The dame wore red.

I sat at my desk, sorting through collections bills, light bills, water bills, and every kind of bill but the kind I like to see – green. It was one of those days you would throw away if the trashcan was big enough. But it wasn´t. And I didn´t.

And then she appeared, a shallow shadow of her former beauty. The burnt red hair had faded and showed shades of gray hidden by dollar store cosmetics. Her smile charmed, if you could get over the yellow stains from a lifetime of smoking and a half-assed bleach job. But who was I to say no to a client.

She wanted to do a little spy on this guy, this Scot. An old man, maybe a hubbie, maybe a divorce in the works. She said little, but the envelope of cash said enough. Saturday afternoon I would see him at a pool hall. But was I being paid not to see him? As she walked out the door I counted the bills, sat back in my chair, and reclined. This could be interesting.

I took a drive north to the little town of my client´s address. Alleged address. It was an industrial port city, haunted by a glorious past of steel which in reality had not been so glorious. I couldn´t understand the locals for the life of me, so I kept my mouth shut. Best to be seen and not heard.

I entered the pool hall and sure enough, grandpa Scottie was there with a bunch of cronies. One of them, tall as a pole and thin as a stick, was called by the bartender Vandie. Vandie walked like a daddy longlegs, sans the grace. He eyed me over and over and over. I sent him a little smile, just to ruin his day.

Not much happened and I ordered a local beer, grunting to cover my foreign accent. The bartender gave me the eye but the clean, crisp bills told him to mind  his own business. And then in walked the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. This dame had the curves of a railroad track in a mountain range. Her black hair hid in the obscurity, but her clothes, the clothes…

The dame wore red.

She gave the scot a kiss on the cheek and I thought the old man would die from a heart attack and go straight to heaven. And then they entered. I buried my nose in a local paper but I could smell the trouble, oozing from everyone´s pours. The scot had invited himself to somebody else´s playground, it seemed.

Blondie, the skeleton, and the wretch. The three of them would hardly strike fear with physical presence, and neither looked likely to win any beauty contests. The blondie was toll, but had a woman´s face. Still, I knew the fireworks would start soon, although not immediately.

About an hour passed, and then, to my surprise, they started to come out of the woodworks, the shadows, the corners. Seems blondie and his two pals were not alone. This short guy stood eye to with daddy longlegs and took a swing – daddy parried it but fell to the ground. When wretch went to kick, daddy still held his ground. And then the two sides stepped back, eyed one another, and things got really ugly.

Blondie may use mascara, but the kid can throw a punch. This little Russian-Croatian-Serbian-whatever latched onto him like a pitbull, but Blondie laughed as the punches landed. He then landed the sweetest of uppercuts to send old daddy long legs sprawling. But Blondie had a hobble I hadn´t seen before, and took a step back before things got really messy.

The little Serbian-whatever kept clawing and clawing, but in stepped this broad-chested Italian. The two clawed away at each other and anyone, and the sides backed off for a spell. The scot, incensed and infuriated, had to deal with another blow, psychological – the dame in red left at the hint of trouble. Beatings were not her alley. Soon the police arrived to take off the Serb-whatever and the Italian in cuffs.

The scot looked beat even though not a single hand had touched him. A little scrum started after the police left, but nothing major. I´d already seen enough. I waited for the scot to leave before tipping the bartender generously. Things had gotten a bit too interesting for my taste…

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