Little Black Dress Challenge
Pairing: Krycek/Philip Marlowe
By: Jessica Harris
Notes: Terry Lennox is a character from The Long Goodbye who Marlowe was *clearly* in love with, and who, sadly, turned out not to be the man Marlowe thought he was...
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I switched on the light in my office and there he was. The left sleeve of his expensive white suit was folded and pinned neatly just below the elbow. His tie was grey silk, his cigarette-case was silver, and his shoes had probably cost him more than I pay in rent on my dingy office. He smelt of lime cologne.

He made my office look even dingier, sitting there in the pale morning light.

I hung up my coat and hat and sat myself down in my chair, surreptitiously checking the gun in my ankle holster. "Nice to see you've made yourself at home," I said.

With a deft one-handed movement he snapped open his cigarette case and offered one to me. I refused. He plucked one out of the case for himself, shut the case and slid it back into his pocket with the same fluid ease. The muscle-man standing behind him leaned forward without a word, silver lighter flaming in his hand, and he leaned towards the flame, then blew a plume of smoke into the stale air of my office. All without taking his eyes from mine.

The lime-water and the suit might make you want to sneer, but I knew who he was, knew he was a man you didn't offend lightly, dangerous in spite of the baby-face and the fancy clothes.

"You're a hard man to get a hold of, Marlowe," he said. 'Don't you ever visit your own office?"

I shrugged. "Trouble seems to find me easy enough, without me giving it a sitting target."

"It can't be good for business, though."

"It's been said that trouble *is* my business." He cracked a humourless smile at that. "So tell me, Babyface - do we have business together?"

I saw him tense a little when I called him that. Now that he was a 'respectable businessman' in the gossip columns rather than a small-time gangster on the crime pages his old nick-name wasn't used much.

"A man can't hire a detective?"

"Not when he's already got two on the pay-roll. I know a little something about your business, Babyface. And as far as I know you don't have any reason to be here. None of my current cases touch on your turf at all."

He smoked in silence for a moment, watching me with his hard green eyes. He had long lashes like a girl, dark against his pale skin.

"Manny," he finally said, not looking at his goon, "run downstairs, get me another pack of cigarettes."

"But Boss - " began the big man. Babyface simply lifted his hand and pointed at the door, and the goon shut up and left, foot-steps sounding heavy in the hall outside.

He was silent again as we listened to the receding sound. I could smell the oil he used on his hair. The he stubbed out his cigarette and said, "I'm going to give you something, Marlowe. Something you would probably have found yourself anyway, but you would have stirred up a whole lot of trouble. You've been getting close to some things that makes my associates nervous, and nerves are bad for business. So I'd advise you to take what I'm about to give you, close your case, and move on. That way there's no need for anyone to get hurt."

He slid the cigarette-case from his pocket again with that same disconcerting swiftness. Then he stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and leaned in close. "Got a light?'

He steadied my hand with his as I extended the lighter. His palm was cool and smooth. Then he closed his fingers hard around my wrist.

"I'm going to give you a name, Marlowe, and a warning. You've been looking into that crooked cop who disappeared? The name you should look for is Spender, Marlowe. Check him out."

He leaned even closer, his fingers still around my wrist. His voice was as soft as a priest's in a confessional. He squinted against the smoke that curled up from the cigarette.

"And the warning - that little brunette of yours. The crooner with the rich daddy. Don't trust her. You ever stop to wonder why she came back now?"

His eyes were so green. He held my wrist a moment longer, then pulled back, flicked ash at the ash-tray. "The dames keep doing you wrong, Marlowe. Ever think of changing your habits?"

I kept my face still when he said that. There was no way he could have known. Was there? Reaching for my own cigarettes I said, "Why serve this Spender up on a platter? How do you know I won't use what you've given me, then keep making your people nervous?"

His face twisted for a moment in distaste, and he said, "Spender's a sick bastard. Some people are better off dead. And as for you, well, you have the reputation of being a man who keeps his word."

Then he said, "Oh by the way, Marlowe, I saw an old pal of yours the other day - Lennox. Terry Lennox. Though of course that's not his name these days. He's looking well."

I heard his muscle-man's heavy treads at the end of the hall again as we stared at each other. So he did know. And that was his price. Play nice, and Terry would keep looking well. It burned me up that I still cared. But I did.

"A nice man, Lennox," He went on,  "But weak. The war did that to some people."

He held my gaze for a few seconds longer, and his eyes were confident, hard and strong. Word was, the war had taken his arm, but had given him his start, helped him work his way up from simple street punk to whoever - or whatever - he was today. He reached out suddenly, touched my wrist again, gently this time. "You should think about who's really worth your loyalty, Marlowe," he said.

Then Manny stomped back in through the door, cigarettes clutched in his big hairy-knuckled paw. Babyface took them from him, and rose, placing his hat on his slick dark hair. "Here, Marlowe - with my compliments," he said, tossing the pack on my desk. Then, from his inside pocket, he produced a printed card, no name, just a phone number. He placed that on top of the cigarettes. "Let me know how things go," he said.

Then he left. Leaving the smell of cologne and cigarettes and memory behind.