Oglethorpe University - Yamacraw Yearbook (Atlanta, GA)

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Then SHE entered the room— and a new adventure entered my life. She was a tasty-looking blonde, with the most beautiful pair of legs I ' d ever seen outside a Bogart-Bacall picture. I said the first thing that came into my mind: You ' re a tasty-looking blonde, and you ' ve got the most beautiful pair of legs I ' ve ever seen outside a Bogart-Bacall picture. Then I asked, What ' s your name? trying for subtlety. She ignored my question. I hear you ' re a friend of Mac. Mac Waray. My blood ran cold. I felt in the drawer for the bottle of whiskey I al- ways kept there. Waray! It had been five years since I had last seen him. It was the wet season in the dar- kest part of the TwahinkiwatI Wu rain forest. We were on an important de- tective assignment — a top secret mission. I had left him behind to guard our encampment while I went to look for food. I was away for three days. When I arrived back at camp with the fish I had shot, my partner was gone. The only sign left of him was a can of bug spray. I ' ve kept it enshrined in my office ever since. I tore myself away from my reverie and gave the lucious dame sitting across from me the once-over for the second time. What ' s your inter- est in Waray? I asked, deciding not to be too direct. After a pause, she simply said, Mac and I were . . . friends at one time, and I ' d like to see him again. I could tell she was holding some- thing back. Come on, spill it! I yelled. That was my mistake. I got a box of Kleenex out of the drawer and mopped the whiskey off my desk. If you want my help, you ' d better tell me your story and tell it quick, ' ' said, in my best Mannix voice. Yes ... she quavered cutely. Her eyes told me that she and Mac had been more than just friends. 1t all began almost a year ago. I was sitting alone in my office, having just gotten back from seeing my last client. Burials al- ways get me down.

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he name is Styles; PorTe J es, Private Detective. It ' s a dirty but like they say, somebody ' s to do it. - all began almost a year ago. I was ng alone in my office, having just ten back from seeing my last cli- Burials always get me down. It a hot night early in June, uddenly, there came a knock on door. Come in, I called, won- ng how anyone knew where to me since my ad was yanked from Yellow Pages.

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I said the first thing that came into my mind: ' You ' re a tasty-looking blonde, and you ' ve got the most beautiful pair of legs I ' ve ever seen out- side a Bogart-Bacall picture. ' Come on, SPILL IT! I snarled again, this time taking tine wtniskey bottle far out of lier reach. Tell me! Tell me what you know about Waray! She got up from her chair and started to swish out, obviously up- set. I got the feeling my approach had been too abrupt. Look, schweetheart, I ' m too caught up now for you to get up like that and just bump and grind on out of here. I ' ve got to know the story — the whole story. It was five years ago, she finally cooed. I was doing an Amazon re- port for NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC to boost their circulation — and that of their readers. That was when I first met Mac. A tribe had rejected him. We went back to the States, and Mac and I kept company for almost a year. We were just getting ready to tie the knot. She paused nervously. Then one morning I noticed something was drastically wrong. Mac was gone, and in his place was a note reading, Something is drasti- cally wrong. I ' m gone. Don ' t try to find me, because I ' ve got to find my- self first. I feel the need to be Gothic. And don ' t call t hat idiot Styles, ei- ther. He was always a kidder. I said. So that ' s your story, Legs. I poured out two shots of rotgut, and asked her if she wanted a drink, too. After turning her story around a few times in my mind, I finally said, Don ' t feed me this, sister. Waray ' s dead. I don ' t waste my kisses on dead men, she replied. She reached deep into her alligator purse and dug out a manila envelope. These. she said, are bus ticket stubs with Mackey ' s signature on them. Look, schweetheart. I don ' t come cheap. But if I can, I ' ll help. I grabbed the envelope from her and showed her the door. Then, after a few minutes of waiting, I asked her to use it. If anything came up, I said. I ' d give her a ring. After she had gone, I fingered through the tickets and saw a pat- tern beginning to develop. w OD