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Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star Trek:
Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount and Viacom.

Pairing: Janeway/Seven.

Rated: PG-13. Contains violence, some coarse language, and dames who lay
other dames.

Summary: Can private eye Jane Kates find the missing Borg baby with the big
hooters, or will they both fall victim to the Machiavellian machinations of
the villainous Canon Bragger?

Answering Kitty’s PI challenge on Janeway7.

Feedback to [email protected] Archiving and downloading is welcome as long
as you credit the author. Many thanks to Meagan for beta-ing this, and
Lilian for her help with the hamster (among other things).
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Star Trek - Voyager: The Last Kiss Goodbye
by Odon

It was one of those hot LA days when the sun came down and casually smacked
you around the head till you were drenched in sweat like a second rate
palooka after a ten-round bout. When I got to my office the entire building
was so drooping from the heat I thought my shoes would sink into the stairs
as I climbed them. To cap things off I'd spent the previous twelve hours on
an eyeball job miles from a civilised percolator and as a result had this
suicidal urge to devour a hot cup of coffee, after which I fully expected to
spontaneously combust.

"Coffee, black!" I snapped as I shoved open the door marked 'J. Kates,
Private Investigator'. At least that's what it's supposed to read,
unfortunately the signwriter's spelling wasn't too good and he'd added an
's' on the end of 'private'. Makes me sound like a clap inspector for the
Venereal Disease Ward.

My secretary must have heard me pull up outside because he already had a mug
of java waiting. I grabbed it, tossed my hat onto the rack, plonked down
behind my desk and glared at the handsome young buck sitting opposite. "Who
the hell are you?"

He flashed me a smile that must have opened legs in every casting agency in
Los Angeles. "My name's Canon Bragger. I'm an executive producer for
Paramount Pictures and I'd like to hire you for a job, Miss Kates."

I woke up straight away, and for once it wasn't to smell the coffee. A job
for the studios could bring in some major greenbacks. "Sure, but I don't
come cheap. When you want the best you gotta fork out the dough in
dumptrucks."

"Yeah, I can see that," he said, with the kind of smirk that made me want to
perform dental surgery with my fist. His gaze moved around the room, taking
in the peeling wallpaper, faded blinds, cheap wooden furniture and stolid
wooden secretary.

"Hey!" I protested, turning on the fan to stop myself from melting away
through the cracks in the floorboards. The blades spun once in a languid
fashion then stopped, emitting a faint wisp of blue smoke. I quickly
switched it off before the whole place burnt down. "It's part of the image.
Hollywood's full of clichés and my office is one of them. What's the job?"

"My girlfriend's gone on the lam and I want you to find her," he said,
tossing one of those celebrity mugshots onto my desk. "Her name's Anna
Borg."

"Some babe," I said, eyeing the photo. She was a hot-looking blonde with
more curves than a Major League playoff and lips that were fellatio waiting
to happen.

"Yeah, that's why I've got to hire a woman for this job," said Canon. "The
guys are only interested in getting into her panties. What is it with you
private dicks anyway, you all sex mad or something?"

"Hell no," I said, using the mirror I'd hung on the door to check out his
behind. "It'll cost ya 25 clams a day, plus a $500 bonus if I can find the
chick without screwing her."

"Here," he said, pulling out a roll of C-notes big enough to choke a
gorilla. "I'll pay you double, with a full grand bonus, if you start right
away."

The second he was out the door I grabbed the phone and called my bookie.
"Tom, put a yard on 'Voyager' to win, will you?"

He nearly pissed himself laughing. "Kates, that horse hasn't come home in
seven years!"

"Do it!" I snapped, hanging up on the jerk. I looked up at my secretary, who
was sitting in the corner imitating an Indian totem pole. "Whaddaya think,
Nothingtosay? This could be the break we're looking for."

"Yes ma'am," said Nothingtosay. Hell, it's all he ever does say. There's
times I wonder why I hired the lump. Not only is it a major Hollywood cliché
for a private eye to hire a secretary they can't possible afford,
Nothingtosay capped it off by being completely useless. He doesn't say much,
doesn't do much, and has all the expression range of Mount Rushmore. Still,
that's what happens when you hire someone because of their sultry eyes and
great butt.

Nothingtosay's lack of conversation skills were about to make things
seriously dull when fortunately a major plot development occurred. The door
burst open and in staggered my partner Harry Chin, looking like he'd been
beaten up, tossed off a building, pulled backwards through a meatgrinder and
dumped in the Pacific Ocean without a life raft.

"Christ in a coffee shop! What happened to you?"

"I got beaten up, tossed off a building, pulled backwards through a
meatgrinder and dumped in the Pacific Ocean without a life raft," he gasped,
coughing blood and water all over the floor.

"Geez Harry, what does it take to bump you off?" I said, dragging him to the
couch. "That's the fifth time someone's tried to give you the Big Kiss-Off,
but you just keep coming back. There's no stopping ya."

Famous last words. No sooner had I said that when there was the chatter of a
tommy gun and the door erupted in a hail of bullets, riddling Harry with
more holes than a Swiss cheese.

"And this time stay dead!" shouted a voice from outside.

I pulled out my rod and blasted off a full clip into the door. Loud screams
and the sound of running feet told me that I'd missed the shooter and hit
someone in the Mexican family down the hall.

Just then the phone rang. I picked it up. "Hello?"

"If you don't want to end up like your chink friend," growled a menacing
voice. "You'll forget you ever heard about Canon's broad." There was a click
as the connection was broken.

"Tea-drinking troglodytes!" I fumed. "This means war!" I slapped another
clip into the butt of my rod and threw open the remains of the door, finding
myself face to face with a fiery Mexican chick who was looking extremely
pissed off.

"Ah, I'm very sorry about the gunfire Miss Torres but__"

"Tu madre es una hamster!" she shouted, jumping on top of me and trying to
sink her teeth into my cheek. I wrestled out from under her and retreated
across the room under a barrage of hurled furniture and Spanish curses.

"I think she likes you!" shouted Nothingtosay, seconds before he was knocked
unconscious by a flying hat rack.

"Christ at a crap game, how does she react when she's pissed off?" I yelled,
ducking out onto the fire escape ladder. I made it to the pavement faster
than a falling bomb, jumping aside just in time to avoid being squashed by
my desk which had been thrown out after me.

"I don't know what Tom sees in her," I muttered, watching in amazement as
the Torres dame tried to push an entire sectional couch out the window.
Deciding to get out of here before the cops arrested us both for disturbing
the peace, I pulled on my spare hat, jumped into my heap and roared off
downtown faster than Pancho Villa escaping from the Texas Rangers.

* * *

During the war my WAC sergeant once told me: when you've got something
difficult to do you can follow regulations, but then you're just covering
your rear. You can do what a man tells you, but then you just end up getting
screwed. Or you can follow your woman's instincts, but then you just keep
changing your mind.

It's a useless piece of advice but hey, private eyes are supposed to be full
of these little adages.

So I headed for the Knees Up Coffee House. To be a success in my line of
work you need to have good contacts, people with an ear to the street. And
none had sharper ears than my old friend Touthuked.

"Good morning Miss Kates!" said Kneesup. He was a short, cheerful man with a
beard that didn't quite cover a nasty case of liver spots. "Coffee black, I
take it? And how about some of my scrumptious breakfast?"

"Some other time Kneesup," I said. I'd eaten here once and my stomach had
regretted it ever since. "Where's Touthuked? I need to talk to him."

He took me to a back room where I found my best stoolie sitting cross-legged
on the floor in some fancy Oriental robe, staring at a candle. "Whattcha
doing, Touthuked?"

"I am studying the ancient Chinese art of jian de er-duo. It advocates
celibacy and strict control of emotions."

"Celibacy, well I've heard that before," said Kneesup. "A guy swears off
dames for the duration, then one day a hot-looking broad walks past and he
realises he hasn't had sex in seven years and__"

"What can I do for you, Miss Kates?" asked Touthuked, a distinct edge to his
voice.

"I've got a new case. Some guy called Canon Bragger hired me to find his
missing Borg baby."

"Canon Bragger!" exclaimed Kneesup. "Isn't he a big wheel at Paramount
Pictures?"

"Your information is flawed," said Touthuked. "Mr Bragger is
persona-non-grata among The Powers That Be at Paramount. Would your missing
person be the famous actress Anna Borg? She used to be Canon's lover."

"That's right. She's a real hot piece," I said, tossing an enlargement of
the Borg babe onto the floor. It was actually a close-up of her breasts -
that's the only part guys look at anyway. Touthuked took an eyeball and
promptly broke out in a muck sweat.

"I am in control of my emotions," he said through clenched teeth. "I am in
control of my emotions!"

"Wow, what great hooters!" exclaimed Kneesup. "Wouldn't you like to get your
hands on those, Touthuked?" He picked up the photo and stared greedily at
it. "I can just picture the sweat gathering in her cleavage in this hot
summer weather. Imagine running your tongue down that deep valley of flesh,
licking it all up, every last drop!"

Touthuked's eyebrows began to twitch like he was sending Morse signals to
Mars. "Control . . . of . . . emotions!"

"And then I'd squeeze those big melons in my hands, till her nipples were
erect and crimson like ripe cherries, then I'd suck them into my mouth and .
. ."

"Excuse me," said Touthuked quietly. He stood up, grabbed Kneesup by the
neck and hauled him out the door. There was a long pause, then I heard a
very loud thump! like someone was having his head rammed into a very solid
wall.

Touthuked came back by himself. "Now, where were we?"

"You were saying that Canon Bragger isn't on the up-and-up any more. Why's
that?"

"The big Hollywood studios are currently in a state of crisis. American
society is being slowly and steadily infiltrated by a force which could
destroy our way of life as we know it."

"Those damned Commies!" The sooner Senator McCarthy becomes President the
better I reckon.

"Actually, I was referring to television. The film industry fears that the
viewing public will be drawn away from the cinemas by the convenience of an
entertainment that can be broadcast directly into their homes."

"Yeah right, as if that'll ever happen," I scoffed. "But what's television
got to do with Canon?"

"The studios have been doing everything possible to combat the growth of
this industry, but Mr Bragger advocated a different policy. He said that the
success of television was inevitable, so Paramount should invest in it
instead. This was sacrilegious to the studio heads, and he has been cast out
into the wilderness of office politics."

"Must have been why his chippie left him," I said thoughtfully. "He couldn't
help her career any more."

"That would be a logical assumption. However, Anna Borg has not been seen
for several weeks. An actress who does not keep herself in the public eye
soon becomes irrelevant and replaced by others."

"Mmmm, that's fishier than a lakeful of . . . fish. Tell me about this Borg
babe. She sounds Swedish."

"She is definitely not Swedish. Anna is the prized protégé of Doctor Louis
Zimmerman, the world famous plastic surgeon."

My eyes narrowed. "Is that the same Doctor Zimmerman from the Delaney case?"

"Correct."

Doc Zimmerman was a practitioner of eugenics whom I'd nailed for conducting
illegal experiments on twins, but he'd managed to beat the rap thanks to his
influential friends in the State Department. He had a fancy joint in Beverly
Hills so I roared on up there in my heap.

I found him on the back patio with his hands all over a hot-looking broad.
She had a great pile of red hair and enough warpaint to keep the Sioux in
stock for life. The Doctor was a notorious ladies man, but he might be
getting more than he bargained for there. I'd heard of this one; the lads
called her the Beverly Crusher.

"Jane Kates!" he shouted, whipping his hands out from under her skirt. "How
dare you disturb me when I'm about to conduct an important gynaecological
examination! I told that idiot of a guard to forbid you entry."

"Your security guard is busy holding his groin and wishing he'd been born a
woman," I said, winking at the tomato and wishing I'd been born a man. "I
want to talk to you about the Borg babe."

"I'm a doctor, not a missing persons bureau!" he said. "I already told Canon
Bragger I don't know where she is. Why Anna would prefer him over an
individual of my genius and sophisticated taste is beyond me."

"Then maybe you can tell me about Anna. I heard she was one of your girls."

I watched his ego struggle with his natural inclination to tell me to take a
long walk off a short pier, but it was a losing battle. "The culmination of
years of experimentation in selective breeding. Anna Borg is not just a
'babe' as you crudely put it, she is perfection itself! For centuries our
patriarchal society has tried to create the perfect woman through random
chance and social conditioning, but only I, Doctor Louis Zimmerman, have
succeeded in doing so!"

"So what happened?" I said. "I guess she wasn't as perfect as you thought."

"She rejected me!" he said furiously. "And took up with that slick-talking
Hollywood hack with his promises of bright lights and glittering fame. But
I've seen through him, I've found out what his devious plans are! He intends
to__"

"Lay her?"

"Of course he's laying her you fool, she's got breasts that could knock the
Chrysler Building on its behind. But he also intends to AAAAARRGHHHHHH!!!!"
he screamed as his balls were crushed by the redhead's hand.

"A femme fatale!" I cried, pulling out my rod. They're a Hollywood cliché,
but that doesn't make 'em any less dangerous. A slug from my .45 blew her
big hair clean off. "Freeze you painted hussy, or I'll send you on the
Tramline To Nowhere without a return ticket!"

She snarled and hurled an entire chaise longue at me, but Torres had given
me plenty of practise in dodging furniture over the years. When she tried to
skewer me with an icepick I gave her a chestful of slugs from Betsy as a
receipt.

"Who are you working for?" I shouted, grabbing the broad by the front of her
dress. "Who wanted Zimmerman clipped?"

The dress ripped away in my hands to reveal a padded bra and hairy chest.
Christ in a cliché, not another cross-dressing killer! Pity the Doc had
never finished his examination. He was lying on the floor, eyes wide, dead
of shock.

"Garghh, garghh!" the cross-dressing killer gurgled, blood frothing from his
mouth.

"Is that garghh with two G's or three?"

He couldn't answer me; he was dead.

I hate it when that happens.

The phone rang, like it always seems to do after a gunfight. I picked it up.
"Yeah?"

"Doctor Zimmerman?" said a voice that sounded like cool crystal water
flowing in a distant mountain stream. "It's Anna."

I really should stop drinking so much coffee, it's making my voice sound
like a gravel truck, or in this case a mad male doctor. "Er . . . yes?" I
mumbled, reaching over to drop the needle on a nearby gramophone. Opera
music blasted out at full volume.

"Louis, you were right about Canon," she said. "I-I need your help, please."

"Where are you?" I said in a deep voice, grabbing a pen and paper.

"Meet me at the Third Act Hotel on Finale Street at midnight tonight," Anna
said. "Please Louis, there's no-one else I can turn to."

"I'll be there," I muttered. I hung up and quickly dialed my office, my head
filled with the sound of ringing cash registers.

"Nothingtosay?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"I've located the Borg babe. Meet me at the Third Act Hotel on Finale
Street, I might need backup."

"Yes ma'am."

"Did you get Harry to the hospital?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Is he still alive?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Geez, there's no killing that guy off. Have you replaced all my furniture?"

"Yes ma'am."

"And my fan?"

"Yes ma'am."

"And refilled my percolator?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good. Meet me there at eleven."

"Yes ma'am."

'Christ on a clipper ship,' I thought as I hung up. 'Can't that guy say
anything else?'

* * *

It was one of those cold LA nights when the fog swept in from the ocean and
wrapped this tawdry harlot of a town in a thick blanket to hide its phony
glitter from the rest of the world. I was sitting in my heap, smoking the
butt I had concealed in the palm of my hand and watching the front of the
Third Act Hotel. Nothingtosay was late and so was the Borg chick. It didn't
look good.

But suddenly I heard the click of shoes, and from out of the hotel stepped a
babe in an expensive fur coat, six foot tall in her high heels. Her blonde
hair was done up in a tight pleat and she was wearing a blue dress that
clung to her like it'd been painted on. She had to be the Borg chick; no
dame that classy would be going out at this hour.

I threw my butt out the car window and opened the door, stepping out into
the fog. My face was concealed by my hat and raised trenchcoat collar, but
she realised instantly that I wasn't Doc Zimmerman. I was too short (and had
a lot more hair).

I'll say this for her, she was as cool as an ice cube in a cold glass of
Coca Cola. Her sole reaction to my presence was a single raised eyebrow.
"State your intentions."

"My name's Kates. I'm a private dick."

I saw her shoulders slump in defeat. "Canon sent you."

"That's right."

Her dress became a pool of cerulean around her feet, revealing a silk teddy
that was poetry in black lingerie. "No doubt you wish to use my body in
exchange for your silence."

I walked up to the dame, removing my hat to let my auburn hair fall around
my shoulders. "I don't want to lay ya, kitten. I'm just doing my job."

Her eyes widened. "You're a woman!"

"Not half the woman you are, babe," I said, taking her chin in my hand. The
photograph Canon gave me hadn't done her justice. She was more than just an
image burnt on celluloid, more than curved flesh and high-sculpted
cheekbones; there was a beauty of the soul that was perfection itself. I
felt like I hadn't had sex in seven years, that compared to her my boyfriend
Michael Sullivan was just an insubstantial form of light and shadow. I
realised why none of my predecessors had been able to resist her, but to me
duty always came first, before pleasure, before heart, before everything.

"Sorry kitten, I've got to take you back."

"But you can't!" Anna cried. "I refuse to be a part of Canon's evil plan!"

I frowned. "What are you talking about? What plan?"

"Television!" she said. "Millions of sets in homes throughout the United
States of America. And beamed to them all, weekly serials filled with
gratuitous action scenes, plot clichés, lousy continuity, non-existent
character development, and women with large breasts in highly revealing
costumes!"

"The future, Miss Kates, the future," said Canon Bragger, as he stepped out
of the night like a wraith from the depths of the Underworld. "American
culture is obsessed with big hooters. And with a pair like Anna's, I can
rule the entire country! Thanks, you led me right to her. I knew if I had
that chink partner of yours clipped it would give you that extra incentive.
Now I'll take what's mine!"

"Back off Canon," I growled, sliding my hand under my coat . . . then
freezing as I felt the muzzle of a tommy gun jam into my ribs.

"Don't even think about it Kates, or I'll fill you with more holes than a
Hollywood script!"

I turned to find myself looking into an evil mug I was all too familiar with
- a notorious hitman known as 'The Bermanator'. I'd met him before, when
he'd given Kes, a young friend of mine, the Big Shove.

Canon reached into my coat and pulled out my rod, tossing it into the
gutter. "You've found out too much, Kates. If you had called me when you'd
located Anna you'd be alive in your bed with your pockets full of clams,
instead of dead in a ditch with your head full of lead."

"How the hell did you find me?" I snapped. "I know when I'm being followed."

"Well before you turned up at your office I had an interesting talk with
Nothingtosay. Apparently your secretary doesn't like you getting all the
action and good lines, so in exchange for tipping us off about your
movements I agreed to let him boff Anna here."

Anna looked incredulous. "Why would I possibly want to sleep with him?"

"Honey, I've got no idea, but strange things happen in the world of Canon,
you ought to know that. Now just step away from Kates, will you?"

"No," she cried, clutching me tight to her heaving bosom. "I won't let you
harm her! She's the first person who ever looked at my face instead of my
hooters!"

"Christ Bragger," growled the Bermanator. "Your girlfriend's acting like a
dyke. I hate dykes. Let me blow 'em away."

"Anna," said Canon threateningly. "If you don't step away I'll give Rick
here what he wants, and use that T'pol chick for my TV shows instead!"

"But . . . she can't even act!"

"With hooters like hers, who cares?"

"Let me go, kitten," I said, stroking her hair. "Life's just a roll of the
dice; sometimes you throw two sixes, sometimes you come up snake eyes.
Tonight I did both, I guess." I turned to Bragger. "Don't I get a last
request?"

"Sure, why not?" he grunted. "It's a cliché after all. This is Hollywood."

"A last request," said Anna huskily. "A last kiss goodbye." She bent her
head towards me, those beautiful lips parting to meet my own.

"Nah, I just want a cup of coffee. There's a thermos in my car. Can you get
it for me, sugar?"

Anna gave me a look that would have made hell turn to hoarfrost, stormed
over to my heap, grabbed the thermos on the front seat and threw it at my
head. I snatched it neatly out of the air.

"Thanks kitten," I said, unscrewing the cap and throwing the contents in the
Bermanator's face.

"AAAAARRGHHHHHH!!!!" he screamed, dropping his tommy gun to clutch his
coffee-scalded face. Canon's eyes popped out and we both dived for the piece
simultaneously. My hands closed on the pistol grip but Canon was grabbing
the stock and barrel and he twisted it out of my hands, slamming the butt
against my head. For a moment I saw more stars than Captain Proton ever did;
by the time they'd faded Canon was standing over me with the chatter gun
pointed at my gut.

He grinned as his finger tightened on the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot was a muffled crack! in the fog.

Slowly, Canon turned to look behind him. Anna was standing there, holding my
smoking rod in her fist.

"I can't believe it!" Canon gasped. "Bumped off by a damned . . . cliché!"
He slumped to the ground, deader than Caesar in March.

"Oh no, I killed him!" Anna cried. "What's going to happen to me now?"

"Well kitten," I said, taking her gently into my arms. "I suggest you and I
live happily ever after."

She raised her eyebrow in a really cute manner. "But isn't that just another
Hollywood cliché?"

"In this city there are a thousand clichés," I said. "This . . . is one of
them." And I pulled her into a kiss that was hotter than any coffee I'd ever
tasted.

THE END

    

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