They met in a dark alleyway. Dim street lights cut through the empty fissure between two dilapidated buildings. Both were dressed in dark trench coats. Shirley, standing almost four feet tall, lit a cigarette. Hoover already puffed wildly on a Cuban cigar. They stared at each other, both taking quick glances down the alleyway — these paranoid glances lasted but a millisecond, then their eyes returned to each others, questioning, wanting, fearing…
“Did you bring the goods?” Shirley asked, breaking the cold silence.
“Yes, I did,” Hoover replied, “But why would a little girl like you need such a thing?”
“It’s simple” Shirley stated, running her fingers through her golden curls, “All the directors want me to cry and I feel nothing! They call me a spoiled brat, they call me washed-up — ”
“So you need the pen for your career?”
“Without my career, I have no money. Without money…no drugs. Without drugs, I have no happiness. What’s a girl to do?”
“I see your point,” Hoover said, kneeling down with the briefcase. He flipped the latches and opened it to the sight of the pen. “Try it out if you like, it’s the real thing.”
Shirley knelt, picked up the pen and examined it.
“Push the clip.”
Shirley gently pressed the clip and a faint mist shot out.
She instantly began to cry. “Oh, yes, for this I will win many roles!”
“So you got my goods?”
Shirley placed her own briefcase next to his, flipped the latches.
Hoover’s face brightened, a sly smile crawled across his lips.
In the suitcase was a pair of pink panties. Just his size.