings when I’d have breakfast at Mick’s. My coffee pot was already on the stove and still warm with the burner underneath at its lowest setting. Next to an empty mug sat my sugar bowl. In the center of the modest table—where on mornings like this I would usually treat myself to a Cream of Wheat topped with honey, a strong pot of tea, and some toast lightly buttered—the memo pad I kept in my kitchen for grocery lists, messages, and the like waited for me with its pencil resting across it, placed very purposefully so I wouldn’t miss it. The message was written with a refined hand, a hand that had grown up surrounded by privilege and elegance at all times. Either Julie must have been one early riser, or able to wear me out to the point of me being lost in a deep slumber. The note brought a smile to my face.
Billi,
To say last night was incredible would be an understatement. I was not sure about where we were headed last night, but it has been a long time since I felt that good. Something in your touch showed me I needed a little more than just a private eye on the payroll. You’re not what I expected, and I hope last night won’t be our last. I’ll call you Monday, Big Red.
— J.
P.S. I helped myself to some coffee and sugar. I brewed enough for you, too. I hope I didn’t make it too strong.
Big Red. Hey, I liked that. Never been called “Big Red” before.
I ripped out the note from the memo pad and walked over to the corkboard I had by the door, laughing to myself as I crossed the modest flop. Even on its last day, this case was getting crazier by the minute. Okay, sure, maybe she was just interested in another repeat training session with “Billi’s Battle-Axe,” but I was intending to enjoy this for everything it was worth.
The corkboard, high enough for me to notice it as I was going out, had numerous scraps of paper. Some of the scraps were reminders of rent and other bills due. My eye fell on the reminder to keep an eye on Benny, just in case he was deciding to branch out in his moonlighting to other areas of Capone’s business. Why stop at embezzlement, I had written on this scrap of paper.
I guess that note could come down.
I pushed the thumbtack into the cork surface with a good, solid shove. With a self-gratifying nod, I stared at the note. The morning breeze played with the paper, gently lifting it against the thumbtack along with the other notes surrounding it.
Yeah, today was going to be a good day.
*****
“Well, well, well,” chided the man over the jingle of his diner’s door. “If it ain’t the Sherlock Holmes of Chicago! Good to see ya walking above ground, Scrappie.”
“Good to be above ground, ya crazy Pollack!” I snapped back, taking my usual seat at the end of the bar. “Think ya got a Sunday Special back there with my name on it?”
“Lemme take a look.”
Sundays were always slow in the city, but after spending quality time with the clerics, priests, and other holy men of this realm, spending an hour whipping up a lunch for the family just didn’t make anyone rejoice. Mick’s Diner was a popular stop for the families in their church best, and today was—as I mentioned before—a good day. For me, it was the end of one of the riskiest cases of my career. For Mick, it was business as usual…and as usual, business couldn’t be better.
“Okay, Baddings, here you go.” Mick presented a modest to
asted sandwich before me with a side of what looked like a hearty chicken-noodle soup.
“What—” I stared at the soup. “—the hell—” I peeked at the sandwich, burning my fingertips on its melted cheese. “—is this?”
“Billi,” Mick shook his head, clicking his tongue. “You shouldn’t be talking like that on The Lord’s Day.”
“Well, some God-fearing Christians would have a problem with you earning a living on The Lord’s official day off.”
Ah, the shrug. I love Mick’s “Whadaya talkin’ about?!?” shrug, his magical shield against my verbal slings and arrows. “Hey, c’mon, Billi…I’m doin’ the Lord’s Work here, encouragin’ fellowship outside of His house and feedin’ His flock.”
“A regular Good Samaritan, ain’t ya, Mick?” I sighed heavily, motioning to the dish. “And now I ask again, what the hell is this?”
“Today’s Special.” Mick rolled his eyes at the expression I was giving him. “Billi, man does not live by Reuben and chili alone. That goes double for a dwarf,” he said proudly, poking me in the chest. “That is homemade chicken soup, and that,” he said motioning to the sandwich, “is a ham-and-cheese, toasted on the grill just enough so that it melts in your mouth.”
“This is not the Sunday Special.” I grumbled.
“This is this Sunday’s Special.” Mick slapped me on my arm and beamed. “Dig in and enjoy.”
Giving another disgruntled grumble, I took a spoonful of the chicken-noodle soup, which had cooled to a comfortable temperature by now.
I must admit…not bad.
“So, Sherlock Scrappie, d’ya think now you can talk about this hush-hush case of yours?”
You would think Mick would leave well enough alone, but not this crazy Pollack. “Now what part of ‘private’ in my vocation completely eludes you? Mick, I’ve gotta—”
“Nah-nah-nah, I don’t want names or anything like that, just some of the details, y’know? C’mon and lemme see what it’s like in your world.”
