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Big Soap Got So Many People in Their Pocket It Ain’t Even Funny
The rain slicked the pavement like a fresh coat of cheap wax. Neon signs flickered, casting shadows that slithered across the empty street. I sat in my office with my feet on the desk and a bottle of whiskey in my hand, the label peeling just like my patience. Business had been slow, and the only thing thinner than my wallet was the thread on my last clean shirt.
That’s when she walked in.
She smelled like lilac and danger. Her heels clicked across the floor like the ticking of a time bomb. A long cigarette dangled between fingers so delicate they could’ve stolen a man’s soul without him noticing. She pulled back her veil, and her eyes were cold enough to freeze a shot of bourbon.
“Mr. Malone?” she purred.
“Depends who’s asking,” I said, tilting my hat just enough to hide the wear on its brim.
“I need your help.”
“Lady, if it’s anything to do with husbands or missing cats, save your money. My plate’s full of trouble already.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “This is bigger than that. It’s about Big Soap.”
I laughed, but it came out dry. “Big Soap? The suds racket? Lady, everybody knows they own this town.”
“That’s exactly the problem.” Her voice was sharp, like a blade dipped in perfume. “They’ve got people in their pocket—politicians, cops, even priests. You can’t spit without hitting someone working for them. They’re squeezing the little people dry, and nobody’s got the guts to stop them.”
I leaned back and poured another drink. “What’s Big Soap to you?”
She looked away, her fingers tightening around her cigarette. “They took my brother. He was running an independent soap shop—handmade stuff. Lavender, chamomile, the real deal. He wouldn’t pay their… licensing fees.” She swallowed hard. “They said he ‘slipped.’ But I know the truth.”
I put my glass down and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled in the air between us, thick and heavy, like the secrets she wasn’t telling. “What makes you think I’m the guy to take them on?”
She leaned forward, her perfume wrapping around me like a silk noose. “Because you’re the only one who’s not already bought and paid for.”
That was a laugh. I wasn’t clean—I was just too broke to be worth bribing. Still, something about her made me want to see where this sudsy mess led. Maybe it was the way her eyes didn’t flinch when she talked about revenge. Maybe it was the whiskey.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll take the case. But I don’t come cheap.”
“I’m not paying in cash,” she whispered, sliding a small bar of soap across my desk. It was rough, homemade, the scent of rosemary sharp and honest.
“What’s this?”
“Leverage,” she said. “The formula my brother died for. If we can prove Big Soap’s been stealing recipes and calling them proprietary blends, we can bring them down.”
I pocketed the soap, feeling the weight of it like a loaded gun. “Where do we start?”
That’s the way it always begins: with a dame, a drink, and the scent of trouble. And trust me, in this town, trouble always smells like soap.
The next morning, I found myself standing in front of The Clean Machine, a Big Soap warehouse that stank of industry and deception. The rain hadn’t let up, and neither had my headache. My contact inside was a janitor named Frankie Slips, a guy who knew his way around mop handles and secrets alike. I owed him a favor—mostly because he was the only one who’d ever pulled me out of a bottle and onto my feet.
He met me by the service entrance, a cigarette hanging loose from the corner of his mouth. His eyes darted like a rat’s in a kitchen full of traps.
“Malone, you crazy?” he hissed. “You mess with Big Soap, you end up six feet under with a bar of lavender tied to your neck.”
“I’m not scared of scented thugs, Frankie,” I said. “I need a look inside.”
He wiped his hands on his pants and cracked the door just wide enough for me to slip through. “If anyone asks, you’re here for maintenance. And for God’s sake, don’t touch anything that smells too good.”
The place reeked of power. Machines the size of houses churned out bars of soap in perfect, perfumed symmetry. Workers moved like ghosts, heads down, noses buried in the scent of conformity. And above it all, in an office lined with frosted glass, sat the man himself: Dominic Sudsworth. The king of clean.
I didn’t have a plan yet, but I had enough nerve to fake one.
I made my way toward a row of filing cabinets marked Formulations – Proprietary. That’s when I felt the barrel of a gun press against my spine.
“You got a death wish, Malone?” The voice was as smooth as a fresh lather, and twice as deadly.
I didn’t turn. “Depends who’s pulling the trigger.”
“Big Soap doesn’t take kindly to snoops. And we sure as hell don’t like dirty hands in our business.”
I grinned. “Funny, I thought soap was supposed to clean things up.”
The gun jabbed harder. “Move.”
They marched me up a narrow stairway and into Sudsworth’s office. He sat behind a desk made of marble so polished it could’ve doubled as a mirror. His suit was crisp, his tie knotted with precision. The smell of bergamot hung around him like a warning.
“Ah, Malone,” he said, swirling a glass of something dark and expensive. “I heard you’ve been sniffing around where you don’t belong.”
I shrugged. “A guy’s gotta wash behind his ears sometimes.”
He chuckled, but his eyes stayed cold. “I admire a man with a sense of humor. It’s a shame you won’t live long enough to see the punchline.”
Sudsworth snapped his fingers. Two goons stepped forward—big guys, the kind who could bench-press a truck and had brains like soggy bath sponges.
“Get rid of him,” he said, waving a hand like he was swatting a fly. “And make sure he doesn’t leave behind a mess.”
That’s when I pulled the small bar of soap from my pocket.
“What’s this?” I said, holding it up. “Recognize the scent?”
Sudsworth narrowed his eyes. “Where did you get that?”
I grinned. “A little birdie told me it’s not your recipe. In fact, it looks a lot like something you stole from a small shop on the wrong side of town.”
He rose from his chair, rage simmering just beneath his polished exterior. “You have no proof.”
I tossed the bar onto his desk. “This is the proof. Your greed’s all over it.”
Sudsworth reached for it—but too late. The door burst open, and she walked in.
The dame. The one who’d started it all.
“I knew you’d lead me here, Malone,” she said, her smile sharper than a razor. “And now, thanks to you, I’ll take everything.”
My blood ran cold. “Wait—what?”
She picked up the soap and turned to Sudsworth. “Dominic, darling, it’s been a pleasure. But Big Soap’s about to get a new CEO.”
Sudsworth’s face twisted in confusion and fury. “You?”
She nodded. “Me. And Malone here? He was just the towel boy.”
"Big Soap’s got so many people in their pocket, it ain’t even funny". I replied. "But pockets have holes, sweetheart. And someday, you’re gonna fall right through."
She laughed softly, a sound like bubbles popping. "Maybe. But not today."
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