"Come on, Dino! Just because she's from some island somewhere doesn't mean --"

Dino cut him off. "I hear things, see things. Moonlit nights. Better for you, stay away from that, my friend!"

Suddenly, the proprietor's demeanor changed and he let out a belly laugh. "On to better topic, like-a food!"

"You know, the black, how you say?"

"Well, I don't say, Dino, and I'm a little disappointed that you do!" Brock tightened his abs, anticipating having to give the big Italian a box on the ears.

"No, Mr. Brock! Mi scusi. I mean the magic. Dark magic. Black magic. Voodoo!"

Brock was skeptical.

"Say, Dino?" Brock asked. The proprietor grunted, barely looking up from his work. "What do you know about this lady over at the realty office around the corner?"

"Oh, Mr. Brock. I stay away. I don't mess around with the dark stuff."

Brock was shaken by Dino's words. "What are you trying to say?"

Brock Brent, P.I., used his acute detective skills to pick out a selection of cured meats for his next car sandwich. He was going for something spicy this time.

As Dino prepared his on-the-go order, which included a Clark Special, Brock started to gather information about the mysterious woman.

"Hello, Dino, whaddya know?"

The mustachioed marvel treated Brock to an unsolicited, but not altogether uncomfortable, embrace.

"Time for a new car sandwich? How she work out with-a the, how you say, condiments?"

"The mustard packets worked a real treat, Dino," the P.I. replied, eyeing the meats.

Dino's Deli was a stone's throw from the Island Realty office, so Brock legged it.

The bell tinkled as he entered, and the P.I. was greeted warmly by Dino De'Ricci, proprietor.

"Ayy, Mister Brock! Beautiful day! So good to see you, my friend!" The large man came out from behind the deli counter.

"Is Callie short for something?"

"Yes, Mr. Brock," she replied with a mischievous look in her eyes, closing the door on the dumbfounded dick.

Brock came to his senses once the door had closed and looked around, slightly bewildered.

"Have to get into that office," he muttered. "But first, lunch."

Callie De Verteuil pushed the door outward, gesturing for Brock to exit the building.

"Good day to you, Mr. Brock. Call for an appointment."

"I will," he stammered, thankful to the buzzer for saving him from almost certain embarrassment. "Say, I was wondering one thing."

"What is it?" she asked.

Brock Brent, P.I., completely entranced by this exotic woman, leaned slightly forward. It was like an out-of-body experience. He watched himself making the mistake of trying to become involved with the woman whom he suspected was at the center of this whole scandal.

A loud buzz broke the spell.

Callie De Verteuil gently grabbed Brock's upper arm and guided him toward the door.

"Say, Miss Callie," he began.

"Yes, Mr. Brock?"

"I'll be seeing you again soon."

"I'm certain of it, Mr. Brock"

They stood facing one another by the front entrance. Again, Brock felt compelled to make a move.

Honey, have you seen my glasses?

Was having a good time chatting with #Gemini about #BrockBrent - until I realized it was just hallucinating the whole thing.

Brock Brent had officially lost his cool.

"Mr. Brock," she interrupted, "while I would love to continue this conversation, I do have an appointment to attend." She was still gazing at him, surprisingly not entirely put off by his awkward flirting. "Maybe you can return when we will have more time."

"Sorry, Ms. Verteuil," he stammered. "Low blood sugar."

He flipped through the binder absent-mindedly.

"Say, how's about something above a mechanic's shop?"

"Mr. Brock," she said coquettishly, "I believe you are pulling my arm."

"It's 'pulling my leg,' Doll, and with legs like those I'd be..."

With these prices, the P.I. knew he could never satisfy her financially. But there were other ways. Brock knew he had to play it cool. He was here to pump her for information, an so he pushed thoughts of other kinds of pumping out of his head.

"Mr. Brock, you are breathing heavily. Are you unwell?"

"I mean, I can only take one bath at a time," the P.I. quipped.

Ms. De Verteuil leaned closer, her shoulder fully pressed against his. He noticed the gentle curve of her neck; a faint herbal scent. He felt an immediate desire to take her in his arms and kiss her. He was suddenly overwhelmed by her.

"Too many stairs to nowhere in a place like that. What else you got? Maybe something a bit more..." he trailed off.

"Modest?" she laughed. "Why, certainly!" She flipped through the book again. Here is a lovely two-bedroom. I'm afraid it only has one bath."

The price was slightly less atrocious.

Brock Brent, P.I., balked at the price tag. His deductive skills had not kept him abreast of the changes in the market.

"It's a lovely mid-century modern home. Three bedrooms,v two baths, attached garage. Do you own a ln automobile, Mr. Brock?"

Brock nodded, thinking he would be living in it soon.

"Oh, Mr. Brock! Surely you are a funny man! Mr. Percy did not tell me about your sense of humor!" Her deep dark eyes stared into his as she opened a binder on the reception desk. She made a show of coming around to stand close to him as she flipped through the pages. "How about something like this?"

"So tell Miss Callie," she purred, "What can I interest you in today for your real estate needs?"

Brock could think of a few needs he was having at that moment, but he decided to keep it business.

"Something with a bed. Maybe a sofa?" he replied uncertainly. "Anything above a restaurant?"

Also not sure if I want her braids hanging down or done up, maybe with some jewels or colorful wraps.

I don't want to jumble the order, so something about her skin being as black as the sedan parked out front.

It's just Brock.

"I find myself in need of some new digs," the detective continued. "Percy Greene sent me."

"Ah, you must be Mr. Brent," she exclaimed happily.

"It's just Brock."

"Ah, Mr. Brock. Please, you may just call me Callie. I feel we will become de good friends, no?"

"Sure," the beguiled P.I. agreed.

He assumed this was the proprietor. She had an aura of authority about her.

"Ms. Callie De Verteuil?" the P.I. asked.

"De Verteuil," she corrected him. "And to whom do I owe de pleasure?" she asked. Her accent was thick but lilting, almost mesmerizing.

"De Verteuil," he attempted again. "Sorry."

As Brock shifted his focus to the figure before him, he was met by a vision of the most stunning woman he had ever seen. She was a tall, dark drink of water. Her skin was a deep black. Her hair was braided. She wore garb that befit the island theme - a flowing short dress in many bright colors.

It was a little far to make out, but Brock could tell they were printouts of real estate listings. He wanted to get a closer look, but his idea was thwarted by the figure who had opened the door in the first place. She moved her body into Brock's line of sight and shut the door securely behind her.

There was the standard office fare. A cheap desk and chairs, likely from some office supply catalog. A painting of the Island Realty logo hung on the wall. There was a large corkboard on a rolling stand that was of particular interest to the P.I. he noticed dozens of pictures of houses tacked to it.

There was a large reception desk across from the entrance with no attendant present. Brock sauntered over, expecting a bell or some other device to summon the employees. As he approached, a door behind the desk opened, revealing a back room or office of some sort. Brock peered inside, taking note.

The sharp mind of the detective noted that it was strange to have that sort of locking mechanism on the door to a realty office. "Maybe it came with the building," he thought. He surveyed the place. There was a surfeit of island themed decor. Tiki men, bamboo fencing panels along the walls. 'Tacky.'