The Lips Don't Lie

I was ushered into the clients large, well-appointed office by the back door, an inauspicious way to begin a sensitive consultation. He offered me a seat and warned me bluntly, “Don’t smoke in my office.”

I put my unlit cigar back in my pocket. “So, I understand this is a missing persons case.”

“In a way,” the client replied. “I met her at a party, fell instantly in love, but before I could get her name, or address, she slipped away.”

“Whose party was it? We could start with their guest list.”

“No,” he said. “It was my party and she showed up uninvited.”

“Mmm, a party crasher,” I made a note of it. “So, what was it about her that you found so intriguing?”

“Everything,” my client exclaimed. “She was beautiful, charming, fascinating and unusual.”

“Did she leave anything behind, a purse, a business card, a glass slipper?”

“She left behind a print, that’s all.”

“A fingerprint? Well—that would only help if she was a felon, ex-con, military, or…”

“No, not a fingerprint: Lip prints.”

“Lip prints,” I said. “Are you serious?” He stared at me impatiently without offering a reply. “Let me see ‘em,” I said.

He called out for his personal assistant. “Myrna! Bring me that cup.”

“You serve beverages in cups? That’s…

Myrna delivered the cup to her boss, who handed it to me. “Wow.” I said without realizing it. “This is a really nice set of—prints.”

“You should have seen the lips that left them,” he said.

“I eyed Myrna, a stern and severe looking woman with high cheekbones, a regal nose, and hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. “Who’s this?”

“My assistant,” he averred with a wave of his hand, as he dismissed her. “That’ll be all, Myrna.”

She sneered at me as she turned to leave. I felt a twinge of sympathy for her husband, if she had one. Her legs reminded me of scissors.

“All right then. Where were we?”

“Lips.” My client said.

“Of course. Lip prints and the missing maiden. Can you give me a description of her?”

“She looked like a goddess.”

“How do you know? I heard it was a costume party.”

“It was,” he said. “That’s how she was dressed.”

“So, she was wearing a mask.”

“Yes,” he confessed. “But—she had a way of walking, a way of talking.”

“Yeah? Did she throw her hair to one side?” I demonstrated. “Like this?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course not.” We avoided each other’s eyes for a few awkward moments, pretending like we were thinking. “What am I gonna do?” He asked.

I thought about it for a few moments. “I’ve got it. A lip-synching contest.”

“How’s that going to help?”

“First of all, it’ll entice all the women in your circle of friends to present themselves, and—this is the important part. You can look at all of these ladies’ lips, up close.”

“Yeah?”

He seemed doubtful, so I elaborated. “Then we can offer them a cup of—whatever it is you serve, and we’ll keep close track of which woman is wetting her whistle with which cup. Eh?”

He agreed. I subsequently described what would be required for me to make the arrangements. After a lengthy bit of hand-wringing and gnashing of teeth, I left with a big fat check in my sweaty palm.

The night of the lip-synching contest came. And went. Alas, although many of the ladies were lovely, none of the lips resembled the latent lip marks found on the original cup.

We were sitting in his office, I, chewing on a piece of yesterday’s cigar, while my client berated me for my expensive lack of judgment.

I was gazing diffidently at the mantle above the fireplace when my eyes came to rest on a wayward, unclaimed cup. I got up, reached out and picked it up. I studied it, turned it this way and that, then I turned my attention to the original cup. The lip marks matched remarkably well. (Actually, they were identical.) I handed the cup over to my client who examined the new cup, and the old. We were both staring at each other in clueless wonder when Myrna scythed into the room, and stopped just short of the desk.

“That’s mine,” she said.

“What is?” He said, with lamblike innocence.

“That is. That cup.” She clamped her fingers over it like, like one of those giant claw things that you see at a junkyard, and lifted the cup away from his grasp with mechanical efficiency. “What’re you doing with my coffee?” She looked in the cup, then she looked at me, then she looked at her boss. “You two are weird,” she said, then turned and exited the room in two long strides.

He was still numb, in shock, a great time for me to bring up the subject of payment. I’d solved the case by finding the woman who belonged to the lips. “Well, that’s that, I guess,” reclaiming my seat. “Do you need a bill, or what?”

“He heard me, but I could see he had a faraway look in his eyes. He reached into the desk and brought out a wad of cash that would choke a python – and tossed it my way. Then he produced a gold bar. It clunked with a rich, dense sound as it hit the desk.

It was so goddamned heavy he had to slide it across the mahogany surface. “I’m not complaining, but this is a pretty strange form of payment,” I said.

“You earned it,” he said, “but I expect complete confidentiality.”

I grunted as I dropped the bar and the cash into my briefcase and assured him, “My lips are sealed.”

It turns out Myrna wasn’t married, and my former client has no more need of my services. The last I heard, he was fetching coffee and taking orders from Myrna now.

It’s amazing what a good pair of lips can do – and that’s no lie.