Love is a many splintered thing!
"Hi, I’m here to see Sydney Fox. I’m a private dick."
Karen gazed up at the pudgy incarnation of the Pillsbury Doughboy. The self-proclaimed PI was one step away from being a pure albino and less than that from Karen slapping him. He introduced himself by sitting on the corner of her desk. In the process, a stack of papers, her pencil cup, the handset to her phone, and her coffee cup all landed on the floor. The latter did so with the crash of broken pottery.
Fuming, but still determined to maintain a veneer of civility, Karen stood. "Mr. -?"
"Little. Dick Little," he supplied, whipping out a dog-eared business card. When his sleeve retracted, it revealed a silver ID bracelet marked Dickie, from which dangled a small signet. An oriental character was etched into the surface of the charm.
When she reached for the card he tucked it back into his pocket.
"Mr. Little, Professor Fox isn’t in, and there’s a chair – " she gestured toward the leather seat just inside the office door, "Where I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable."
Apparently he read beneath the veneer, because he slid off the desk. "Anything for you, Babe."
Karen counted to twenty-five. At ten, she was still counting ways to maim him. "Mr. Little, I’m not at all certain when the professor will be in. I’m Sydney’s secretary. May I help you?"
"Thanks, sweetheart, but I’d best wait for the boss."
There was no way Karen was going to inflict this pasty-faced baboon on Sydney. "Mr. Little, to begin with, my name is Ms. Petrusky, not Babe or Sweetheart. And Professor Fox has instructed me to gather any preliminary information so all our ducks are in a row for when the professor arrives." She smiled, speaking through gritted teeth.
He pulled his too-small suit jacket around him. "Ducks?" he asked.
"Ducks, Dick. Spill it."
He cleared his throat. "Well, since you work for Professor Fox and all, I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you. It won’t help you, but at least you’ll know. I’m cursed."
"I’m sure you are." It was the most sincere thing she’d said since he entered the room.
"And I need Professor Fox to help me lift the curse."
"Curse? What curse?"
The now-familiar British accent still captured Karen’s immediate attention. "Nigel, hi. This is Little Dick."
Nigel paused, pursing his lips. "I’m… going to let that one go."
"Actually the name’s Little, Dick Little. The little lady got a bit confused. I’m a dick."
A tic developed at the corner of Nigel’s mouth, where none existed before. "You’ve convinced me," he deadpanned.
"Rocky Evans School of Private Investigating, class of ’97!" Little threw out his chest, and for a moment it looked like the buttons on his shirt wouldn’t be up to the challenge of his belly.
By now, Nigel’s eyes were watering. "Would you excuse me?" The British scholar rushed into Sydney’s office, closed the door, and burst into guffaws.
"He always reads the comic strips in Sydney’s office. Today’s a good day for the funnies," Karen offered by way of explanation. She was proud of herself. She never cracked a smile.
Unfortunately, Little refused to part with any more details on his "predicament" and refused to leave. He was unilaterally cheerful, and within fifteen minutes Karen didn’t want to maim him any more.
She wanted to murder him.
In that same fifteen minutes, Nigel beat a path between his desk and Sydney’s office.
By the time Sydney finally arrived, Karen was searching for the relic hunter’s miniature crossbow, and Nigel was close to hyperventilation from nonstop laughter.
Ever the professional, Sydney greeted her visitor with a professional smile. "I’m Professor Fox, and you are -?"
"Little Dick!" chorused Karen and Nigel.
It was the first time that Little lost his perpetual smile. "Dick Little," he corrected. "But I’m afraid you can’t help me. You’re a woman."
Karen glimpsed the nuclear detonation behind Sydney’s brown eyes.
"You have a problem with women?" Sydney asked, a dangerous edge in her voice.
"Unfortunately, yes. You see, I’m cursed. When I turn on the old Little charm, women can’t resist me. They mob me, in fact. I started a riot at Grand Central Station two days ago. I can’t control it. I have to find a way to break the curse, but you can’t do it because you’re a woman, and you’re probably already under my spell."
This time, it was a three-way race for Sydney’s office. Karen, Nigel, and Sydney doubled over with laughter. Karen heard Little observe cheerfully, "Must be a really, really good day for the funnies. I need to get a paper."
In the end, Sydney agreed to look into the curse that Little claimed to have afflicted him. Nigel presumed she was just being polite. "Thank goodness," he sighed, easing into his chair as Little’s not-so-little figure retreated down the hall." "Back to business. Now, what’s on the agenda for today?"
Sydney cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean, what’s on the agenda? Nigel, surely your memory span is longer than that!"
He snapped his fingers. "Oh my God, that's right! Matter of fact, the lecture on the Persian Empire begins in less than an hour. I’ve got your notes, but I think Karen has the transparencies for the overhead projector. You’re supposed to be there at least twenty minutes early, too, so they can adjust the microphone levels." Picking up a neat stack of note cards, he stood and held them out to her. "They should all be in order."
"Oh, no! I have to cancel the lecture."
Nigel blinked. "What?" He wasn't sure he'd heard right.
"I have to cancel the lecture. Our priorities have changed, Nige. Go with the flow."
Knowing he didn’t want to hear the answer, he asked anyway. "And if not the lecture, what exactly is our priority now?"
Sydney scooted into the chair he just abandoned and she spun it on its axis. "Mr. Little needs our help."
"No," Nigel corrected, lifting a finger to indicate a pause. "No-no-no." He peered at her over his glasses. "Mr. Little doesn’t need our help. The help of a good psychiatrist, maybe. The help of a diet doctor, to be sure. But he doesn’t need our help."
Horror registered on her face and she stopped spinning. "Listen, Nigel, this poor, sweet man came to us for help, and we’re going to help him." She crossed her arms in front of her and lifted her chin. "Didn’t you hear him? He’s desperate." She added with a giggle, "And he said I’m the best."
"I don’t believe it." Nigel plopped into a chair, his jaw slack. She was actually tittering like an adolescent. "This is not happening. I cannot and will not believe that 'Little Dick' is irresistable to women. Certainly not to you. Sydney, you’re a beautiful, sophisticated woman. You saw him. He’s a charter member of Geeks-R-Us. He’s..." He sputtered, searched for the right word. "He’s a complete loser!"
With a heavy sigh, Sydney rose, filled two styrofoam cups with coffee, and handed one to her teaching assistant. She leaned over and brushed a kiss over Nigel’s cheek, and he relaxed. Of course. She was merely playing a game, and he’d practically fallen over himself to take the bait.
"I’m sorry, Nigel. How could I be so insensitive? It’s only natural that you’d be jealous of a man like Dickie."
Hot coffee poured down his shirt as he tipped the cup without seeing it. He jumped to his feet, yelping, pulling the superheated – and now stained – fabric away from his chest. "I am not jealous of Dickie!" he shouted, then amended, "Of Mr. Little!"
Sydney shrugged and turned away, striding to the massive oak bookshelves that lined the northernmost walls of her office. Her slender fingers skipped through the rows of books, until she found the volume she was seeking. Plucking it free, she headed for her office, thumbing through the yellowed pages. Nigel was on her heels, incredulous.
"Casanova, Casanova... Man, this book is lame. It doesn’t even mention the curse of Casanova, just that he had a reputation."
When she moved into her chair and began to turn, Nigel had had enough.
He leaned forward, caught the arms of the chair to freeze it in place, and moved in until his face was inches from hers. Enunciating every word, he said, "It doesn’t mention it because it doesn’t exist. You know that, Sydney. We did our homework two years ago when hunting for Casanova’s Book of Love. We’d have turned up something then, don’t you think?"
"Not necessarily," she argued.
"Sydney!"
Reluctantly she conceded, "Oh, you’re probably right. But something’s wrong with Dickie and he needs our help. If you don’t want to help, fine. I’ll take care of this on my own."
He grumbled, "What’s wrong with Mr. Little is that he’s full of sh-"
"Nigel! Are you going to help me or do I go alone?"
Many a day he wished he’d been given the chance to decline a relic hunt. But looking at the dreamy expression on Sydney’s face, he wasn’t about to let her take any trip without him.
"I’m going with you," he replied firmly.
Go to Page Two.